The Island--A Thriller

by Ben Coes

  Mansour looked at the driver. He spoke quietly.

  “What of the bus?” said Mansour.

  “The bus is on its way,” said the driver.

  “How many?” said Mansour.

  “Thirty,” said the driver, Ali.

  Mansour removed his phone and hit a number from his contacts. He was about to dial, but didn’t. He decided not to. Everything was planned and in motion. He didn’t want to disturb the equilibrium he’d built. Tactical weaknesses had yet to be exposed. Meddling was unnecessary. In fact, it was counterproductive. Instead, Mansour opened his Instagram. He found the page of his wife, Shaara, who he had not seen in over a year. Her long black hair looked like silk. Her face was like a painting by the greatest artist he’d ever seen.

  If all went well Mansour might actually survive. He would be a hero in Iran, and in the Middle East. All he cared about at this moment was that he might see Shaara again.

  “What happened in Washington?” said Ali from the driver’s seat.

  “That was yesterday,” Mansour said. He pocketed his phone and stared out the window as the van sped toward the United Nations.

  “What about the American?” said Ali.

  “Andreas will be taken to some safe place because they realize his security perimeter was penetrated,” said Mansour. “Thus, Andreas is irrelevant. It cost us three lives, but if he is out of the picture, in this way, the operation was successful.”

  Ali nodded.

  Mansour’s mind went to the video of Andreas killing his men. It didn’t matter now. Even if the Americans were tipped off, he was too far away to matter, and besides, what was one man?

  32

  8:15 A.M.

  UNITED NATIONS SECRETARIAT BUILDING

  FIRST AVENUE AND FORTY-SECOND STREET

  NEW YORK CITY

  The presidential motorcade rolled up in front of the United Nations along First Avenue. Behind steel barricades, crowds were packed tight, thousands of citizens.

  Dellenbaugh emerged from the back of the presidential limousine and crossed a wide and empty concrete courtyard. The area was surrounded at its perimeter by throngs of people and journalists, as news cameras from all over the world filmed the scene live, and both supporters and detractors of the president gathered to see him.

  Mostly, there were supporters in the thousands, waving signs and yelling.

  A flank of Secret Service agents collapsed around Dellenbaugh as he moved to a red velvet rope along the line of people. The president shook hands, and signed various objects, like books, photos, and several old Detroit Red Wings hockey jerseys with the name DELLENBAUGH across the shoulders. The president posed for photos, and even ventured into the gathered people.

  “Hey!” called Dellenbaugh as he approached the boisterous crowd. “Thanks for coming out! My New York contingent!”

  The crowd roared with cheers.

  A woman approached, putting her sign to the side. She was standing next to a young girl, her daughter.

  “Hello, Mr. President,” the young girl said, reaching her hand out.

  “What’s your name, cutie pie?” said the president, crouching so he could see her face-to-face.

  “Annie.”

  “Nice to meet you, Annie,” said Dellenbaugh as he shook her hand.

  “It’s an honor to meet you, sir,” she said. “Good luck today.”

  “Thanks, I’ll give it my best.”

  President Dellenbaugh moved along the line, in front of the mass of people, shaking hands and saying hello. After handshakes, polite hugs, and waves to the crowd, the president and his security envelope turned and headed for the entrance to the UN building. Waiting at the center of the UN Plaza were António Guterres, the UN secretary general; the U.S. ambassador to the UN, Brad Wasik; and ambassadors from Israel, England, Germany, Canada, South Korea, New Zealand, Austria, Norway, France, Finland, Ireland, and Australia.

  They chatted as they walked to the entrance to the UN building, posing before the cameras. While they didn’t all agree on everything, it was a photo op, and, despite multitudes of challenges on the world stage, projecting solidarity was critically important. Yet, Dellenbaugh knew that today’s visit was going to be explosive. He glanced up at the UN building as Guterres gently nodded and pointed, leading the American president to the UN building entrance just a hundred feet away.

  33

  8:40 A.M.

  OFFICE OF THE CHIEF OF STAFF

  THE WHITE HOUSE

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  The White House chief of staff’s office was connected to the Oval Office by an elegant, windowless hallway with walls of reddish-brown bird’s-eye maple, and illuminated by two silver sconces.

  The Oval Office was a well-known setting, the subject and site of many photos in history books, newspapers, and magazines across the globe. But few had ever seen the chief of staff’s office. It was a long, palatial spread of a room, if slightly thin. Walls of bookshelves, a large seating area of leather sofas, a big desk, all atop a gorgeous, striking oriental carpet in tan, red, green, and black, a gift to Adrian King from the king of Saudi Arabia.

  Adrian King’s office was a well-organized mess—stacks of books, files, and folders scattered across the office, but in piles whose contents he knew cold. His desk was spare, however. Just a pair of high-tech phone consoles and a photo of his daughters and wife. On the wall was a large framed photo of King standing over a bear he’d just shot on a hunting trip in Montana. The message was clear: I killed this bear. If you think you can out-tough me, go ahead and try.

  King stood behind his desk, loosening his tie. He had short-cropped brown hair, speckled with gray, and a hard-nosed, Irish demeanor. His eyebrows were conspicuous, two shaggy, massive caterpillars he refused to trim.

  Before the desk were two chairs. Two individuals were seated in them: Hector Calibrisi, the director of the CIA, and Jim Bruckheimer, the head of Signals Intelligence Directorate, who ran all high-level SIGINT at Fort Meade.

  “Get to it,” said King.

  “You need to cancel the UN speech, Adrian,” said Calibrisi.

  “What?” said King. “Are you out of your fucking mind? I’m not in the mood for this, Hector.”

  Bruckheimer had a laptop screen up and pivoted it toward King. It was a digital map. At the center of the map was New York City; specifically, Manhattan.

  “Manhattan,” said Bruckheimer, pointing at the screen. “Signals data is why we’re here.”

  Bruckheimer punched a key and the map of New York City was suddenly and abruptly lit up by bright yellow digital lines, a crosshatch of real-time data caught by SID appliances and software.

  “What is it?” said King.

  “SIGINT from seven hours ago,” said Bruckheimer. “These are electronic, encrypted, cryptographic microwave and other assorted forms of electrical signals that we track, because sometimes they reveal something. In this case, there is a classic attack pattern. It all started after a text was sent from Berlin on a phone that ThinThread correlated to a Level Two Tertiary.”

  “What do the lines represent, Jim?” said King, leaning in and staring curiously.

  “Anything electronic. Phone calls, mostly on burners, ghost email accounts, dark web, credit card transactions, social media. We don’t know the content, we just know it happened, and that it started with a single text from a Level Two Tertiary.”

  “Got it,” said King. “So you lock in the Level Two and this is everything that basically spins off of him.”

  “Precisely,” said Bruckheimer.

  “Just so I know we’re talking the same language, what do you mean by ‘Level Two Tertiary’?” said King.

  “Level One is a terrorist,” said Bruckheimer. “Al-Zawahiri, Jehad Mostafa, Yasin, Mansour, Bierscht. Architects like al-Rashid. Level Two is someone electronically, digitally, connected to a Level One. Someone who participates in a signal from a Level One, a phone call, text, e-mail, whatever. It means a signal was tracked to someone—or
more specifically, from someone whose device we catalogued at some point because it intersected with a Level One.”

  “So someone who interacted with Al Qaeda?” said King, shaking his head. His face took on a concerned edge, which, for King, meant a hint of his Irish anger. He looked at Calibrisi. “Well?”

  “Or Taliban, Hezbollah, Mujahideen, Hamas, ISIS, Antifa, al-Shabbab, and various other splinters. A Level Two could be someone who has nothing to do with terror,” said Calibrisi. “A housepainter or whatever, who the Level One called.”

  “So fucking what!” yelled King. “How many times has this happened in the last week?”

  “Has what happened?” said Bruckheimer.

  “How many Level Twos have we detected in the last week?” said King. He took his suit coat off and tossed it to the floor next to his desk.

  “I get your point,” said Bruckheimer. “Are we making a mountain out of a molehill?”

  “Exactly,” said King.

  “There were no Level Twos last week. The week before, there were three. Level Twos happen,” said Bruckheimer, “but the signals activity in and around New York City following the only text this device has ever sent to the United States is astonishing. I’ve never seen it before. In our world, this is called an ‘attack pattern’ or ‘mushroom cloud.’”

  “Got it,” said King, nodding, thinking. He looked at Bruckheimer. “Who made the call?”

  “We don’t know,” said Bruckheimer. “Remember, these are signals. Electronic signals.”

  “What about human intelligence?” said King, looking at Calibrisi.

  “Nothing. We’re scanning everything, but again this is happening as we speak,” said Calibrisi. “But one of our personnel was targeted on U.S. soil yesterday near his home in D.C.”

  “Who?”

  “Dewey. It was Hezbollah. Fortunately, he killed all three of the attackers. Theoretically, it might be related,” said Calibrisi. “You’re learning about this in real time. Something is about to happen in New York City.”

  “So what are you saying?” said King, urgency in his voice, glaring at Calibrisi. “The president is flying up to New York City to deliver a goddam speech to the United Nations and there could be some sort of terror attack? Are you suggesting we call it off?”

  “Yes, call it off,” said Calibrisi.

  King looked at Bruckheimer.

  “I agree,” said Bruckheimer.

  King glanced at Calibrisi. He took a deep breath, then exhaled. He brushed his hand back through his hair. King took an empty coffee cup from his desk. It was white and ceramic, and had the colors of the logo of King’s high school alma mater on the side, crimson and gray. King paused, then hurled the mug at the wall, just above the grizzly photo, where it shattered into a hundred pieces down on top of a pile of files. He looked at Calibrisi with a look of disbelief.

  “The president left ahead of schedule,” said King, picking up his phone. “He’s already landed and is at the UN.”

  34

  8:40 A.M.

  SIGNALS INTELLIGENCE DIRECTORATE (SID)

  NATIONAL SECURITY AGENCY

  FORT MEADE, MARYLAND

  Samantha Stout stood in front of an oval-shaped, waist-high table. Four other individuals were with her.

  The table Stout stood in front of was six feet in length and three feet across. The surface of the table was a digital screen composed of several smaller screens displaying various information—charts, live media feed, streaming live views from satellites, real-time on-the-ground video, and a dozen other sources of electronic content, all focused on the mushroom cloud of SIGINT. Stout and her analysts were poring through signals data, reaching forward, tapping the digital screen. It was a satellite map of Manhattan. She’d been able to back-trace some of the signals data and pinpoint individuals in the city who’d been part of the earlier attack pattern. It took ThinThread time to parse data, and the agglomeration of hard evidence came in waves. But it was growing. Moving red dots highlighted what she assumed were terrorists. It was growing into a red-dotted panoply as ThinThread identified, then catalogued and interfaced against the digital map. She couldn’t count the number; it was in the hundreds—all moving, on separate routes. A large cluster was around the UN.

  She put her cell to her ear and called Bruckheimer.

  “Yeah?”

  “I did a back-pull on the metadata. They have at least four or five hundred people in New York, mostly in Manhattan,” said Stout. “Maybe more.”

  * * *

  Bruckheimer held his hand up, interrupting King:

  “We did a back-pull on the signals, mapped it against current activity,” said Bruckheimer. “There are hundreds of what we have to assume are terrorists in Manhattan. A bunch are around the UN.”

  King hit the triangular phone console on his desk, a speed dial.

  The phone rang twice, then a gravelly voice came on the line:

  “Adrian,” said Anna Lungren, the head of NYPD.

  “Anna, you have a situation on your hands,” said King. “I need you to also notify FBI.”

  “What’s the situation?” said Lungren.

  “I don’t know,” said King. “I just know it’s about to happen. The president is at the UN. It’s Hezbollah.”

  “Understood,” said Lungren. “Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll loop in McNaughton.”

  Dave McNaughton ran the FBI.

  King hung up the phone and pointed at Calibrisi.

  “Get an exfiltration team in the air,” said King.

  “Got it,” said Calibrisi.

  “I’ll call the president,” said King. “He’s not going to be happy.”

  * * *

  Calibrisi walked two doors down. It was his West Wing office, when he needed one, small but with a view of the South Lawn. He picked up his phone.

  Calibrisi hit speed dial for Bill Polk. Polk was deputy director of the CIA, and ran the National Clandestine Service, which included Special Operations Group, the CIA’s paramilitary and preemptive action team, and Special Activities Division, who recruited foreign agents, manipulated currency and elections, and constituted the intellectual side of operations against foreign actors and enemies.

  “Hey,” said Polk. “What do you need?”

  “We need an exfiltration team at the UN,” said Calibrisi.

  “The president?” said Polk.

  “Yeah,” said Calibrisi.

  “I’m assuming by air, otherwise he’d be in a car by now, right?” said Polk.

  “That’s right,” said Calibrisi.

  “Got it,” said Polk. “The Eisenhower is up the coast. I think SEAL 4 is there right now. Where’s the pickup, or should they go in?”

  “Roof of the UN building,” said Calibrisi.

  “I’ll get to work. You can fill me in later. They should be airborne in three or four minutes,” said Polk. “What floor is he on, just in case?”

  “Eighteen,” said Calibrisi.

  “Do we have any Tier Ones in Manhattan?” said Calibrisi.

  “Let me run a scan,” said Polk. “Back to you in five.”

  35

  8:48 A.M.

  SECOND AVENUE

  NEW YORK CITY

  Traffic was heavy all over the city, vehicles scurrying down crowded streets and avenues at rush hour. Sidewalks were packed with people walking to work. Traffic became especially dense near the UN. Outer blocks, two or three streets away, were practically not moving. The block surrounding the UN complex was shut off to traffic behind lines of pylons and cordons, behind it dozens of SWAT and various other uniformed policemen, all clutching rifles and scanning the traffic as it diverted away from the UN.

  Horns were blaring. A din of engine noise and traffic permeated the air.

  Mansour was seated in the front passenger seat of the van. They were at Fiftieth Street, moving slowly in a line of traffic on Second Avenue. Taxis, Ubers, a bus; they were crawling south. At some point, as they came closer, he could see the UN build
ing to his left, a block away, above other buildings.

  “Closer,” said Mansour. “Drive!”

  36

  8:50 A.M.

  USS EISENHOWER

  NEW LONDON, CONNECTICUT

  Admiral J. J. Quinn, commanding officer of the USS Eisenhower, was in his office aboard the aircraft carrier when the call came in.

  They were fifty miles offshore from Connecticut, there for a three-week visit purportedly for maintenance and training, though in reality they were running various speed and diagnostic tests on a new submarine fresh off the line at Groton Shipyard in New London.

  The Navy SEALs had arrived unannounced two days before. As always, Quinn and his crew were expected to find them beds and make them feel at home. But Quinn and several of his top men had been SEALs in a prior life—and he welcomed the visit.

  Now he understood why someone had dropped the team in.

  His phone console beeped and the speaker came on.

  “Admiral, you have a call.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Bill Polk.”

  Quinn picked up the phone.

  “Bill, how are you?” said Quinn.

  “Fine, Joey,” said Polk. “We need to exfiltrate the president from the UN. This is Emergency Priority. I’ll call you when we get through this, just get them in the air.”

  “I’m on it,” said Quinn, standing up and lurching for the door.

  “Thank you, Joey.”

  * * *

  Quinn charged down the stairs and across a secure corridor to where he knew he’d find the brigade from SEAL Team 4. In a large, windowless room with bunk beds, computers, a pool table, a Ping-Pong table, a bare-bones utilitarian kitchen, TVs, and several dilapidated chairs and sofas, he found most if not all of SEAL Team 4. Quinn looked around as conversation stopped.

  One of the SEALs, Minelli, stood up from a chair.

  “Admiral Quinn?” said Minelli. “What do you need, sir?”

  “There is an Emergency Priority situation,” said Quinn. “You guys are flying to the UN and extracting the president. In-theater command control. I want you in the air in three.”