Brent gritted his teeth. “Yes,” he said. “Be careful.”
A second later Fred came back, sounding breathless, as though he was running and trying to talk at the same time. “The guard up at the house is dead.”
Maggie grabbed the walkie-talkie. “Repeat?”
“Dead,” Fred huffed. “I saw him in the firelight after I tossed my bombs, slumped over in his little guardhouse.”
Brent gave his head a shake. Think! What was happening? Was somebody else attacking? Police? FBI? No way—there would be lights, sirens, and helicopters. No, it had to be the terrorists, but why would they kill Biddle’s guards?
“We can’t worry about it,” Maggie said, as if she’d read his mind. “Let’s cover the driveway in case they try to get away.”
“Get going!” Kosinsky said. “I’ll be okay.”
Footsteps thumped behind them. Brent turned as Fred limped into sight. “I could see you bastards all the way across the lawn,” he whispered. “You stand out real good against the fire. Just thought you’d like to know.”
“Take care of Steve,” Brent said. “I’ll cover the driveway.” He started running back the way he’d come, but almost immediately he sensed someone behind him. “Stay with Kosinsky!” he said, trying to wave Maggie back.
“No!” she said. “I’m coming with you. Get it through your head!”
He started to run again. In spite of the circumstances, a brief hope flickered. Maggie was with him. There was nothing he wanted more.
SIXTY
OYSTER BAY, NY, JULY 2
ABU SAYEED WAS ALREADY FLATTENED against the cottage wall when the second stand of trees ignited. He inched to the door and looked out in time to see a third group of trees go up in flames. Naif ran past him, across the courtyard, but even before had he taken up a covering position beside the garage, three shots sounded in the trees. They were loud, from a heavy gauge pistol, not Mohammed’s silenced Heckler & Koch.
Abu Sayeed looked up at the approaching blackness in the western sky and deep within it the lurid flicker of lightning. He raced mentally through his options, then pulled plastic cuffs from his pocket and tossed them to Anneliës. “Get him on the boat,” he said, his voice clipped but unhurried.
He noted the defeat in Biddle’s face as Anneliës knelt and jerked his wrists behind his back. A second later Mohammed appeared, backing out of the trees. He was breathing heavily, his shirt soaked through with rain and sweat. He squatted near the door. “I saw one man,” he said quickly. “I killed him.”
“How many others?”
Mohammed shook his head in confusion. “There are no sirens and no lights. It is most strange.”
“And the security people?”
Mohammed nodded. “Dead.”
Abu Sayeed nodded. There was no time for understanding, only for action. “To the boat!” he snapped. Mohammed turned and ran toward the opening in the hedge. Next, Abu Sayeed jerked his head and Anneliës dragged Biddle to his feet.
“Let Faith go,” Biddle pleaded as Anneliës shoved him outside. He stumbled across the courtyard like a doomed man, offering no resistance.
Abu Sayeed walked into the bedroom. He unsheathed his Russian combat knife and cut the tape that bound Wofford to the chair. He pulled Wofford roughly to his feet. “Wait there,” he commanded, shoving him out of the room.
He turned toward the woman, who raised her head and looked at him, her eyes wide with panic. He raised his submachine gun and fired. A spray of blood hit the pillow and wall as her head exploded.
He went back into the sitting room to find Wofford cowering beside the front door, a horrified look on his bruised face. Abu Sayeed barely glanced at him as he opened the flap of a leather satchel that lay on the dining table. He set the timer for ninety seconds and then went to where three backpacks leaned against the wall. He slipped one on his back, slung his machine gun over his neck and slung the other two packs along one arm. He moved to Wofford, gripped him by the back of the neck, his arm weighed down by the packs, and shoved him out the door.
With Wofford as his shield, he hurried across the courtyard to where Naif squatted in the shadows.
“Forty-five seconds,” he hissed, as he dropped the two packs. “Go.”
Naif nodded and slipped on his pack, took the other in his hand, and raced for the opening in the hedge. Abu Sayeed peered toward the burning trees, trying to pick out silhouettes. It made no sense. There should be teams of attackers. Biddle certainly hadn’t arranged this, but then who?
He started backing toward the boat, tightening his grip on Wofford’s neck. As he neared the hedge and Mohammed brought the yacht’s diesel engines rumbling to life, he thanked Allah for giving him the foresight to put the missiles back on board.
He paused in the shadows of the hedge. Naif whistled behind him, signaling that the shoreline was clear. Beside the cottage, Abu Sayeed heard a woman’s voice shouting, “Freeze! Police!”
He raised his gun over Wofford’s shoulder, caught a momentary glimpse of a silhouette, and fired a silenced burst. The woman’s handgun barked several times, the shots hitting a few feet to his right. He needed only seconds. He fired a longer burst to keep his attackers pinned.
A moment later, the charge went off. The cottage windows blew out and the roof buckled, spraying a deadly shower of broken shingles. To Abu Sayeed’s surprise, Wofford exploded out of his grasp and began running toward the ruined cottage even as shards of flying slate flew all around.
In the courtyard, where she’d been partially sheltered by the Range Rover, a woman was on her hands and knees, trying to stand. Abu Sayeed made a quick calculation then pulled the trigger. He watched Wofford pitch face down on the paving blocks, and then he dashed forward, put his foot on the woman’s back, and flattened her to the ground.
The air had become a slurry of rain and wet dust, but he could see she no longer had a weapon. Her shirt was tattered from the explosion, revealing a bulletproof vest. He placed the machine gun against her head then squinted toward the trees, looking for more attackers. He saw nothing and heard only a single voice calling, “Maggie! Maggie!”
He jerked her to her feet and put her in a throat lock. She cried out in pain, swaying limp as a rag doll, but he dragged her back to the opening in the hedge using her body as a shield. In the darkness, the voice drew closer, calling, “Maggie!”
Abu Sayeed glanced to the side, across Biddle’s acres of well-lit lawn. Flames poured from one corner of the big house, but otherwise nothing moved. “Maggie!” the voice cried out from the courtyard. Abu Sayeed loosed a burst of machine gun fire in the direction of the sound, and then grabbing the pack he had dropped, he dragged the woman across the open space to the dock. Her legs were unsteady, so that she was nearly deadweight. He considered shooting her but then heard Naif’s footsteps behind him.
“Help me get her onto the boat,” he called. They each took one of the woman’s arms and hauled her up the gangplank. Abu Sayeed threw her into the salon and tossed the extra backpack on a chair. He ordered Anneliës to find a set of cuffs for the woman in one of pouches, and then he ran out to help Naif untie the lines. As they heaved off, Mohammed reversed the engines and swung the big boat away from the dock, pointing the bow into the teeth of the squall coming from the west.
Abu Sayeed squatted against the transom and watched the shore. After a second he saw movement, a single silhouette running down the dock, framed every fifteen feet or so in the piling lights. They were picking up speed as he tried to aim, timing his shot to the yacht’s roll. He pulled the trigger as the man came into view again, then watched him spin and fall.
Abu Sayeed stood, ran through the aft salon, and climbed to the upper deck and then to the bridge. He left Mohammed at the helm, went to the radar, and set the resolution to a hundred yards, then two-fifty, then five hundred yards, looking for the blip of a big boat, a Coast Guard cutter perhaps, something with armament that could blow the Hatteras out of the water. Only, he saw nothing
, just the usual yachts, fishing boats, and sailboats on their moorings.
His enemies had attacked, yet they had left the back door open. Why? He tried to think. Allah, clear my mind, he prayed as he went below to the salon. Anneliës had the woman cuffed, and he jerked her into a sitting position and struck her hard across the cheekbones. “Who do you work for?” he demanded. “FBI? CIA? Police?”
The woman blinked away tears of pain and glared back in silence. He saw fear in her eyes but also will and resolve and knew he had too little time to break her down. Where was the helicopter that ought to be overhead right now? Where was the Navy, the Coast Guard? There seemed only one plausible explanation—that in any military operation even with meticulous planning things went wrong. Tonight, something had gone wrong for his enemies. Apparently, the Americans had prepared a trap, yet thanks to Allah, someone had moved early. No doubt at this very moment, Coast Guard boats and helicopters were on their way to Biddle’s estate and a mob of government agents were gathering outside the gate.
His understanding of what gave him no comfort because the question of how still loomed. He was certain Biddle wasn’t the leak. It couldn’t be Biddle’s wife because the skinny beast had been utterly shocked when they burst into her home and dragged her away from her martini and cigarettes. It might have been Wofford, the man he’d killed.
He looked down at the woman. “How did you learn of us?” he demanded.
“It was easy,” she said.
Abu Sayeed struck her harder this time then knelt on her back and ripped off her black tee shirt to expose the bullet proof vest beneath. The stenciled initials “FBI” confirmed what he’d already guessed. He left her and went back to the stern where he stood in the open and tried to gauge the weather. The wind continued to strengthen, and the bay now boiled with whitecaps. When he looked ahead, he could see that the storm was almost on them, blackening the sky and cutting off any sight of Long Island Sound.
A shudder ran though him. He hated the ocean, and this dense, suffocating weather caused an almost unbearable claustrophobia. Even so, he knew that Allah had sent this storm to confuse his enemies.
He went back into the salon and jerked the woman to her feet. He pushed her up the steps to the bridge, wondering again how to make her talk in the shortest time. He slapped her again, hard, knocking her to her knees, and then he threw her against the bulwark while he rechecked the navigation instruments. There was still nothing unusual on the radar, no large boat bearing toward them.
The woman appeared semiconscious. He grabbed the back of her vest and dragged her from the bridge onto the flybridge. No helicopters hovering low, no searchlights on the water. The temperature was dropping, the wind-blown rain cold and stinging. In only seconds they would plunge into the swirling fog, becoming invisible, one more anonymous blip on radar.
His heart lightened for a moment because his enemies were confused, and he was about to elude them. Allah’s blessings could be as massive as an earthquake, or subtle as fog over a harbor. Either way, they were great. “Allah Akbar,” Abu Sayeed whispered, giving thanks for his delivery.
Finally, he looked down at the woman. She blinked as the rain started to revive her, and he reached down and turned her head toward the two crates that sat under canvas tarps. “There,” he said, reaching with one hand to yank back one of the tarps and reveal a large metal crate. “Is this what you hoped to prevent us from using?” He smiled. “You are too late, but if you want to live, you will tell me what I want to know.”
The woman’s lip was split along the side of her mouth, and when she tried to talk her teeth were stained with blood. “Brent’s going to kill you,” she said.
With a cry of rage, Abu Sayeed struck her with his fist, knocking her to the deck where she lay unmoving. He returned to the bridge. “Anneliës!” he shouted down into the salon. “Take this piece of excrement below!”
SIXTY-ONE
OYSTER BAY, NY, JULY 2
BRENT HEARD A RAPID POP-POP-POP-POP, followed by a rain of heavy slaps and thumps on the dock, the pilings, the water, before one caught him in the arm. As if a horse had kicked him, it spun him around and off his feet.
When he sat up again his right arm was numb, with a tingling like a limb that had gone to sleep. He felt above the elbow, his fingers finding warm blood and then the indentation where a chunk of muscle as big around as his thumb had been blown out. When he flexed his elbow the pain began.
He climbed to his feet, fighting off the sudden nausea, and squinted at the dark shape of the yacht already becoming indistinct in the storm. A single thought drove him—Maggie! From the opening in the hedge, he’d seen them dragging her up the gangplank. His first instinct was to call the police or FBI, but to what point? Even if they believed him, the storm already covered Long Island Sound. Boats or helicopters would never arrive in time.
He cast a desperate look toward the floating section of dock to his right. There were several skiffs and jet skis but also a decent sized Boston Whaler. He ran around to its berth, fighting the pain in his arm and holding out a wild hope that the keys were in the ignition. They weren’t.
He remembered the small octagonal building on the shore beside the dock—it had to be where Biddle kept the boat keys. His arm pulsed red waves of agony as he ran to the building, circled to the door, and stopped.
One of Biddle’s security guards lay sprawled inside, face-up, a bullet hole in his forehead. The sight redoubled his fears for Maggie, and he forced his eyes to a pegboard where several keys hung on floating key chains. He grabbed one labeled “Whaler” and raced back along the dock. On the way, he stooped over to snatch the water gun he dropped when he’d been hit.
A second later, behind the Whaler’s wheel, he looked over controls that were roughly the same as Harry’s boat. He shoved the key in the ignition, found the tilt button, and lowered the engines into the water then pulled out the choke and engaged the starter. The engines didn’t catch. He cursed. Nothing ever worked in boats! He tried again, but then he remembered the gas lines. He stumbled into the stern, found them, and squeezed the two balls that fed gas to the engines.
When he turned the key again, the engines caught. He let them run hot for several seconds as he untied the lines, and then he pushed in the choke, backed away from the dock, and roared into the darkness. His eyes watered in the wind, and the black wall of the storm lay straight ahead in the west. With the throttle jammed all the way forward, he prayed he had enough gas in the tanks.
He sped along with whitecaps pounding the hull and just enough ambient light from the shoreline to avoid moored boats. Away from shore the air grew misty and cold, the rain slashed, and he began to shiver. He had no plan and wondered what the hell he was going to do when he caught the yacht, assuming he could find it in the fog. He strained his eyes into the thickening storm knowing that in only a few hundred yards, he’d be running absolutely blind.
He looked down at the control panel, searching for the radio, but found only some screw holes and an empty space. “Shit!” he screamed. It had been pulled out, no doubt for repairs. Two boxy instruments sat atop the console, and he tore off the plastic covers. It was nearly impossible with the slamming waves, but he managed to find the switches. A moment later, he had radar and also a GPS showing his direction and location. The radar indicated a thick cluster of moored boats directly ahead, and he swung well clear of them but kept his heading toward the Sound.
He hit the fog with the engines wide open. He was going insanely fast for the conditions, but if he went slower, he’d never find Maggie. After several tries he located the button that controlled the radar’s viewing area, and he widened it until he spotted an image heading west out of Oyster Bay. It was the nearest thing moving on the water, and he assumed it had to be the yacht. A few minutes later, as he reached the mouth of the bay, he guessed he was about five hundred yards behind.
Given the power of the twin outboards, he’d hoped to catch the yacht quickly, but as he turned
into the Sound three- and four-foot swells were rolling hard from the northwest, causing the boat to pitch wildly. Unable to brace himself with his wounded arm, he backed off the throttle. He stared at the radar screen, monitoring the yacht’s heading as the gap refused to narrow.
What were the terrorists planning? Were the missiles on board? In his guts he knew that they were, that somehow this was all part of their plan. Maggie had guessed it would be an assassination attempt on the President, but that no longer seemed possible. Now, with the Coast Guard and FBI alerted, Biddle’s boat would be an easy target in New York Harbor. But then he thought—maybe the terrorists were simply planning to launch their dirty weapons in the dark then try to escape. Maybe that’s why they’d taken Maggie hostage.
That realization made his heart sink anew. The increasing likelihood of interdiction by the FBI or Coast Guard meant hostages would have zero probability of survival. That in turn meant Maggie’s only hope of rescue depended on him. Once she was safe he’d do his best to stop the terrorists, but she came first. He’d need surprise and perfect timing, and if he blew any part of it, both of them would end up dead. He raised his wounded arm and flexed the joint. The bleeding had slowed, but his elbow had stiffened, making movement even more painful. After a time, the radar showed the yacht change course, turning southwest. It was still around five hundred yards out, but now with the new heading the wind was off his stern, so he was able to increase speed. Over the next twenty minutes, he narrowed the gap and was only about two hundred yards back when the yacht changed course again and began moving almost directly south. The GPS showed the Sound beginning to narrow as the land squeezed closer from both shores. The seas had subsided slightly, but hard rain still pelted. His teeth chattered uncontrollably.
Minutes later, even though the yacht was only a hundred yards ahead, he realized he had a new problem. The cold had debilitated him. His wounded arm now hung almost immobile at his side, and the fingers on his other hand were nearly too stiff to move. If he tried to leap on the yacht’s stern, he risked falling helplessly into the water.
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