by Ben Coes
He looked to the room. In the far corner, a male student was seated, arms crossed, eyes down. He wore a blue shirt and brightly colored plaid shorts. He was white, with dirty-blond hair.
Sirhan stared at the student.
“You,” he said, hatred in his voice.
The boy kept staring at the ground, pretending not to hear him.
Sirhan walked over and kicked him in the ribs. The boy grunted in pain.
“Stand up!”
The student looked desperately around the room, as if searching for help, but the others avoided his look.
Sirhan dragged him along the floor to the windows.
Sirhan aimed his rifle at one of the students already positioned in the window, a black male. He fired—a fusillade of slugs—which pulverized the student. The boy was kicked by the bullets. He tumbled out the window and disappeared.
“Get up!” shouted Sirhan to the student in the plaid shorts.
“Fuck you.”
Sirhan stared at the boy. Then, without looking, he turned the rifle to the right and fired indiscriminately along the wall. Screams and pained cries created a cacophony as bullets hit several people.
“Get up,” Sirhan said quietly, “or I will kill every other person in this room, and then you.”
The student climbed to the windowsill, inches from the precipice. The wind blew his long hair back from his face.
Sirhan reached to his waist and pulled out a long fixed-blade combat knife.
“Here,” he said to the boy in heavily accented English. “Cut him down.”
He handed him the knife.
The boy’s trembling hand reached out and took the knife. He turned back toward the window. He started to reach for the rope, then abruptly pivoted, slashing the blade down toward Sirhan.
It was a ferocious swing—quick, unexpected, deadly. The blade just missed the side of Sirhan’s skull.
But Sirhan had anticipated it.
He ducked at the same moment he caught the boy’s forearm, stopping the lethal swing.
“You lifted your leg. I knew you were coming.”
He grabbed the blade from his hand. He turned, took a step toward a middle-aged woman seated with her son on the floor, then nonchalantly stabbed the woman in the neck. Blood spilled out as her son—and several others—screamed. Sirhan pulled the blade out and handed it back to the white student.
“Do you think you could cut him down now?” Sirhan asked.
The student faced the open air. He reached to his right and put the blade against the rope holding the dead commando. He sawed back and forth several times.
Sirhan held the back of his shirt as his eyes pored over the roofline of the brownstones across from the dormitory. He saw another sniper, this time more clearly. His head and upper body were exposed; the muzzle of the rifle was trained at the room. Sirhan put the muzzle of his rifle next to the boy’s thigh as he continued to cut. He aimed at the sniper, protected by the boy, then fired. A slug slammed into the sniper’s head, kicking him backward. Dust and mortar rose from the building.
The rope ripped and the dead agent dropped. A low thud could be heard as he hit the pavement ten floors below.
Sirhan grabbed the hilt of the knife from the boy’s hand. Then he gave him a slight push. He fell from the open window, silent as he dropped to his death.
He glanced at his wrist: 1:32.
62
SOMEWHERE BENEATH NINETY-FOURTH STREET AND BROADWAY
NEW YORK CITY
The descent was slow and difficult, the concrete seemed to grow tighter and tighter. The air was wet, clammy, and permeated with a dank, moldy odor. A steel ladder ran down one side, with thin rungs dripping with condensation.
Looking down, Dewey could see Katie far below, the top of her blond hair and her Petzl shining up, illuminating the aging concrete.
They climbed down for twenty minutes. Dewey counted 340 rungs by the time his foot hit hard ground. He looked around. The space was no bigger than a bathroom stall. Katie and Rob were pressed against one wall. The Plumber was crouching, looking at a hand-drawn piece of paper with his flashlight. Smith was next to him, watching over his shoulder.
Dewey looked at Katie.
I hate you, she mouthed.
Tacoma was smiling.
After more than a minute, the Plumber looked up. “Let’s keep going.”
“Are we almost there?” asked Katie.
The Plumber shook his head.
“No, I’m afraid not. It’s is a little bit of a maze. In order to get from point A to point B we first have to go to point Z.”
A low vibration arose from the ground, becoming more intense, though there was no sound, only the feeling of the earth moving. It became violent, knocking everyone.
“What the hell was that?” asked Tacoma.
“To be honest, I don’t know,” said the Plumber. “It happens.”
The Plumber aimed his flashlight at the ground.
Dewey looked at Katie.
It happens? she mouthed, shaking her head, incredulous and slightly indignant.
The Plumber reached down and lifted a steel loop, pulling aside a square piece of steel. He aimed the flashlight into the dark. He stared down for several moments, then looked at Smith, Dewey, Tacoma, and Katie. He had a morose look on his face.
“I haven’t been in here for many years,” he said. “That being said, I don’t think I will ever forget it. The tunnel goes down at a forty-five-degree angle for approximately fifty feet, then sideways.”
“Forty-five degrees?” said Tacoma. “If you fall at that angle for fifty feet you’ll break your neck.”
The Plumber grinned, flashing his teeth.
“That won’t be a problem, my friend. It’s a very tight space.”
“How tight?”
“Tighter than when you came out of your mother. You’ll need to crawl, drag the bags.” He studied Dewey. “You’re going to be very tight. Very tight indeed. Maybe too tight.”
“Too tight?” asked Katie.
“Unless I’m mistaken, you’re too big,” he said to Dewey. “You’re going to get stuck.”
“I’ll be fine. We need to move.”
“After the first part, the tunnel bends into a straight line. The bend is the tightest part of the tunnel.” He looked at Dewey again. “It is extremely tight. After that, another thirty or forty feet, then we’ll be at the end. That’s the old water main.”
The Plumber looked into the tunnel and climbed in headfirst. He soon disappeared.
“You’re next,” said Dewey to Katie.
“Why me?”
“If I get stuck, would you rather be behind me or ahead of me?”
“Good point.”
Dewey pointed at the opening.
Katie started to climb in, then turned.
“On a serious note, what if you do get stuck?”
“I won’t. Now get moving.”
Katie plunged in, disappearing.
“I’ll go next,” said Tacoma, “then Dewey. I’ll go feetfirst, in case I need to pull you. Damon can push from behind.”
Tacoma threw the weapons ruck into the darkness and slipped down into the tunnel. Dewey followed, headfirst, fastening the weapons bag to his ankle so that he could pull it with his legs. Smith lifted it and tossed it in after Dewey.
Within only a few feet, Dewey knew the tunnel was going to be a problem. Seemingly every inch of his upper body was touching the cold concrete. It was difficult to even get a full breath of air without pressing hard into the tunnel wall.
“Pull the bag out,” said Dewey, calling to Smith, behind him.
He could barely breathe.
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
A minute later, after Smith had backed out of the tunnel, Dewey felt a tug at his ankle as Smith pulled up on the weapons duffel. Dewey pushed with his hands, using all his strength, as Smith tugged mightily. After several minutes, he felt the relatively fresher air of t
he room. He climbed out.
“Is it that tight?”
“Yeah.”
Dewey pulled off his coat, shirt, pants, shoes, and socks. He was standing in skintight red sports briefs. He stuffed everything into the bag.
“You go first,” said Dewey. “Take the bag.”
Smith looked at Dewey, then pointed at the large scar on his shoulder.
“What’s that from?”
“Kalashnikov,” said Dewey. “Why don’t you go before me.”
“What if I need to push?”
Dewey shook his head.
“I’m not going to get stuck. If I do, eventually I’ll be able to get out. You three can still run the assault. Katie knows what to do. She ran Special Operations Group for five years. Rob’s also good to go. Best gunman I’ve ever met. Commo will link you guys into Igor, who’s managing the protocols. You’ll be fine.”
Smith nodded and climbed into the tunnel. Dewey followed.
With no clothing except his briefs, the walls scraped his skin mercilessly. He held both arms above his head, using his fingertips to nudge his body on, synchronizing each pull with his fingers with a push from his toes. But the tunnel held him in its grip, and he had to fight for every inch. By removing everything, he’d reduced his profile a little. He felt the difference, but barely. He felt as if he was buried under tremendous weight. He could not take in a full breath of air; there simply wasn’t enough room for his lungs to fully expand. At some point, his back scraped across a sharp, jagged object, like a rusty screw. There was nothing he could do. He pulled himself over it, as it ripped into his back and scraped down until finally he passed it by.
Dewey reminded himself why he was there. By focusing on the goal, on the dormitory, on Daisy, he was able to occupy his mind long enough to ignore the stale air, the cold walls, and the paranoia of thinking the tunnel was growing thinner, tighter, and that there would be no way ever to get him out if he didn’t make it through.
Then his fingers hit a wall. His eyes had been shut and he opened them. He looked ahead.
“No,” he said aloud.
He saw the end of the tunnel, and then, to the right, a round opening. It was a little bigger, Dewey guessed, than a basketball.
“There’s no fucking way.”
Dewey closed his eyes and tried to calm down. Then he looked up and pushed himself toward the hole. He inserted his hands, then his head, and shimmied in. With every inch, it felt as if a vise was tightening around his head. His shoulders would never make it. Painfully, he backed out, using his right hand in front of him and his left down by his side. He tried to relax so that he could depress his lungs as much as possible.
A thought flashed in Dewey’s mind. What if he really couldn’t get through? There was no way on earth he could go back up through the tunnel, backward. Even with the downhill slope, he’d barely made it. Uphill would be next to impossible.
He pushed against the sides of the tunnel wall with his feet as hard as he could while, with his hands out in front of him, he tried to pull himself through. His shoulders became tighter and tighter against his head as he continued to push with his feet, until he felt he might break his skull open. He struggled to catch his breath. He couldn’t make it through—and now he was stuck. He shut his eyes, trying to relax. For the first time, he felt like he might suffocate. He tried to inch his way backward to the comparatively wider part of the tunnel before the turn. He couldn’t move.
“Oh, God,” he said.
“Dewey!” The distant voice of Katie at the end of the tunnel.
His heart racing.
Panic.
“Yeah.”
“Are you at the turn?”
Dewey could barely breathe. He imagined this was what it felt like to drown, in the moments just before unconsciousness, knowing what was about to come.
He closed his eyes. Then he blacked out.
* * *
He heard yelling, at the edge of consciousness, coming from somewhere, like in a dream or being underwater. He awoke to the feeling of someone touching him, pulling at his arm. He looked up. It was Katie. Her mouth was moving, and for a brief few seconds he couldn’t hear her; then he could, and she was yelling.
“Wake up, Dewey.”
She was just inches from him. She was holding a rope in one hand and a green plastic bottle in the other. When she saw his face, her mouth opened in shock.
“You’re turning blue.”
“I can’t breathe.”
“Oh, Dewey.”
She reached out and gently took his hand. She rubbed it, trying to calm him down.
“Sorry,” he whispered.
“Are you kidding?” said Katie, her face smudged in dirt. “Best fun I’ve had in years.”
“Promise me something.”
“No.”
“What?”
“No, I won’t promise you something. I know what you’re gonna say.”
“Which is?”
“‘If I can’t get through, shoot me.’ Am I right?”
“No,” said Dewey. “Have Rob shoot me.”
Katie took the end of the rope and moved it toward Dewey’s hands.
“We’re going to get you through.”
Katie wrapped the rope around both of Dewey’s wrists. She tied a series of knots. Then she opened the plastic bottle and poured its contents on the concrete, splashing it around. It was dark black and thick—oil. She dipped her hand in it and reached out, rubbing Dewey’s upper arms and any other part of him she could reach.
“Oil?” he asked.
“It was the Plumber’s idea.”
“It’s a good idea.”
“Relax,” said Katie. “Try to relax. I’m going back out. Then we’ll pull.”
“Katie?”
“Yeah.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
Several minutes later, Dewey felt pressure on his wrists, then the rope tightened.
“Dewey,” yelled Tacoma, “here we go.”
The rope went tighter. He clutched it as they pulled, trying to squirm. For half a minute, they pulled. His arms felt like they might rip off at the shoulders. Dewey made a low, guttural groan. The pressure ceased for a few moments, then started again. He felt his shoulders move, no more than an inch, then another. Then his shoulders reached the part of the tunnel that Katie had covered in oil. Slowly, Smith, Tacoma, Katie, and the Plumber pulled Dewey through. It took them twenty minutes to get through the final feet.
Dewey’s hands emerged first, covered in oil, then his arms, and finally his head. He was filthy, most of his face wet black. He panted in rapid, desperate gasps.
Katie was in front, climbing gloves on. Tacoma was behind her. Smith had the back of the rope. The Plumber was seated on the ground, studying a diagram. All of them were filthy, but compared to Dewey they looked clean.
Dewey climbed out of the opening, his body mostly covered in oil. He found his duffel and pulled his pants back on, not bothering to wipe off the oil; it would’ve been pointless. Then his socks and shoes.
Dewey reached around to the cut at his back and touched it gingerly. He looked at his fingers. Intermingled with oil was blood. He couldn’t tell if he would need stitches, but it didn’t matter now. That was a question for later. He pulled on his shirt.
The Plumber held a portable lantern, dimly lighting the old water main. It was massive; concrete, fourteen feet high, large structural cracks and hunks of concrete dangling in places. A small pool of stagnant water covered the floor. There were rats, hundreds of them, on either side, remaining away from the group, but visible, scurrying around in the water like fish.
Dewey wiped his face and looked at Smith, who couldn’t hide his shit-eating grin at the sight of Dewey, head to toe in oil.
“Tell me we’re close,” said Dewey, glancing at the Plumber, who looked up from a piece of paper—a copy of an old map—that he was studying.
“We’re close,” he said.
“There is a small problem,” said the Plumber, sweeping his eyes across their faces.
63
CARMAN HALL
COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY
Sirhan was on the twelfth floor, standing just inside one of the bedrooms, the campus visible in the distance. He powered up his cell phone.
He remembered Nazir’s words as he explained the operation to him. It had been two years now. “They will shut off all your communications devices. But you already know what to do. Every hour, a student must die, until they are all dead, or you are dead. There is nothing I can tell you, Sirhan, that you don’t already know. In the moments just before victory, fear, intimidation, violence, brutality must be doubled, tripled, quadrupled. It is not because you are evil. It is because this is how countries are born.”
Munich.
As he waited, he looked around. He saw a menu for a Chinese restaurant. He dialed the number for the restaurant and hit Send. He waited for more than a minute, but the call didn’t go through. He wasn’t surprised, and he shouldn’t have been angry, but he hurled the phone at the wall, smashing it to pieces.
* * *
Daisy was asleep when the gunman entered the room. She didn’t mean to fall asleep, but it happened. What awoke her was Andy, stiffening. Daisy glanced at her. Andy was staring at the terrorist.
“Stop staring,” she whispered, elbowing her.
But the gunman had already noticed. He stopped his perfunctory scan of the dorm room and stepped toward Andy. He aimed the rifle at her.
He was tall, with black hair that looked wet with sweat or because he hadn’t washed. He looked like anyone. In a different shirt and pants, he could’ve been a student.
“Do as he says,” whispered Daisy.
The terrorist leaned forward and grabbed Andy by the hair. He yanked it sideways and she screamed. He lifted her up, dragging her from the wall.
Daisy lurched for his leg. “No!” she pleaded.
But the gunman held her.
Andy was screaming.
Daisy stood up. She followed the gunman. Near the window, she pushed herself between the terrorist and Andy.
“Take me,” she said.
The gunman ignored her as he continued dragging Andy, who was hysterical now.