Authors: Christopher Reich
“Who’s Benny?” asked Jonathan when the message was finished.
“My Frank.”
They walked to the end of the long, featureless corridor and descended a flight of steps. A sign on the wall read, “Welcome to the United States.” They proceeded to the end of another corridor. The passport area opened to their left. They stood in the line reserved for non-Americans. It advanced slowly.
“Excuse me, Dr. Ransom? My name is Bob. I’m with DHS—the Department of Homeland Security. Mind coming with me?”
Bob was fifty, balding, and avuncular and wore a black leather jacket over a turtleneck and jeans. Another man stood next to him, also in jeans and a leather jacket, but taller and lean, with gaunt cheeks and sunken black eyes.
Unexpectedly, Danni stepped forward and kissed him on both cheeks. “Hello, Benny,” she said.
“Looks like you got yourself into trouble,” said Benny, reprovingly.
Danni didn’t flinch. “I did what I did.”
“So you’re not arresting me?” said Jonathan.
“Not yet,” said Bob. “Come with me.”
He led them through a series of doors and hallways to a shabby, windowless office. Posters and pamphlets advertising the various ways of getting around New York adorned the walls. They sat down at a table littered with empty Styrofoam cups.
“Benny tells me that we have the possibility of a nuclear device being smuggled into the United States. Is that correct?”
“We think so,” said Jonathan. “Unfortunately, we don’t have much of an idea where.”
“Tell me what you know. If you can give me some details, I’ll do my best to alert the proper authorities. I take what Benny tells me very seriously.”
Jonathan gave a summary of what he had learned and witnessed the past few days at Balfour’s estate. He drew a picture of the reconfigured warhead and offered a description of Sultan Haq. “Frank Connor
believes the target area is either Washington or New York,” he said in closing.
“That doesn’t help us much,” said Bob.
Danni leaned forward. “He also mentioned that Prince Rashid of the UAE is involved.”
“We’re trying to track him down now,” said Benny. “I have a call in to the American Secret Service to see if he’s due for a visit soon.”
“A sketch artist is on the way,” added Bob. “It will help to have a portrait to get out to all ports of entry. You want some coffee while we wait?”
Jonathan stood. Suddenly the room was too small, the lights too bright. “Is that it?” he asked. “We’re just going to sit and wait for the bomb to go off?”
Bob opened his hands. “You’re not giving us much to go on.”
“Haq is here,” continued Jonathan, unable to contain his frustration. “If Emma’s looking for him, you’d better believe this is happening now.”
“Who’s Emma?” asked Bob, searching the faces around him for clarification.
Danni spoke swiftly to Benny, and Benny said, “Don’t worry about it. We don’t talk about her.”
Jonathan stopped his pacing. His eye had landed on a cluster of pamphlets drooping out of a plastic holder attached to the bottom of a poster for the Metropolitan Transportation Association. The pamphlets had a blue border across the top, and there was something about the logo that looked familiar.
“Jonathan? Are you all right?” Danni stood and laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Yeah.” He took a pamphlet giving the train schedule for White Plains, Chappaqua, and Mount Kisco. “Are there more of these?”
“Don’t worry about taking a train,” said Bob, irritated. “We have cars at DHS.”
Jonathan pulled out all the pamphlets and started leafing through them. Then he saw it. On one of the pamphlets, the border read, “Metro-North Railroad.”
M-E-T-R-O-N
. “Haq had one of these,” he
said. “Not an original. It was something he’d downloaded off the Net. Are there lines that begin with H-A-R?”
“Harlem Line,” said Bob.
“And N-E-W-H?”
“New Haven Line.”
“Where do they go?”
Bob looked at the faces staring at him. He shrugged, as if he’d been asked the dumbest question in the world. “Grand Central Station.”
Sultan Haq removed the warhead
from the leather bag and set it at his feet. Rashid sat across from him, eyes rapt. Haq flipped open the cover and studied the keypad. With his fingernail, he input the six-digit code to arm the weapon. A pinlight flashed from red to green.
The train rustled over the tracks and the device tipped to one side. Rashid caught it and set it back upright. “And so?” he asked.
“It is ready,” said Haq.
“Where will we set it off?”
“It must be at street level for maximum effect.”
Ahead, the skyline of Manhattan came into view.
It was her insurance
.
She was done. She could not go on living life with one eye trained over her shoulder. She would never work again. Not for the Americans. Not for the Russians. Not for Division or the FSB. Not for anyone. She was finished. But still, she knew they would never stop looking for her.
Emma put a hand on her stomach. Recently the baby had begun to kick. It was a girl. She was sure. One task remained and she would be free. The bomb would keep the jackals at bay so that she could be a mother. They could never risk coming after her if she possessed such a deterrent.
Emma Ransom crossed the tracks and took up position near a wall that led to the special platform. The underground gallery was endless, with track after track receding into an eternal dusk. A steady mechanical humming filled the air, interrupted by the clumsy, cacophonous arrival or departure of a train. She checked her watch and squinted into the distance, thinking that it was time and that Rashid should have been here by now.
For a week she’d listened in on the prince’s calls to Balfour and Massoud Haq. The process involved copying Balfour’s SIM card, acquiring her own eavesdropping equipment on a day trip to Islamabad, and piggybacking on Balfour’s impressive telecommunications system. She had followed the planning step by step, and so she knew that Rashid had picked up Sultan Haq in Germany and was headed this morning to Grand Central Station. She also knew that he had decided to offer his own life to further his goals, not for the glorification of Islam and the punishment of the West but for the elevation of
himself as Godhead. Rashid wished nothing less than to take the place of the Prophet.
The track beneath her feet began to tremble. Craning her head, she made out the headlight of an approaching locomotive. She drew her pistol and checked that a round was chambered. She pulled her gloves tight and lowered the balaclava so it fit snugly about her face and did not crowd her eyes. Then she cracked her neck and drew a breath.
The train drew nearer, its brakes squealing as it slowed. The locomotive passed, then the passenger cars. The lights were illuminated and she saw Rashid and Haq, and two bodyguards standing at the door.
Emma ran behind the last car, grabbed hold of the railing with her free hand, and hauled herself onto the narrow observation terrace. The door handle turned easily and she threw open the door, raised the pistol, and fired twice, hitting the bodyguards in the chest, her arm already swinging the weapon toward Rashid as she advanced into the cabin. A hand chopped her arm and she fired early. Rashid spun from his chair, blood streaming from the graze at his temple.
It was Haq. He struck again, knocking the pistol loose and sending it to the floor.
The train braked hard, coming to a halt, and Emma allowed herself to go with it, moving away from Haq, bringing up her right leg to strike him in the chest. The blow landed squarely but did not faze him. Haq threw himself at her and she kicked again, deflecting him, following the kick with a closed fist to the head. Haq shuddered, then lashed out, a lightning-fast punch that connected with her jaw. Emma fell to the ground, her head spinning, blood filling her mouth. Throwing out her leg, she caught Haq’s ankle and sent him tumbling against the window. Glass shattered. But the blow only angered him. He stood and took up position, face-to-face. Emboldened by his size advantage, he came straight at her. Emma kicked and he deflected it. She punched and punched again, the first blocked, the second landing on his cheek, stunning him. Then he had her in his arms. Massive, crushing arms. With a grunt, he hurled her across the cabin. She
landed on her back on a low table, shattering the china beneath her. Her head struck the corner of the hard surface, and the world dissolved into a blizzard of white noise.
Slowly her vision returned. She sat up. Rashid lay near her, bleeding profusely, his eyes blinking, offering no fight. She heard a door slam and looked up sharply.
The back door of the car flapped on its hinges.
Haq was gone.
And so was the black leather bag.
Emma looked at Rashid. “I haven’t forgotten what you did,” she said. And then she climbed to her feet and left the car.
Manhattan was an island of
commuters. Each day some 5 million people left their homes throughout New York, Connecticut, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania and crossed one of the major bridges and tunnels to reach their places of work. Access to the island was gained by automobile, bicycle, bus, and ferry. But by far the largest number came by train. Of the three major stations that served Manhattan, Grand Central was the largest, with forty-four platforms servicing sixty-seven tracks on two levels and covering more than forty-seven subterranean acres.
The police cruiser screeched to a halt at the security entrance on Vanderbilt Avenue. Jonathan opened the door and climbed out, Danni and the others following. Two transit policemen waited. “You the guys that just called?”
“Take us to the Roosevelt tunnel,” said Jonathan. “As quickly as possible.”
“The Roosevelt tunnel? You sure?”
“Yeah,” said Jonathan. “Let’s move it.”
The calls had hit like a one-two punch during the drive in from the airport. The first had come from Benny’s contact at the Secret Service fifteen minutes earlier. “Rashid is scheduled to speak at the United Nations tomorrow. His jet was due in to Teterboro in New Jersey at seven this morning, but it didn’t show.”
“Did they know where he was flying in from?” demanded Jonathan.
“Germany,” said Benny. “He’s booked into the Presidential Suite of the Waldorf Astoria.”
“He’s with Haq,” said Danni. “No question.”
Bob from DHS’s phone rang five minutes later, and his pallor went from winter wan to half dead. “Traffic control at Grand Central got a call last night regarding a diplomatic request to use the Roosevelt platform.”
“Where’s that?” asked Jonathan.
“Back in the thirties, a special tunnel was built for Franklin Roosevelt so he could get in and out of the terminal without people seeing him struggling with his leg braces. The tunnel leads to a platform directly below the Waldorf Astoria. The idea was that FDR would get off the train and be able to access the hotel privately and get into his car in their garage.”
“Below the Waldorf?” said Jonathan. “That’s it, then.”
“Who made the request?” asked Danni.
“The embassy of the United Arab Emirates, on behalf of Prince Rashid,” replied Bob. “Homeland Security cleared it automatically.”
The transit police led the way across the main concourse and down the east flight of stairs toward the lower level. The time was eight-fifteen, and the terminal was at its busiest. Trains arriving from Connecticut and Westchester County disgorged hundreds of passengers every five minutes. The floor teemed with commuters heading in every possible direction.
“Wait here,” said one of the policemen. “I got my best team coming in.”
“We don’t have time,” said Danni. “Let’s move.”
Bob from DHS was already out of breath. “You sure about this?” he asked.
Jonathan nodded.
“Take my piece.” Bob handed Jonathan his gun. “I’m assuming you know how to use it. Now go. I’ll make sure the CT guys find you.”
The transit cops led the way down the stairs, making a sharp right and continuing to the end of the walkway, then passing through a set of doors and entering a restricted area, out of bounds to the tens of thousands of regular commuters. A lone unlit platform extended into the distance.
A four-car train sat parked at the siding. At that moment, muzzle
flashes lit the windows, accompanied by muffled gunshots. Jonathan took off, Danni close behind and Benny following at a distance. A lone figure leaped from the back of the passenger car. A tall, formidable silhouette ran across the tracks, a hitch visible in his stride.
“It’s Haq,” said Jonathan, pointing.
A train pulled into the station on the closest track, blocking Haq from view. Jonathan jumped down from the platform and ran across the tracks, narrowly beating the locomotive. He turned to see Danni beside him. The area beyond them stretched into an endless gloom. “There!” he said, spotting the fleeing figure.
“He’s got something on his shoulder,” said Danni, running beside him, the raised tracks and uneven wooden ties turning their path into an obstacle course. Without the weight of the warhead to carry, Jonathan and Danni gained ground quickly.
Twice Haq turned to look over his shoulder to gauge their position. The second time, his eyes met Jonathan’s and he slowed, recognizing him. The Afghan jumped onto a platform and headed toward the station. In seconds he was caught up in the crowd, one figure among dozens.
A policeman stood at the end of the platform. He had seen Haq running and raised his hands. “Stop!” he shouted. “You!”
A gunshot rang out and he fell. For a moment the crowds parted. Haq’s back was a plain target. Jonathan heard an earsplitting blast by his ear and saw Danni squeezing off several rounds. But then Haq was gone again, heading toward the staircase that led to the main level.
“He’s going into the main concourse,” said Jonathan, breathing hard.
Danni kept at his side as they dashed up the marble staircase to the broad, cavernous space. He slowed at the top of the stairs, searching the crowd for Haq’s dark head, the bag slung over his shoulder. He heard a shot and, directly beside him, a cry. He turned and saw Danni crumple to the floor, a hand to her neck, blood coursing through her fingers. “Go,” she said, mouthing the words.