Eves of Destruction

by Roy Berelowitz

  * * *

  As the train slowed and pulled into the station, Natasha Mislov stayed in her seat, studying the reflection of the officer in the window. He was still watching her. He looked tense, nervous, ill at ease, as if unsure what to do. She casually disembarked, began to walk with the crowd along the platform. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the young officer almost hop off the train as she stepped onto the platform.

  By now she had no doubt. He was definitely following her. He was being so obvious, frantically trying to keep her in view. She saw his reflection in the train windows as his head bobbed up and down in the crowd behind her.

  The trick now was to lose him either here in the station or on the way to Moscone Center. She began walking slowly along the platform toward the escalators. She took her time, stopping to look at a poster advertising a movie and glancing back at the policeman. He stopped as well, at first seeming a bit confused, and then he began to look around anxiously. As she stepped away from the poster, she saw him jog towards a pay phone and pick up the handset but when she stepped onto the escalator, he quickly replaced the handset without having made a call and followed her.

  * * *

  Abd Al Rahman watched the entire interaction between the nervous policeman and the woman in the orange shirt and decided it would be better to watch Mislov from outside the confines of the underground station. He hurried past her and walked as quickly as he could, pushing through the crowd up the escalator. As he stepped into the open, he saw a number of police officers running towards the station and he turned away from their direction, joining the crowd on the sidewalk. As he looked around for a convenient location to watch the station, more police began to arrive on foot and by car. As he turned, he was bumped by a young man in a suit who was breathing hard. The man grunted an apology as he ran past Al Rahman down the steps into the station, taking two steps in every stride. As Abd Al Rahman stared after him, two more men came running up and hurried down the steps into the station without breaking stride. Abd Al Rahman quickly moved away from the station entrance and found a good vantage point about thirty yards away. He glanced around furtively, anxious that Kosnar might also be around, but as he delicately touched the toupee, he reassured himself it was unlikely he would be identified. Things were obviously going to get interesting. He tensed slightly in anticipation.

  CHAPTER 33

  MOLLY ROBBINS WAS feeling dejected and somewhat irrelevant. This morning she had found out there were as many accredited journalists in town to report on the Democratic National Convention as delegates. Local TV reporters like her were unable to get to any of the major figures and the only stories they managed to report on were all fluff and nonsense. It was frustrating, so bad that last night her producer had her do a story on the other journalists. She and her cameraman, Sammy, had taken some great shots of a sweaty horde of reporters asking the same inane questions of some pontificating minor politician. They had put her segment in the middle of the late night news and that felt pretty good. Still, she wanted a real story, not this crap.

  Now she and Sammy were in downtown San Francisco doing a ‘man on the streets’ piece, again for the evening news.

  “Get me some Republican responses to the Democratic Convention,” her producer had intoned. “Two minutes. I don’t want to see you and Sammy back here until you’ve gotten me two good minutes.”

  So far they didn’t have two good seconds. Finding a Republican in San Francisco was a bit like trying to find a gopher in your garden: you know they existed, but you had to look in just the right spot. After ten tries, they had struck out every time.

  “Sammy, let’s go over to the financial district,” Molly said to her cameraman. “This area is too full of graphic artists, web page designers and other artsy folks. We need a couple of bankers who can rail against the liberals and give us something half decent for tonight.”

  Sammy smiled back at her, peering around the video camera hoisted on his shoulder. “OK, boss,” he said. “Whatever you say.”

  Sammy was Molly’s favorite cameraman. He was a small Filipino American with a big smile and an agreeable personality. Unlike the other cameramen she had to work with, he never complained about their assignments or having to carry the gear. He always just smiled at her and said “OK boss.” Also, he never hit on her like the others, which also made him even more pleasant to be around.

  “Come on,” she said. “We can cross Market Street over here and then walk over to California Street. We’re more likely to find a couple of Republicans there.”

  “Whoa, what’s that all about?” she said as she and Sammy simultaneously noticed three big black but unmarked SUVs driving fast through traffic, swerving in and out of lanes and at one point, even driving on wrong side of the road. Suddenly, as traffic forced them to slow down, the doors of the first SUV, and then all of them, popped open and men and women jumped out and started running. Some were wearing suits and ties but a number were in casual clothes and windbreakers emblazed with the letters FBI on their backs.

  Molly looked over at Sammy. “What do think?” she asked, her reporter’s instinct surfacing.

  “I don’t know. It’s the FBI. They must have some emergency on Market Street somewhere.” He grinned. “Let’s check it out.”

  “Ah, I don’t know, Sammy. We haven’t gotten shit yet for tonight.”

  “Don’t worry,” he said, still grinning. “We’ll get something. Hey, maybe this will be better. Maybe we can get a scoop.”

  Molly eyed him balefully, torn by her assignment and the chance to film a breaking story. “OK, come on,” she said. “Let’s go take a look. It’s probably nothing, though.”

  They quickly crossed the street and began to jog in the same direction the men were running. They were only about fifty yards behind them, and although they were not running as fast, it was still easy to keep them in sight. Molly was glad she had decided to wear slacks and her running shoes while doing an on-the-street assignment, a trick she had learned from a mentor a few years back. She glanced over at Sammy to make sure he was all right with the heavy camera on his shoulder.

  “No problem,” he said. “We’ll catch them in a minute.”

  Molly looked ahead at the running men just as they began to dash down the entrance to the Embarcadero station.

  “Shit,” she thought to herself. “I hope we aren’t chasing a bunch of guys late for a train.”

  Molly’s fears were quickly put to rest. As she and Sammy jogged up to the entrance to the station, three BART police cars pulled up, sirens blazing. The cops quickly jumped out, most of them running directly into the station, one of them moving immediately to stop anyone else from entering or leaving. Sammy began filming and Molly stood behind him, directing him towards certain shots. She could hear more sirens as additional police cars roared up. Two more men in suits came running down the sidewalk towards the station. One of them was slightly older and out of breath. He stopped and talked briefly to the policeman guarding the entrance, and then he also disappeared down the stairs and out of view. Molly pulled out her cell phone and pressed the speed dial to her producer. Something was definitely going on at the Embarcadero Station and she was on site to report it.

  * * *

  Officer Peter Pallard decided it was time to act. He had no guidance or authority, but if this lady was as dangerous as the FBI claimed, it was his duty to stop her before she started walking around the streets of San Francisco. His heart was pounding in his chest as he jogged up past her, taking a wide berth as he ran around her. When he was about twenty feet past, he abruptly stopped, turned and faced her. He put his left hand up, palm facing directly towards her and placed his right hand on his gun without removing it from its holster.

  “Stop!” he said loudly. “Stop right there!”

  The woman looked at him, her face questioning and surprised. She slowed, but did not stop completely.

  Pallard took two steps backward and then yelled “Stop,” again, louder
, more firmly. The woman stopped. Pallard could feel people staring at him and felt uncomfortable being so far from the woman. Normally, he would be in her face, quickly making sure she was not armed, and then equally quickly handcuffing her to ensure compliance. But now, he was at a loss.

  “Uh…put the bag down at your feet. Yes you, I’m talking to you.”

  Natasha Mislov looked around trying to act as if she was unaware the policeman was talking to her.

  “Put the bag down now!” Pallard shouted as he pulled his weapon from its holster and pointed it at her. The woman dropped the bag. “Now take two steps to your left away from the bag and keep your hands by your side. Do it!” He was shouting out the instructions over the noise of the station to make sure she could hear him. Again, she complied.

  Just then, he heard a commotion behind him. He could hear running feet and shouting, but he kept his gaze firmly on the woman. Then he heard his name.

  “Officer Pallard? Peter Pallard?”

  Keeping his gun pointed at the woman, Pallard raised his left arm and waved it above his head. “Right here,” he shouted, turning his head slightly and trying to project his voice behind him without actually turning around. Two men in suits skidded up next to him, both breathing heavily.

  “Lance Jessep,” said one of the men, between big gulps of air. “Lance Jessep,” he repeated. “FBI.”

  He looked over at the woman and then back at Pallard.

  “Is this her?” he asked as he gulped in air. “Is this the woman?”

  “Yes, Sir,” said Pallard, as he holstered his weapon, his heart skipping a beat as the thought crossed his mind he might be wrong.

  Jessep stared at the woman, not recognizing her himself, but automatically assuming she was a suspect. That’s how he was going to treat her until he was told differently. He took a clean white handkerchief out of his trouser pocket and began to wipe down his sweaty face as he looked around the station. It was mostly empty with only a few clearly confused Japanese tourists milling.

  “Shit,” he said out loud to no-one in particular, “where is everybody?”

  As he turned around he could hear more people running up. Five BART policemen came running over. He swallowed hard, thinking briefly about his authority and jurisdiction, and then immediately put it out of his mind. He was dealing with an imminent threat requiring the deployment of all available resources. He put his hands up as the men came charging over, indicating to them to slow down.

  “Lance Jessep, Special Agent in Charge, San Francisco,” he said breathlessly. “Is the station closed?” Do you know if they closed the station?” he demanded, his eyes darting from officer to officer as he waited for an answer.

  “Yeah, yeah, it’s closed,” one of the Officers replied. “We’ve got people at every exit. No-one is getting in or out.”

  “Good, good,” he replied as he tried to quickly think through the best course of action.

  “Listen, it looks like a lot of people got out of here before we were able to close the station. I want you to assemble everyone left in the station and place them uh… over there,” he said as he pointed to a row of narrow seats. “Just have them gather over there. OK?”

  As the BART policemen walked off, Jessep turned to Pallard and said, “Good work, son. Well done. Now, you can assist these officers in securing the station.

  Pallard looked over at him. “Sir, I’m not sure I can do that. I’m just an Oakland police officer. I’m way outside my jurisdiction, Sir.”

  Jessep patted Pallard on the back. “Don’t worry, son,” he said. “With what you just did, I think you’re entitled to work in any jurisdiction.”

  Pallard blinked quickly a couple times and smiled briefly. The tension suddenly ebbed from his body, relieved that someone else had taken over and was making all decisions.

  “Yes, Sir,” he said simply, and walked over to help the other officers.

  * * *

  Gordon Lewis arrived at the Embarcadero station just as BART Police Chief John Gonzalez was pulling up in his car. Gonzalez had been on his way to a meeting with the deputy Mayor to review security issues related to the Democratic Convention when he was called about the FBI’s request to close the Embarcadero Station. He quickly changed his plans and drove to the station.

  The two men introduced themselves as they jogged down the stairs into the station. In the middle of the station he could see two men in suits and about twenty feet away from them was a women standing alone and quite still, hands by her sides, a small bag on the ground a couple of feet away from her.

  “All right,’ he said looking over at Gordon Lewis. “It looks like we’ve averted disaster. The area appears secure.”

  Lewis glanced around at the mostly empty station, shaking his head and swearing under his breath. “We were hoping to catch someone on the train or in the station but it looks like most of the passengers left before we got here.”

  He paused before continuing. “We still have a big problem. If the ID the officer made is confirmed, we are still going to have a difficult time getting her out of here.”

  By now they had walked up to Lance Jessep and another agent keeping a close watch on the woman. Gordon Lewis made a quick introduction.

  “I don’t understand,” said the Chief. “Why can’t we have her disarm the bomb and then take her into custody?”

  “Well, unfortunately it’s not that simple. She’s not even aware of the bomb, Chief. She doesn’t even know she has it and even if she did know, she is unable to disarm it or even arm it for that matter.”

  “What do you mean-”

  Gordon Lewis interrupted him. He did not have time now for long explanations. “It’s a long story,” he said. “Trust me on this. The bomb is controlled remotely. For all we know, the controller could be standing outside the station ready to arm the bomb at any time. We have to extricate her and take her to a safe and remote location where we can be sure the bomb cannot be activated. Then and only then can we allow someone to approach her and disarm it.”

  “Jesus H. Christ,” said the Chief. “How the hell are we going to do that? If she is that dangerous, we can’t even put her in a car and drive her. Hell, she could blow up and kill the driver!”

  Lewis ran his hand through his thinning hair. He had not really thought about that. Until now he had just been concerned with stopping the woman before she could be killed and kill others. The Chief was right. Extricating this woman was going to be difficult and dangerous. He looked over at Lance Jessep.

  “Anyone got any ideas?”

  “Hey, why not put her back on to the BART and send her back to the East Bay?” Gonzalez asked. “It would probably be a lot less crowded in the East Bay than it is here in the City.”

  Gordon Lewis scratched his head as he considered his options. “That’s not a bad idea,” he said after reflecting for a moment, “but I’m not sure.” He was quiet for a minute before he continued. “We’d have to clear every station between here and the station we pick as the final destination, which would basically shut down BART. She’d also have to travel alone in one train car while we rode in another and I don’t like the idea of her being out of our direct custody.” He grimaced as he continued. “Look, there are no good options, but I don’t think going back to the East Bay is any more practical than extracting her right here and right now.”

  “Uh…well we know the lethal range of the bomb is about fifteen feet,” Jessep replied. “If we can find some way to separate her from the driver in a large vehicle somehow, we can get her out of here.”

  “What do you mean? Put her in the back of a bus or something?” Lewis responded.

  “How about we attach a police car to a tow truck and have her sit in the empty police car and have it towed to a safe place. That way she will be completely separated from the driver and will have no opportunity of approaching him,” Lance responded.

  “Good idea,” said the Chief. “I can have a tow truck brought up. We can have it hooked up to a
car and have her out of here pretty quickly.

  “What then?” said Lance. “Once we have her secured, where do we take her?”

  “The most secure place will probably be an army or air force base. Some place with a hospital sophisticated enough to perform surgery on her,” Lewis replied.

  “Surgery!” Chief Gonzalez exclaimed. “You mean the bomb is inside her, inside her body?”

  Just then Gordon Lewis caught Natasha Mislov’s gaze. John Ganzalez’s exclamation had been almost shouted and his voice echoed through the empty station. He could tell the woman had heard exactly what the Chief had said. He held her gaze for a second and then looked away, unable to respond to the look of fear and confusion on her face. The Chief realized what he had done and became uncomfortable.

  “I’ll..uh…go and arrange for the tow truck,” he mumbled. “We will have it outside for you and ready to go in about twenty minutes.” He walked away quickly, anxious to distance himself from the uncomfortable group.

  CHAPTER 34

  MOLLY HAD TO give her producer credit. Within just a few minutes after calling to tell her what had happened, she was called back and told a mobile broadcasting van was on its way down to the Embarcadero station. Apparently the news studio had been monitoring the police radio traffic and Molly’s producer had quickly determined she was onto a good story and instructed Molly to stand by to do a live broadcast.

  As soon as the mobile van arrived, Molly and Sammy quickly set up in a location giving them clear view of the station entrance and surrounding area. The police had moved everybody well back from the entrance to the station, but they were still close enough to film whatever happened. Right now, that was nothing much, except more and more police were arriving. A large crowd was gathering outside the station, beginning to press the police’s ability to contain them.