Seibel ignored him and reached down to move several bricks and a sheet of drywall. When he moved it, he saw maybe the one face in the entire world he didn’t want to see right there. Under the focus of his flashlight, Marta appeared, for all intents and purposes, to be a goner. There was no life in her face.
“Damn. God damn it.” He bent to her and put his fingers to her neck and waited. It was faint, but it was there. “She’s alive. Help me, she’s alive.” His call brought men running from all directions. Fire fighters lifted bricks and debris, two paramedics standing in the street were there 20 seconds later. Seibel stepped back. He had to face his next fear.
“Everyone stop. Listen to me.” The chaotic crew froze in their places. Some people in this world just have authority. Seibel was born that way. “I am the representative for national security for this sector and this woman is an agent under my direction. I need every one except the medics to turn away from her right now. Now.”
Everyone was surprised, but complied. “You two, cover her face now. Do it. Get her onto a stretcher and into the back of the ambulance now. You can stabilize her inside the unit. The rest of you, stay where you are. I need to examine each of the bodies inside to see if any are our agents or if any are the terrorist we have been hunting. Nobody move, except you two.” He pointed back at the paramedics and then climbed up the front stairs to where the door had been.
He looked at the first charred body. It was not Lance. The next two were burnt to a crisp, but weren’t Lance. The next two were charred on their backs, so he lifted each to see that they weren’t him. He continued through the kitchen to the back door, that body wasn’t him either. No Lance. Why would she be here without him? They were never apart. He did not recognize any of the bodies as Yousef. Couldn’t assume he was dead.
He stopped where he was and pulled out his cell phone and scrolled down to the fourth number. It was the phone number Marta had called from two hours earlier. He dialed the number. A tired clerk at a hotel front desk answered. No time. Marta and Lance would not be listed under any recognizable name. Damn. He hung up and walked back out of the smoldering house to follow the paramedics who had Marta loaded in the ambulance. He got in the back with the medic. The EMT got into the cab to drive. “Let’s go, lights and sirens on. Move it.”
“Yes sir.”
“Wake up! Damn it, wake up! You piece of crap, wake your ass up!” Across the Hudson River and to the north, Lance was screaming for all he was worth. He was pounding on him, kicking him. He jumped on him. But to no avail; Preacher was out cold. He was off on another planet, not dreaming, not aware. Marta had slipped him a dose of something that put him in la la land.
Two and a half hours later, Preacher heard something. It was Lance, himself. And by god, he was singing their single most hated song. It was the worst piece of crap ever made. And Lance knew it. By singing a tune by Culture Club for the 18th time, he had finally reached into Preacher’s brain and caused him to stir. A few minutes later, Preacher was sitting up in bed, still not with it, but he at least had his feet on the floor.
“What did I miss?” He asked Lance hovering there really pissed. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Take a look around. Who’s missing?” Lance responded.
“Where is she? Where did she go?”
“I don’t know. I’m stuck here with you, you know.”
“Did she say anything? How could I have slept through it?” he finally looked at the alarm clock on the bedside table. “Man, is it 6:15? How could that happen? Damn medicine. Stuff really works.”
“She left just after one.” Lance said.
“One? She should be back by now. Where did she go?” Preacher was up. He stumbled to the tiny bathroom and turned on the cold water to splash his face. He drank a few handfuls as well. “I need to go. We need to go. We’ll call the service in a bit.”
“You need to stop jerking around and get cell phones. This is ridiculous not being able to reach her.” Lance was still pissed.
“I know, I know. Maybe we’ll start with pagers and see how that works.”
“Such a jerk.” Lance wouldn’t let it go.
“What’s up with you?” Preacher was into his pants and throwing a shirt on.
“I tried to wake you up for three hours. Where the hell did you go?”
“Just asleep. I was out, man. Like a friggin' hardheaded baby. Cut the crap, we need to go.” Preacher put on his shoes, put on his gun holster, the knife on his belt clip and his coat. He was on the tiny elevator two minutes later.
New York was still fairly quiet on a cold February morning just after 6:20 a.m. He walked along the sidewalk with Lance up at about 300 feet. Preacher stepped into a convenience store for a cup of so-so coffee to get his juices flowing. Two blocks later, he was on the southwest corner of the intersection of 5th Avenue and West 34th Street. The Empire State Building towered over him. He casually looked in all directions and took in details of the hundred or so people he could currently see. Nothing stood out. He decided to do what he’d done the evening before when they came back from Jersey City. He took a walk around the blocks the building occupied. He walked 34th to 6th and hung a left. At 33rd, he turned left again and back at 5th, another left. It took him 14 minutes. He didn’t see anything of merit. But the details were different in the early morning light. He still had an unnatural desire to blow this building up. Bring it down. That told him more than anything.
He chose to walk back north on 5th Avenue to get a wider view. No science behind his action. He just wanted to see what he’d see.
Walking across 35th Street, he saw several people about. Up ahead, a man who looked to be in his early 60's exited an eight-story building on the southwest corner of the intersection. The man was carrying a box, like a storage box. It was old school file folder stuff. He was dressed nice, classy. He looked Italian, maybe Greek. Lance walked passed him in the middle of the street and started taking in others. But something made him turn around when he reached the sidewalk.
He looked back at the older man carrying the box. His salt and pepper hair was as well kept from the back as it was in the front. His shoes were shined, again classy, expensive, but not too. Preacher was about to turn and watch the other New Yorkers starting their day when he lowered his eyes to the man’s legs. They took step after step in a slow deliberate manner. But as the man reached the sidewalk on the other side of the street, he jumped up onto the curb with the strength, life and bounce of someone much younger than 60, or even 50. It was wrong. His knowledge of human anatomy, muscle flex parameters, physics and gravitational pull all combined to tell him it was wrong.
Lance came down from 300 feet to about 20. He looked down on the man, examining every detail. He turned back to Preacher and smiled. The ghost waved at Preacher to follow — to follow this man.
He did so. Preacher stayed 50 feet back and sipped his coffee as he walked. The man stopped at the corner at 5th Avenue and 34th and waited for the light to turn red to allow him to cross 5th. Preacher stayed back and watched him and a couple of others cross. Once on the corner across the street, the older man waited again for the light to cross 34th. Preacher crossed illegally with another guy as the older pedestrian reached the south side of 34th where he turned right toward the front entrance to the Empire State Building. Preacher tracked him step for step from the other side of the street. At the front entrance, the man opened the door and walked down that famous corridor to the security desk at the end and then walked to the left, to the elevators.
Preacher stayed there across the street watching, thinking. The chances of seeing anything were slim, but still. A minute later, a light came on in an office on the 6th floor. He could barely see it with the tower of the building set back from the larger base of the structure. He wanted Lance to go up there and see what he could see, but his ghost had limitations, as much as he hated to admit it.
Forty seconds later, he had a plan worked out. It involved a few lies and a good bit o
f acting, the usual. He crossed 34th Street illegally and walked up to the door to the iconic building. It was just after 7:10 a.m.
He strolled that corridor famous from countless movies and stopped at the security desk. Two guards were seated behind it. They were not looking for conversation.
“Gentlemen.”
“Yes sir?” The guard on the left answered.
“I know it’s early, but I need you both to listen and listen clearly.” He leaned over the counter. “Do I have your attention?”
They both looked at him now. “I am with the FBI.” He pulled out an I.D. he’d been given by the Bureau a months earlier. “A man just entered this building two minutes ago carrying a box. You know this gentleman, yes?”
“Yes sir. That’s Mr. Arizzati.”
“What is Mr. Arizzati’s first name?”
“I believe it's Frank.” The guard on the right answered.
The other agreed. “That’s right. Frank. We hardly ever call any of the tenants by their first name, you understand.”
“Yes. I understand. I have just come from a stakeout several blocks away and this man you know as Frank Arizzati just left a meeting with individuals we have been monitoring for several months. I am going to need to speak with him in private. I don’t expect anything to come of it, but please write this number down. If I am not back down here in 15 minutes, call the number and tell Agent Papas who you are and that agent Landover is here meeting with Mr. Arizzati on the Mohamed case. He will likely send over a few additional agents.”
“Agent Landover, we don’t want any incidents here. I think we need to call our supervisor and maybe the police on this.”
“I understand your trepidation. This is a rush job, nothing I planned. This matter does involve several jurisdictions, including national security. You understand, correct?”
“Yes, but-"
“I’m afraid I must insist you keep this matter local for the next,” he pulled his wrist up, “14 minutes. I insist. Which floor?”
“Sixth floor. Suite 612.” The guard on the left was quick to respond. He wanted no problems, and for this to be over quickly.
“Thank you. I’ll see you back here in a few minutes.”
Preacher turned toward the elevator lobby. Because it was still early, one of the elevators stood open waiting for him. He stepped in and pushed 8.
He stepped off on the eighth floor and rounded the corner to find the stairwell. He opened the door and made his way down two flights to the sixth floor. The stairwell door opened quietly and he stepped out onto tile floor. His shoes were silent on the surface. He hugged the wall as up ahead about 45 feet, Arizzatti, or whatever his name was, came out of an office door carrying the box. He walked around the corner. Lance listened to the footsteps, elevator bell ring and the doors open and close. He walked to suite 612.
The lettering on the door read Castle Trading and Imports. Very nondescript, he thought to himself. The glass beside the door was opaque so he could not see clearly inside, but the light was on. He’d seen it come on from street below. He turned the handle but the door was locked. He wished he had his lock-picking gear on him, but alas, there was no time. He took out his gun barrel and punched a hole through the glass beside the door and reached in to unlock the handle.
Once inside, he closed the door behind him silently, but that broken glass was going to be hard to miss. He heard no noise from the offices. To his left was a hall with several offices on the right only. To the right was a similar hall with offices on both sides. A small waiting area with a reception desk was directly in front of him. He chose to go to the right. In the first office on the left, he found an empty desk, but 20 or 25 storage boxes like Arizzati had been carrying. They were stacked against the wall. The next office was the same, only with more boxes stacked higher. The third office on the right was jam-packed with storage boxes, floor to ceiling.
When he got to the last door at the end of the hall, he was surprised when he opened it. Behind the door was an open and unfinished space that measured maybe 70 feet by 50 feet, with more space around the corner. The walls were bare sheetrock and the floor concrete. Support pillars were spaced about 30 feet apart. All that was fine, no big deal. The funny thing was all the storage boxes, hundreds of them. They lined the wall on the right and stood six and seven boxes high. But even stranger, the boxes were stacked eight-high and two-deep around each of the pillars in the open space. Alarm bell city.
Preacher walked a dozen paces into the space to see around the corner. And there he saw the same thing. More boxes lining the wall and boxes stacked around the pillars. Four-alarm fire bells.
He stepped to the wall and pulled a box down. It was heavy, but not too. He set it on the floor and unfolded the lid tucked into itself. His mind was racing, but when he opened the box and took out a stack of papers on top, even Lance up above him gasped at what he found underneath.
Sealed into a plastic bag was a container that contained a variety of chemicals that, when combined with a heat source, would combust and combust with a fury. The little bomb he saw in this one box could blow out the walls and roof a 1,500-square-foot house. He looked left and right. Simple multiplication told him there were more than 250 of these boxes in this open room.
“Damn.” He whispered to himself and Lance. He didn’t have to finish the thought. Lance knew it already. Preacher’s dumb luck had allowed him to stumble on the bad guys once again. When was this luck going to run out?
Maybe now.
At the end of the room, he heard footsteps. It was Arizzati and he was holding a gun. He was about 50, no exactly 52 feet, from Preacher.
“Stop right there.” Preacher spun and had his gun out and pointed at the man standing partially in the doorway.
“I was right.” Arizzati said.
“About?” Preacher tilted his head. Lance had already flown over to just above Arizzati’s shoulder. It didn’t take him a second to see what he’d missed on the street. The hair was died white. The skin was wrinkled with makeup. It was Anwar.
He was the ghost that Preacher, Seibel and half the world had been hunting. He continued, “On the street, when you passed me, I recognized you, but couldn’t remember from where. It’s this city. You see people you have seen before. So many faces”
“We weren’t that close on that tiny island.” Preacher stepped to the right.
“Close enough. I remember your face. You are so young.” Anwar smiled a little and took a step back.
“You were young once too. Before those pesky Soviets invaded Afghanistan, right?”
“Yes. But that was long ago now." Anwar shook his head. "So, you've come to try to stop me. I would love to hear how you found me. I know you have been pecking away at my network around your country, but I thought I had insulation, disconnects.” His language was that of a bomb maker. He spoke of connections, wiring, combinations.
“We’re pretty smart. It came into focus after awhile. Your other teams have been stopped by the way, in Philadelphia and Washington. They’re all dead.” Preacher wanted to take his shot now. Fifty feet was at the far end of his reliable range with a handgun. But what the hell. Problem was, how could he be sure he could stop these damn bombs from going off. And he realized something else, “You left the office when I came in. You took the elevator. That means you’ve got more boxes on other floors.”
“All over the building actually. On this level and others, yes. Ideally positioned to cause the greatest destruction.” The smile remained on his face.
“So I can’t do anything to stop it.”
“Correct. You could shoot me now and could not stop it. This building, this American icon, will come down shortly and everyone inside will die, including you and me.” He held up a remote control panel. It was Lance hovering right next to Anwar who caught his lie. The terrorist had just told a little fib. It was the word "shortly." He wasn't going to blow the building now. Lance knew Anwar had no intention of dying, that’s why he stayed in the d
oorway, ready to bolt.
“Then blow it. Get on with it.” Preacher played it out, taking a step forward.
“Not just yet. We need a few more people at this party.” Anwar stepped back as he said this. He was almost behind the first stack of boxes by the door.
“You lying coward.” Preacher brought his gun up as Anwar was closing the door. He fired three shots. All hit the heavy wood door made of oak. He aimed high to avoid hitting any of the boxes.
As he raced toward the door, he heard a small thud-like noise that was repeated a dozen more times. He reached for the doorknob, but nothing happened. It didn’t work.
“A little trick I’ve put in place for my offices,” he heard the arrogant words from behind the door. “All of the door assemblies and hinges have been blown. These doors won’t open without a battering ram They are solid oak. Very thick and strong. Goodbye my friend.”
Preacher raced back around the corner to a door at the other end, it was blown as well. This little maneuver was obviously designed to allow Anwar to shut down the offices and slow down entry by anyone else. It was a delay tactic and it showed Preacher what he needed to know. It was designed to give the terrorist just long enough to get out of the building before blowing it. He kicked at the door. Nothing. Solid friggin' oak indeed, with real metal locks and hinges that were all now disabled, making it a solid wall.
He thought maybe he could shoot through the wood, blast it away. But that would likely not work and if it did, it would use all his ammunition.
Lance got the idea first. The windows.
Preacher ran over to the window. Anwar had not thought of everything. Yes, this is the 6th floor and 80 or so feet off the street, but the extended foundation portion of the building came up to the fifth floor making it only a 25-foot drop. That would hurt, but hopefully not break anything. Lance ghosted through the window outside to take a look. Preacher used his gun to break out the glass. A quick glance around showed nothing to hang on to out there. He would just have to jump for it.
The Perfect Weapon Page 30