Escape

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  "I had rather hoped that Agent Jaxon would be here today—he was supposed to be the first to die. But after Ajmaani figured out that a young woman who spoke so many languages had to be Lucy Karp, I thought this would be better. This way, your family will grieve, as I have grieved, before I eventually catch up to them all."

  Al-Sistani nodded to one of his men, who placed Lucy against a support beam. He pulled her wrists behind her and around the beam, and bound her there with handcuffs.

  "What are you planning to do?" asked the stock exchange vice president. "What do I plan to do?" Al-Sistani said. "Oh yes, the business that I am mixing with my pleasure. Well, the short answer is 'destroy the world as you know it.' On my signal, a dozen banks and trading firms will start selling short our hedge fund's equities and government bonds—all of them. Of course, that will cause the market to crash, taking the U.S. economy and likely the world economy with it. The longer answer is a bit more complex, but that's the abbreviated version."

  "They'll never do it," the vice president said. "A sudden order to bundle and sell that much and sell it short will raise red flags; they'll want to make sure it's legitimate, and even then, they'll talk to us first."

  Al-Sistani looked amused. "Do you really believe that? I mean, I knew that I couldn't rely on just one bank or trading firm to sell off so much so quickly. And even now, I expect one or two might actually balk. Which is why we made arrangements with a dozen banks and trading firms to handle what they believe are the exclusive rights to our business. They're not aware that the others will be asked to do the same thing. And yes, with bundled orders this large, they really should question it, but if they do, my people will demand that they comply—unless they do not mind losing all of the prince's current and future business. Do you really think these greedy pigs will forgo multimillion-dollar commissions?"

  "But Amir, this will ruin me," complained Prince Esra, who'd risen shakily to his feet.

  "Really?" Al-Sistani said, looking genuinely concerned, until he laughed again. "That's all part of the ... what is the saying? ... Ah yes, the big picture. This will bankrupt you and a lot of other members of the al-Saud family and their supporters foolish enough to give control of so much of their assets to Kingdom Investments. They will, of course, have to make up for it by taking a larger share of the oil profits and burdening their people even more. The revolution is but a food riot away from your decadent palaces."

  Al-Sistani raised the vice president's chin with the muzzle of the gun. "Ah, my faithful tour guide, perhaps you're thinking there's no need to worry, the 'circuit breakers' will kick in before my plan can do too much damage. However, my jihadi friend here, Omar Al-Hassan, will be disabling them."

  The vice president shot Omar a look. "How could you?"

  "Easy," Al-Sistani answered for Omar. "His family lives in a very dangerous part of Pakistan. People get killed there all of the time. You might say he has no choice, though if something were to befall him, he's been assured that his family will be taken care of as befits a martyr. Omar, are you ready to begin?"

  Omar went over to the table with the monitor and keyboard and began typing.

  "Oh, and one last thing," Al-Sistani said. "The backup computer you're expecting to save the day? The one at the MetroTech? It will be 'offline' too. When the market starts to crash, there will be nothing to apply the brakes."

  "I don't understand," Lucy said.

  "Then let me explain," Al-Sistani replied. "I really am rather proud of this. I read some years ago how the failure of a large hedge fund nearly crashed the stock market. The World Bank actually had to come to the rescue of the United States economy. I came up with the idea of doing the same thing—only with a much larger hedge fund. A truly delicious irony is that I did it using U.S. Treasury bonds, which allow their owners to borrow up to ten times the amount owned. In effect, the United States will be paying for its own firing squad.

  "The prince's original ten billion, I leveraged to one hundred billion, which I sank into unsecured equities. I'm going to 'dump' all of it on the market at low, low prices, which will crash the market. But that's only half of the game."

  Al-Sistani began to pace as his men kept their weapons trained on the hostages. "Think of it as dominoes all lined up to fall in a pattern that reveals something that you can't quite see until it nears completion. I dump the stock and the first domino falls; the market starts to crash and U.S. Treasury bonds are devalued at the same time, that's dominoes two and three. The circuit breakers don't kick in at the stock exchange, and a timely explosion at MetroTech takes out the other computer."

  As if lecturing students in a classroom, Al-Sistani looked around to make sure they were all absorbing his genius. "Remember, transactions happen now in the blink of an eye. The NYSE administrators will be watching the market plunge, expecting the circuit breakers to kick on at the first 10 percent drop. When they don't, there will be more hesitation, and by the time they realize that neither computer has closed out trading, the market is in free fall. In the end, the pattern becomes increasingly clear; the U.S. economy is imploding. Then, of course, nobody's paying any taxes; now not only are U.S. Treasury bonds worthless, but the government's revenue source is drying up. The U.S. can't pay its bills—not to other countries, not to its military—and U.S. support for its allies throughout the world, including Israel, dries up to nothing. Imagine ... no more U.S. money to spend on food for Third World countries, no more U.S. money to support their economies, combat disease, educate their people. Imagine famine, riots, war."

  "But how could this happen?" Lucy asked, looking at the vice president. "Well, for one thing, I had great business professors at the University of Denver where I got my MBA," Al-Sistani said. "They used to play 'what if' with this particular scenario, and I listened closely. After that it was relatively simple. Even after the near-disaster, hedge funds were still not regulated or overseen by any agency—no rules, no one looking over your shoulder like there are for all other market transactions. Financial managers like me have absolute discretion in what we want to do with the funds. Given that and the U.S. government's hundred-billion-dollar loan, setting up the first domino was easy. It was more difficult to determine how to get past the circuit breakers; we were fortunate to locate Mr. Al-Hassan and then his family. But Mr. Dean Newbury has been extremely helpful as well, though of course for his own reasons."

  The vice president closed his eyes. "It will be a worldwide disaster ..."

  "Yes," Al-Sistani agreed, "and from the ashes will rise the new caliphate and one world under Allah."

  Enjoying the moment, Al-Sistani whirled to face V. T. "Your uncle has been quietly selling off hundreds of millions of dollars' worth of stocks for the past six months in anticipation of the market crashing. Over such a long period of time, and through many dummy accounts, no one really noticed. Then, when the market hits bottom, he plans to buy them for pennies on the dollar ... at least those companies he believes will rebound. You could have been a very wealthy and powerful man, Mr. Newbury."

  "I'd rather be dead," V. T. mumbled as he rose shakily to his feet.

  "That will happen. By the way, did you know that your uncle poisoned your father?"

  V. T. didn't answer. "I thought not," Al-Sistani smiled. "Happy to have been able to provide the news." His pacing brought him in front of Lucy. "And because I also want to make your family suffer personally, you're going to be here for the moment when the first domino falls."

  "You're just another lousy terrorist," Lucy said and spat in his face.

  Enraged, Al-Sistani stepped back and pointed the gun at Lucy, who didn't flinch. The terrorist gritted his teeth and looked like he would pull the trigger, but then gradually got himself under control. "No, not yet. I want you to watch the minutes and seconds to your death count off." He looked at Suleiman Abdalla, who stood with his gun trained on the hostages, not quite understanding what was going on. "Are you prepared for martyrdom?"

  "Yes," Suleiman respond
ed. He opened a backpack he'd brought from the boxes in the supply room, took out the suicide vest, and pulled it on. He fastened it and plugged in the wires to connect the detonator to the plastic explosives.

  "I was hoping to use Azahari Mujahid's ingenious pager detonator so that I could send this brave jihadi to Paradise when I was well away from the explosion," Al-Sistani said, "so that I may lead the faithful to the ultimate victory of Allah. However, cell-phone service is poor down here, I'm told—so much for modem technology."

  He patted Abdalla on the shoulder. "This vest is on a timer. When I punch in the code, even my brave martyr here would be unable to stop it if he chose.... Not that he would ever consider dishonoring his oath, would you, Suleiman?"

  "No, Sheik. I am ready to die for Allah."

  "What about me?" the prince cried. "Amir, haven't I always treated you well? Why would you want to do this to me?"

  "Treated me well?" Al-Sistani scoffed. "You care for your hounds more than you cared for me. But it's all right, I forgive you. I've been using you, too, for your money and your connections, all these years as my plan came to fruition. But now, I need you for a public service announcement."

  The prince looked confused as one of his former bodyguards brought out the video camera that until half an hour earlier had been used to record the prince's grand day at the stock exchange. At a nod from Al-Sistani, who put on a thin black mask he had pulled from his suit pocket, the guard began to film.

  "Get on your knees al-Saud dog," Al-Sistani demanded, pointing his gun at the whimpering prince. Looking up at the camera, he delivered a quick message in Arabic and then in English. "Mujahideen, warriors of Islam, I ... The Sheik ... announce the end of the unholy dominance of the West and the beginning of a new era in which Islam will reign supreme. By my hand this day, The Great Satan has suffered a mortal wound. Rise up in jihad and deliver the fatal blow to the West. Overthrow the apostate governments who have been the lackeys of the United States and Israel. As proof of my vow to make their blood flow in rivers, I deliver to hell Prince Esra bin Afraan al-Saud. Death to the royal family! Death to the United States! Death to Israel! Death to all who do not acknowledge that there is no God but Allah, and the Prophet is his messenger!"

  "No, don't!" the prince screamed, but his voice was drowned out by the gunshot. His body pitched forward and lay convulsing on the floor of the computer room. Al-Sistani aimed again and finished the job.

  "That's it," Al-Sistani said to the cameraman. "Give me the tape."

  The cameraman ejected the tape and handed it to Al-Sistani, who placed it in his pocket just as Mousawi returned. "The way out is clear," he said. Al-Sistani turned to Omar Al-Hassan. "Why aren't you finished yet?"

  "A couple more minutes," Al-Hassan replied. "I have to get past the firewalls."

  "Do it quickly. They're waiting for my call in Brooklyn."

  When the police officer was gone, Mariano Ciampi got down from his perch on top of the toilet tank. He'd started to leave the restroom a few minutes earlier and happened to glance down the hall when the police officer shot a young woman who came out of the women's room.

  The cop had his back to him so he'd been able to duck back inside the men's room. Climbing on top of the toilet so that his feet wouldn't show was a trick he'd once seen in a movie, and he was amazed it had worked.

  Mariano hesitated by the door. Something bad was happening; a killer in a police uniform was murdering people, but he didn't know what to do. You're a worthless old man, he thought.

  He froze at the sound of footsteps returning from the direction of the supply room. They stopped outside the door, and he knew that if the police officer came in, he'd die. He jumped when whoever was standing outside the door suddenly spoke.

  "What in Allah's name do you mean there's a woman with a gun down here?" The man stopped talking to listen. "Get your asses down here. And take out the woman!" The footsteps hurried on.

  Maybe you should just stay here, said a voice in Mariano's head. He knew the voice; he'd heard it more and more as he had grown older—warning him about the blacks moving into the neighborhood, cautioning him to take it easy, as he might hurt himself mowing the lawn or raking the leaves. He was old. He was frail. The world was full of danger.

  "What in the hell are you talking about, Ciampi," he chided himself. "Your grandkids and your daughter are in danger, and you're in here hiding like some pansy. You fought your way to Rome against a lot harder sons-of-bitches than some coward in a cop uniform who shoots helpless women. Get a grip on your bladder, old man."

  He peeked out the door just in time to see the bad cop disappear around a corner heading toward the computer room. Slipping out the door, he walked quietly up to the woman on the ground; her pretty green eyes were wide open, but they weren't seeing anything. "I'm sorry, honey," he whispered as he bent over to look in her purse for any kind of weapon. "I'll try to get the guy who did this."

  A moment later, Mariano stood up, armed and ready to go to war. The young woman had found a way to get pepper spray in past the security desk, as well as a pair of heavy-duty knitting needles. "Not exactly my old M-l," he said, "but it's going to have to do."

  You don't have to do this, said the voice. "Yes I do," Mariano replied and began walking toward the computer room. "I wonder where Marlene is?"

  After Malovo left the nineteenth floor, she returned with two of her men to the security office, where Billy was trying to pick the lock on his handcuffs. She struck him across the face with her gun. "Is that how you repay my kindness for letting you live?"

  "Go to hell," Billy answered.

  Malovo looked at him for a moment. "You first," she said and shot him. Her plan was to wait for the call from The Sheik, Amir Al-Sistani, saying that the circuit breaker for the main computer was down. She would watch the updated stock-market returns on her Blackberry, and when it approached the number for the circuit breakers in the backup computer to kick in, she'd call Mujahid and give him the honor of blowing himself and SAIC into oblivion. She and the remaining members of her team would go down the stairwell and ensure that the computers were destroyed, killing any survivors they found. Then she would effect her escape ... and be once again in the good graces of her Russian bosses, having more than made up for her previous failures.

  Her musings were cut short by a call on her cell phone from two of her men in the parking garage. "What is it?"

  "The janitorial service people are here," one said. "They say they're supposed to clean on the nineteenth floor today. What should we do with them?" Malovo walked over to Billy's monitor and shoved his body aside. She flipped to the right camera and could see the "Little Odessa Janitorial Services" van in the garage. It was her former lover's company, and she wondered if he was on the cleaning crew. Now that would be a delicious irony.

  Right now, she needed to get the janitors out of the way without raising suspicions. "Accompany them to the nineteenth floor—tell them there's been a security breach and you're just taking precautions. Then lock them up with the others."

  Malovo flipped through the other cameras. In most of the building, life went on as usual. She hoped Mujahid's experience and the building's structure would prevent the explosion from reaching as high as the thirtieth floor; her escape plan counted on it. Otherwise, everything was in place.

  Marlene, in fact, was creeping down the hall, stopping every couple of feet to listen. She wanted to hurry, but it wasn't going to do anybody any good if she ran into a trap.

  A couple of bad cops upstairs had control of the security room, so she had to assume that they'd spotted her and Eric and would be waiting. She just needed to figure out where ... then blast my way past them ... take on whoever else there might be ... no sweat... and with what1 Are there eight bullets in one of these little babies?

  She prayed that the silence wasn't because everyone was already dead except the killer.... Or killers, she thought. Her mind flashed on the three black cops from the cafeteria. They were the only o
ther ones with guns down here when she went upstairs. And there was something about them she'd noticed but didn't understand that had been bugging her until now. Call it a feeling, but she'd spent most of her life around cops ... hell, there were a lot more cops in the extended family ... and they all had a certain feel about them. Some were pretty good at undercover, but if you knew cops well, you could spot them, too. Maybe it was the way they carried themselves or looked at you in the eye, even when acting out a role as a panhandler, but especially in uniform they oozed that "don't fuck with me" attitude.

  The older guy could have been, site thought, at least ex-military. Straight back. Turns his head to look you straight in the eye. Assessing his surroundings and the people in it. The other two had more of a feel of hoodrats. Slouching. Insolent. They watched everything, especially women, but always with a sideways glance. That's what I'm up against... at least. She didn't know what the killings had to do with the prince—or whether the bad cops were alone, or part of something bigger. Given her conversation with Lucy and her suspicions about MetroTech, she bet on the latter.

  She was almost to the intersection when she heard low voices. She couldn't tell which direction they were coming from. Left went to the computer room, but she was trying to remember what lay to the right. Then something banged to the right... like furniture being pushed around.

  She crossed to an old five-foot-tall filing cabinet that had been left against a wall partway down the hall, close enough so she could make out what they were saying.

  "How much longer?"

  "Al-Hassan has to get into the system," said another, "and they're waiting to hear from Ajmaani in Brooklyn to say that the bomb is ready, Allah be praised."

  "I hope they try to rush us," said the first. "I want to go out with my martyr's belt. They say there's no pain. One second you're here, the next second ... Paradise, man. I'm lookin' forward to getting me a couple of virgins and ..."