by Dee Davis
“Sure as hell looks that way.” Avery turned so that he, too, could see the schematic on the screen above him. “Especially when you take a look at the second diagram we found.”
Hannah hit a button and another image appeared on the screen next to the first.
“It’s a map,” Drake offered.
“Yeah, but of what?” Tyler asked, still studying the newest projection.
“This will help,” Hannah said, hitting another key. The scribbles on what looked to be streets cleared, the words in English now.
“It is the hospital.” Simon frowned up at the screen. “The East River and the FDR are clearly marked. I can see York Avenue and Seventy-first Street. And the blank space between Seventieth and Seventy-first, that’s the hospital. Son of a bitch.”
Everyone was leaning forward now, eyes riveted to the screen above them.
“There’s also a notation on the blueprint.” Hannah used a pointer to highlight Arabic words at the bottom of the diagram. “According to the guys at Langley, it reads fifteen east, southeast.”
“That’s the location of the floor where we were hit.” Simon felt a shiver of trepidation, or maybe forewarning, work its way up his spine. “Fifteen east. And the windows in the waiting room faced south and east. They were mapping the goddamned hospital.”
“Exactly.” Avery crossed his arms, his gaze moving to encompass them all.
“So what’s with the name?” Nash asked, still looking at the blueprint. “My Arabic sucks, but that definitely looks like a name. Yusuf, right?”
“Yes,” Hannah said. “But so far we haven’t been able to tie it to anyone specific. Unfortunately, it’s a common name, and without a surname, it’s almost impossible to ID him. Although I’m still digging.”
“Maybe it’s just a doodle,” Drake suggested.
“Yeah well, doodle or no, I’m thinking it’s got to mean something,” Simon said. “Maybe this Yusuf orchestrated the crash somehow. Or was at least part of the planning. I’m assuming we’re no longer considering it an accident.”
“Not definitively, no.” Avery shook his head. “All we can say for certain is that the documents we found seem to indicate that the crash was planned. Although we still can’t ignore the initial investigation. The teams involved found evidence that definitely supports the idea that the crash was indeed an accident.”
“But evidence can be manipulated,” Tyler said, her eyes narrowing as she studied the screen.
“And there’s no way some dude in the Afghan desert was just farting around drawing the schematics for the exact place where a helicopter happened to crash. There’s got to be something more to it.” Drake was leaning forward now, hands flattened on the table.
“Especially when you add in the encampment’s possible connection to Kamaal Sahar and the Consortium,” Nash said.
“Which is why they’re reopening the investigation.” Avery crossed his arms over his massive chest.
“They?” Tyler asked.
“Well, us, technically. But we’ve been ordered to work with Homeland Security on this one.”
“Because that went so well last time,” Drake said, shooting a look in Nash’s direction.
“Well, to be fair to Homeland Security, Tom was CIA when he screwed things up.” Nash frowned, the memory obviously still rankling even after all this time.
Tom Walker had been Nash and Annie’s handler back when they’d worked operations in Eastern Europe. He’d gone on to a high-level job with Homeland Security and used that power to try to railroad Annie. Simon hadn’t been there when it happened, but according to Hannah, not only did Avery get the man to admit his complicity in Annie’s predicament, he also got Tom punted so far down the ladder that he was lucky to still have a job in intelligence.
“Yeah, but it was his position at Homeland Security that made your life hell,” Hannah reiterated. “Yours and Annie’s.”
“Well, we’re fine now.” Nash’s eyes softened for a moment as his thoughts clearly moved to his wife, and Simon couldn’t help but wonder what it was like to know that someone cared enough to always have your back. “And we can’t hold the entire organization responsible for Tom’s actions. They were actually pretty decent once the dust had settled.”
“And you handed them Kim Sun on a platter,” Tyler said.
“Yeah, well, it’s all old news. And I say, if working with Homeland Security gives us a better chance to catch these bastards, then I’m in.”
“Good,” Avery said, his expression inscrutable. “Because it’s non-negotiable. If nothing else, we need them so that we can maintain our cover.”
“So when are we going to meet this liaison?” Harrison asked.
“Should be any minute now.” Avery nodded toward the door to the hallway. “I left her in my office. She had to take a call.”
“She?” Drake queried, his eyebrow back in play.
“Yes. She was on site when it all went down. Which means she and Simon will be able to hit the ground running.”
“Me?” Simon felt a frisson of worry trickle through him. Surely he was jumping to conclusions. J.J. couldn’t be with Homeland Security. He replayed their conversation in his head, realizing that at no time had she said exactly what her role in the drill had been. When she hadn’t corrected him, he’d just assumed she was a nurse.
“Seems logical, considering you were there and that the two of you have already met.” Avery’s voice seem to be coming from somewhere far away, the world suddenly moving in slo-mo. The door swung open, and a woman in jeans and a mouthwateringly tight T-shirt strode into the room, blonde ponytail swinging.
Jesus, God. J.J. Shit. He was screwed.
Simon leaned back against the wall as Avery introduced J.J. to everyone. He still couldn’t bring himself to think of her as Jillian. It was like turning her into some kind of stranger. But then again, maybe that’s exactly what she was. Just because he’d known her a lifetime ago didn’t mean that he knew her now. He watched as J.J. smiled at Drake, reaching out to shake his hand.
Jillian Jane Montgomery. Named for her two grandmothers. Her mother, a product of the Deep South, had actually called her Jillian Jane. J.J. had hated it. He and Ryan, best friends since grade school, had met Jillian at college orientation, and the three of them had been thick as thieves from that moment on. Ryan had actually been the first to christen her J.J. And it had caught on quickly in the way that sort of thing always did.
When she’d married Ryan and become a Jackowski, it had only seemed more fitting. Hell, Ryan had even teased her that she could go by the moniker Three-J had she been inclined to a career as a rapper. Simon remembered her laughing at the notion, striking a pose, cap turned backward, finger brushing her nose. They’d had some good times, the three of them.
But now Ryan was dead, J.J. had a new name, and he was—hell, he’d moved on, too. And her being here didn’t change any of that. Whatever they’d shared in the past, bottom line, he’d killed it.
“So now that everyone knows everyone else,” Avery said, pulling Simon from his tumbling thoughts, “we need to get to work. And the first thing we have to do is find something concrete to refute the evidence that this was an accident.”
“What do we know so far?” Drake asked, tipping his chair back against the wall again.
“The flight originated from the Downtown Manhattan Heliport at the East River Piers,” J.J. said, glancing down at an open file folder she’d laid on the tabletop. “The helicopter is owned by Aerial Manhattan. The company’s been around for almost twenty years, and their reputation is solid.”
J.J. nodded to Hannah, who hit a key on her computer and the company’s logo flashed up on the screen. Simon marveled at how easily she’d assumed a leadership role. Not that he should have been surprised. In college, she’d always been right there in the thick of things. Meeting every challenge they’d set for her. Just one of the guys. Until she wasn’t…
But then she’d married Ryan, and, well, in
truth, the three of them hadn’t spent as much time together after that. But she’d seemed to fall into the role of military wife with the ease and grace with which she did everything else. And to hear Ryan tell it, their life had been pretty damn close to idyllic.
“They provide myriad services,” J.J. continued, “a lot of it generated by Wall Street. They offer travel for executives and delivery of time-sensitive documents. And with the downturn of the economy, they’ve also started offering high-end tours of the city.”
“So what was the reason for this particular flight?”
“According to the flight manifesto, the helicopter was booked for a flight over Manhattan. Basically thirty minutes seeing the city from on high.”
“I’m guessing that cost a pretty penny,” Drake said, the words preceded by a low whistle.
“So what do we know about the guy who booked it?” Tyler asked.
Hannah flashed another picture up onto the screen. A middle-aged balding man with the paunch to match. “Meet Eric Wilderman.”
“He’s an insurance executive out of Des Moines, Iowa.” Again J.J. checked her notes. “He was here for a conference and booked the tour online. We’ve got confirmation that he did indeed attend the conference, along with nothing suspicious in his background. Basically, just your average businessman.”
“Which of course is exactly what you want when home-growing a terrorist,” Tyler said.
“True enough, but this guy’s jacket is clean. He was born and raised in Iowa, was a finance major at Iowa State. Married once early on, but it ended in divorce. No kids. He owns a house in the suburbs that’s almost paid for. Relatively no debt. And nothing to indicate that he could be bought.”
“Considering we only just found out that this might not have been an accident, you seem to know a lot about this guy.” Simon wasn’t sure why he’d made the statement. It was certainly something they’d have done had they been investigating from the beginning. But it somehow didn’t sit right to know that J.J. was already one up on them.
“I have pretty much the same information,” Hannah said, clearly following Simon’s train of thought. “In fact, when we compared notes earlier, it was pretty much a draw.”
“Sorry.” Simon shook his head, wishing he’d just kept his mouth shut. “I didn’t mean to start a pissing match.”
“Look, I just hit the ground running when I got home from the hospital.” She shot him a look, and he ducked his head, angry at himself for letting her get to him. “I got a call from my superiors telling me that I’d been assigned to work with you guys. They faxed me everything they had on the crash.”
Simon swallowed a curse. It was bad enough that J.J. was here as a liaison, but now it looked as though she had already wormed her way into Hannah’s and Avery’s good graces. He knew he wasn’t thinking rationally, but he didn’t want his old life bleeding into his new one. And now, with her here, it was already happening.
“What about the pilot?” Harrison asked, cutting into the building tension, real or imagined.
“According to information from Aerial Manhattan,” Hannah replied, “he’s been an employee for just over eight years. Before that he flew Black Hawks for the army. Served in both Iraq wars, received commendations for valor and was discharged honorably.”
“Super.” Simon shook his head, blowing out a long breath. “So we’ve got Mr. Middle America as a passenger and GI Joe as the pilot. Not a lot of room to support a terrorist plot.”
“But we’ve still got the diagram of the hospital and the map found in the middle of the Afghan mountains. In what we believe was a terrorist encampment funded by the Consortium. I’d say that’s worth digging a little deeper,” Nash said. “So, Avery, where do you want us to start?”
“Well, first off, we’ll be moving headquarters to the brownstone in Manhattan.”
“Beats a hotel,” Drake said. “So what do you want us to do?”
“I’m thinking you, Nash, and I can help Tyler check the scene and see if there’s anything the original investigators missed.” Avery pushed away from the table, his gaze encompassing the entire group. “And then follow up with the FAA. They’ve commandeered a warehouse nearby to examine the wreckage in more detail.”
“Hannah, you and Harrison will set up shop at the brownstone. The usual array of equipment. And Simon, you’ll be working with Jillian.”
He stood up, avoiding J.J.’s startled gaze, but relieved to see that he wasn’t the only one feeling unsettled. “What do you want us to do?”
“Head to the city and start with the ME. I want to verify that the people in the helicopter were really who we think they were. And ideally, once you’ve all had the chance to examine the various pieces of the puzzle, we’ll have a clearer idea of what the hell happened. And, if it proves to be an act of terrorism, who was behind it.”
CHAPTER 3
City Morgue, Midtown Manhattan
The crash victims had been sequestered in a separate lab at the city morgue, the idea being to keep the bodies together in one place until the autopsies and investigation had been completed. White plastic sheets had been set up around the perimeter, and though they added an antiseptic feel, the air was still permeated with the chemically infused stench of death.
In the course of his career, Simon had seen his fair share of bodies in the field. But seeing someone lying on the slab, y-shaped Frankensteinesque stitching adorning his or her chest, was more disconcerting somehow.
The bodies were on tables aligned neatly in two rows, death forced into some semblance of macabre order, several autopsies clearly in progress. In a corner, perched on a stool, a gray-headed woman with wire-rimmed glasses was multitasking, studying something underneath the lens of a microscope while eating what looked to be a pastrami sandwich.
“Sorry,” the woman said, swallowing a bite of her food as they walked into the room. “I wasn’t expecting you for another half hour or so.” She laid the sandwich on a table and brushed the crumbs from her face. “I have to grab lunch when I can. I’m sure you understand.” With an apologetic smile, she pushed off the stool and strode across the space to meet them, extending a hand. “Lydia Rochard. I’ve been put in charge of the autopsies.”
“What’s the final body count?” Simon asked after introductions had been made.
“I’ve got nine here. And there are two more still on the critical list at the hospital.” She nodded at the bodies around her. “But obviously we’re hoping this is it.”
J.J. had moved to one side, her gaze locked on the body of a young woman half covered with a sheet. “I knew her,” she whispered, the words more of a reflex than anything else. “She had two kids. One of them still a baby.”
“Sorry,” Lydia said, pulling the sheet over the woman. “I didn’t realize you were acquainted with the vics. If it helps, she was caught by the helicopter’s rotor. She died instantly.”
J.J.’s face shuttered, and Simon laid a hand on her arm, but she pulled free, her shoulders straightening as she faced Lydia and the body. “So was that true for most of them?” She gestured toward the shrouds lining the room.
“Yes, fortunately,” Lydia said. “Most of the victims were either caught directly in the path of the helicopter or sucked out of the windows. There’s nothing anyone could have done,” she said, her sympathetic gaze landing on J.J.
J.J. shivered, crossing her arms over her chest, no doubt remembering just how close she’d come to dying herself. Then she sucked in a breath and lifted her head, eyes clearing as she obviously pushed the memory aside. “So, have you autopsied the pilot and his passenger?”
“I started on them first,” Lydia said as she ushered them through the plastic sheeting to the back of the room and two sequestered corpses on tables. “But I’ve got to tell you, there wasn’t enough left to ID them visually. They were both burned pretty badly. Although the vic in the passenger seat was wearing a watch inscribed with the initials E.W.”
“Eric Wilderman.”
The canvas-covered mounds looked innocuous enough, but Simon had seen the explosion firsthand so he had an idea of just how badly the bodies would have been disfigured. “Was there enough to get DNA?”
“Yes. And I’ve sent it off for verification. For obvious reasons, the specimens are a priority, and the lab is working as fast as they can, but unfortunately it still takes time.”
“So which is which?” J.J. asked, her face devoid of emotion, but her fingers clenching into fists as she clearly fought against her unease.
“This was the pilot,” Lydia said, tilting her head toward the closest body. She reached out and pulled the sheet back. Simon’s stomach roiled, and J.J. bit back a gasp. “You want me to cover him back up?”
J.J. shook her head, her hand still covering her mouth. And Simon marveled at her strength. “So do you have a cause of death?” she asked.
“Blunt force trauma.” Lydia nodded. “You can actually still see the point of impact here.” She pointed to the man’s skull, most of the skin burned away, and a deep indentation just above one eye socket. “I’m guessing it happened when they hit the building. He was most likely thrown against the instrument panel. Truth is I’m surprised he wasn’t tossed right through the window.”
“Might have saved his life,” Simon mused, hoping the poor bastard hadn’t suffered too much.
“Not likely,” Lydia said.
“So he died instantly?” J.J. asked.
“Unfortunately, no. There was evidence of smoke in his lungs, which means he was alive when the fire started, and I understand that wasn’t until sometime after the crash.”
“Yeah. About fifteen minutes or so.” Simon couldn’t pull his eyes from the mutilated body.
“But I thought you said it was blunt force trauma?” J.J. frowned, her puzzled gaze catching Simon’s.
“It was,” Lydia confirmed. “Or more accurately, a brain bleed caused by blunt force trauma. When a person takes a blow to the head, the brain moves within the skull in the direction of the blow, for the most part, absorbing the shock. But if the blow is strong enough, the brain is slammed, quite literally, into the wall of the skull.” She jerked her head back to demonstrate. “And then in worst-case scenarios, it rebounds off the other side.” She swung her head forward. “Which causes tremendous bruising and swelling.”