Eves of Destruction

by Roy Berelowitz

  Casey felt like she was holding her breath. It was a moment of agony. She knew Al Rahman could be lurking nearby. This might be exactly what he wanted: to create a spectacle in the middle of San Francisco by executing the poor woman right there on national television as she walked towards the waiting police car. Casey could barely watch.

  * * *

  Abd Al Rahman was less then fifty yards away. He had found a good location next to a large concrete flowerpot with a clear view of the entrance to the station. In front of him was a heavy decorative chain that ran from flower box to flower box along the street for about one hundred yards. The police were using the chain as a barrier to control the crowd and to keep it away from the station. In front of Al Rahman, just beyond the chain, two policemen faced towards him and the rest of the crowd, trying to make sure no one crossed the line. They paid no particular attention to him and seemed quite ignorant of the significance of the proceedings behind them.

  The crowd around Al Rahman had become quite large. Occasionally, as the crush would ebb and flow, it would push him up against the concrete flower box, and he would have to work hard to maintain his position. He was afraid not of getting trampled, but of missing his opportunity. Every few moments he would pat his left jacket pocket, reassured by the presence of the remote control.

  “He heard a rumble from the crowd as Natasha emerged from the station and then stopped and stood still, right in the entrance. As the press of the crowd against his back threatened to move him away from his vantage point, he grabbed the heavy chain with both hands, hanging on as tightly as he could to anchor himself. An FBI agent momentarily obscured his view of Natasha, but then he saw someone waving her on and watched her as she began to walk towards the police car attached to the tow truck. His eyes darted back and forth between her and the men guarding her. They were standing too far away from her to be hurt by the blast. He swore under his breath. This was a perfect opportunity, out in the open. Nobody could deny it or pretend it didn’t happen. But he was reluctant to act. It would be a waste, really, he thought, to activate her now and simply have her die alone. No, he had to wait until she was closer to some of the policemen or even some of the citizens watching with him. He patted the remote control again, counseling himself to be patient.

  * * *

  By now Natasha had reached the police car. The rear right side door was wide open, but before she stepped into it, she turned and looked back at Gordon Lewis. He had been waving her forward as she moved towards the car and she wanted to be sure he really wanted her to get in.

  Lewis tensed slightly as the woman turned away from the open door and looked directly at him. He gave her an encouraging nod and motioned to her with his hand, feeling a surge of relief as she turned back to the car and climbed in, pulling the door shut behind her.

  * * *

  It is human nature to anthropomorphize the machines that surround us, do our bidding, obey our instructions, but the receiver embedded in Natasha Mislov’s titanium hip had no self-awareness, no patience, and no forbearance. Its design was ingenious, brilliant even, but its logic was hard-wired and limited. As long as its power source was available, it remained in a state of readiness, digesting the electronic signals it received.

  It was actually quite a simple device, requiring a four-digit activation code out of six possible numbers. Occasionally in the past, it had received two of the four numbers necessary for activation, but when the subsequent digits had not immediately followed, it had quickly erased its tiny memory and returned to its state of readiness. Twice in 1989, it had received three of the four numbers, but again, without the fourth digit activation had not occurred. Then, early in 1990, the power source had died and the receiver’s vigilance ended. For almost three years, nothing was processed; all the radio noise present in the ether passed by unnoticed.

  Late in 1992, power was restored, and once again the device methodically digested the information it received. Now, however, its minute circuitry was busier than ever. Every day, often more then once a day, two of the required four digits were received, and at least once a month, three of the digits were detected. Now, on a late summer’s day in the center of San Francisco, while Natasha Mislov sat uncomfortably in the back of the police car, the four digit code came out of the ether and was detected by the device. Immediately, a single electronic switch was turned on and the activator at the base of the receiver drained the battery, drawing the energy necessary for its mission. In a millisecond, the activator reached critical mass and sent its entire charge directly into the explosive material surrounding it.

  * * *

  Lewis moved quickly towards the front of the tow truck. There were two motorcycle policemen in front of the truck, already mounted, engines running. Gordon shouted for them to go, and as the motorcyclists began to move forward slowly, he looked back at the tow truck and began to twirl his right arm above his head in a signal for the small convoy to get moving. He watched the truck jerk forward as the driver put it into gear. And then, just as he was turning back to look at the woman, he saw the flash and almost instantly felt the heat as she exploded.

  * * *

  Casey gasped. The camera was on the police car, but the explosion caused the cameraman to momentarily lose the shot. He quickly regained it, focusing directly onto the car. For a few seconds, it was lost in a haze of smoke and flying glass, and then Casey watched in horror as the right rear door of the police car, its hinges severed, crashed heavily onto the pavement. She held her breath as the upper body of Natasha Mislov fell, as if in slow motion, out of the shattered car and on to the car door.

  In the conference room, one of the technicians screamed as Casey put her hand to her mouth and struggled to stifle her own voice. In spite of herself, she looked back at the television and watched as the cameraman pulled back from the shot, showing the police car, the woman’s shattered body, and the policemen and FBI agents lying where they had taken cover.

  She felt a hand touch her arm and glanced back to see Vladimir Kosnar standing behind her and then turned quickly to face him.

  “Oh my God, that wasn’t your sister….?” Casey started to ask as she saw him.

  “No,” he replied with a quick shake of his head.

  He glanced around and then, his hand firmly on her arm, led her out of the conference room back into the room with the surveillance monitors.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “We have to leave here right now,” he whispered urgently.

  “What?” Casey hissed back at him. “You can’t leave. You know—.”

  Kosnar cut her off. “Look,” he said as he adjusted the camera control lever. The image on the monitor blurred momentarily as it zoomed in on a woman sitting on a low wall. He pointed at the monitor as the image came in to focus and said, “That’s my sister. I know where she is and we have to get her right now.”

  Casey’s eyes widened as she looked at him.

  “Are you sure?” she asked.

  “Yes, I was watching her a few minutes ago when you came to get me. We have to go to her now.”

  “But you can’t leave here. You’re in FBI custody.”

  “You come with me. I’ll be in your custody,” he replied, his words coming quickly, urgently.

  “Let me call Gordon and arrange-”

  He cut her off again. “You just saw what happened to that woman. All those cops and FBI agents around her and they still couldn’t protect her. If you call for help, Al Rahman will see the cops and he will kill her just like he killed Mislov. We have to go now before he can get to her.”

  CHAPTER 35

  THE SUDDEN EXPLOSION caused the crowd surrounding the Embarcadero station to surge back and forth in chaotic waves, as people reacted first to the explosion and then to the sight of the woman’s fractured body falling out of the police car. Al Rahman struggled to retain his balance as the crush pressed him hard against the heavy metal chain in front of him. He still held both hands on the chain, in a losing batt
le to support himself as he was almost doubled over, the crush of people pressing against his legs, driving them into the chain a couple of inches above his knees. He bit his lip in pain as one of the links bore into the old wound in his thigh.

  Finally the crush eased and Al Rahman regained his balance. He was breathing quick, sharp shallow breaths as his old wound throbbed. He looked up, momentarily confused by the scene in front of him—the damaged police car, the body of Natasha Mislov lying on top of the car door, the FBI agents and policemen, coming to their feet. A rush of shock and anger flashed over him. Someone in the crowd next to him or behind him had activated the bomb! Still favoring his injured leg, he reached into his jacket pocket, withdrawing the activator. He looked at it carefully, turning it over in his hand, trying to understand what had happened. The safety switch was still engaged. He disengaged it and then reset it. With the safety switch engaged, he pressed down on the plunger and, as he expected, it did not move. He glanced around him, trying to find an answer in the surrounding faces, but saw nothing untoward.

  “Kosnar,” he muttered. Al Rahman tried to scan the crowd, looking for a familiar face, but was still penned in by the mass of people. He looked down at the activator in his hand, checked once more the safety switch was engaged, and jammed it back into his pocket. Then he turned into the crowd and began to push his way through. He had to hurry. His carefully orchestrated plan to create chaos and panic had been compromised. Now everyone would be on alert. If he wanted to do something dramatic, he would have to do it now. His leg ached as he pushed his way forward head down and limping as he bumped and squeezed his way through the crowd. He had to get to Moscone Center as quickly as possible.

  * * *

  Myda Karrina was not sure what she was supposed to do. She had rushed from Los Angeles to Oakland as instructed, taking the train instead of flying, again as instructed. Once in Oakland, soon after she had checked into the hotel he had designated, he called again. His instructions had been simple but clear; purchase a blue shirt, wear comfortable clothes and travel to the area of the Moscone Center at two o’clock the next day. She was to go to the corner of Howard and 3rd Street and stand near a multi-colored statue of three dancers. She was to wait there for further instructions.

  “Don’t leave that location or try to make contact with me or anyone else,” he admonished her. “I will contact you with instructions.”

  She had followed her orders precisely, traveling to her assigned location first by BART from Oakland and then a quick walk to the statue. But now, as she spotted her assigned location, she could see that getting next to the statue was not an option. Wooden police barricades blocked access to the sidewalk within one hundred yards of the statue and uniformed officers made sure no-one ventured beyond the barricade.

  She wondered what do. Glancing around, she saw a low wall further up Howard Street across the street from a bank branch that would at least give her a clear view of the statue. Since her assignment had already been compromised, she drew on her training and adapted to the circumstances, sitting down on the wall to wait for further orders.

  As she sat down she confirmed her cell phone was still on and fully charged and then glanced around trying to familiarize herself with her surroundings, but she did not notice the security camera on the Wells Fargo Bank building across the street as it slowly swiveled on its axis and pointed directly at her.

  * * *

  Al Rahman hobbled down the crowded sidewalk. His leg was throbbing; he could barely put any weight on it as he walked. He was not sure how to get to Moscone Center, but thought he was going in the right direction. He stopped to ask a woman for directions, but she gave him a strange look and hurried away. Just ahead he saw a young black man and asked him for directions. The man looked at him with a funny expression on his face, but pointed him in the direction of the Moscone Center. Al Rahman walked on as best he could, despite pain in his leg. He noticed, or at least he thought he noticed, people staring at him, but he ignored them until he caught a glance of himself in a shop window.

  He stared at his reflection, taken aback by what he saw. His toupee was completely awry. It must have been knocked loose in the crowd and now was turned almost ninety degrees, putting the part just above his brow. He looked ridiculous. Stepping closer to the window, he tried to reset the toupee with his one good hand, using his reflection as a mirror. He moved and shifted the wig, but the adhesive had worn out; the wig would not lie on his head properly. He re-seated it as best he could, then with an unhappy grunt, turned and continued his painful shuffle towards Moscone Center.

  * * *

  Casey and Vladimir managed to exit the local FBI headquarters building without attracting any attention. By leaving the FBI building with the Russian, she guessed she was committing about fifteen different felonies, but she tried to put the thought out of her mind as she and Vladimir ran towards Moscone Center.

  As they ran down the street, she realized they, or at least she, had no plan. They were going to go and find a woman carrying a bomb that could not be disarmed and could be activated remotely by a man nobody could recognize. This was crazy. She slowed to a walk as she called to him.

  “Wait,” she called to Vladimir, who had continued a few steps beyond until he realized she had slowed down. He walked back towards her.

  “What? What is it?”

  “Do you have an action plan here? If we find this woman, your sister, what are you going to do?”

  “Take her to a hospital. Have them remove the titanium hip joint and the bomb.”

  “Are you kidding?” Casey was almost laughing. “We are just going to walk into a hospital with this woman and tell the admitting nurse our friend has a bomb in her hip and can they admit her and remove it please.”

  “Do you have a better idea? Look, I’m not sure what to do. We’ll play it by ear, as you Americans like to say. But ultimately, yes, we will have to take her a hospital and have them remove the device. But whatever happens, we have to keep her away from Al Rahman. If he gets within fifty feet of her, she’s dead.”

  Vladimir was already striding away as he finished speaking. Casey just shook her head a couple of times, then trotted after him until she caught up. They walked in silence for a couple of minutes until they were less than half a mile from Moscone Center, and then Vladimir began to slow down.

  “What is it?” Casey asked.

  “If Al Rahman is here, he will recognize me. I don’t want to help by making myself obvious, moving too quickly. Also, my sister might be gone from the place I last spotted her. We need to watch out for her.”

  The two agents began to look carefully at the faces passing them. They were just a few hundred yards from Moscone Center now, across the street from the Wells Fargo Bank building. Stopping at the corner, Vladimir looked around, trying to find his bearings. Gazing up, he spotted the surveillance video camera attached to the building just behind them. Looking in the direction the camera was aimed, he stared for a few moments, then grabbed Casey’s arm.

  “There she is,” he hissed at her.

  Casey looked at Vladimir to see where he was looking. “Which one is she? Casey asked, unable to distinguish their target from the rest of the milling crowd.

  “Blue shirt, light pants, big sunglasses.”

  “OK, I’ve got her,” said Casey.

  “I suggest we approach her slowly and as soon as we are close enough, I will talk to her in Russian. You stand on her left side and I’ll be on her right. If she starts to move away, identify yourself as an FBI agent so you get her attention. OK?”

  They cautiously stepped into the street, dodging the slow moving traffic that was becoming increasingly congested as the police were closing other routes, preparing for the President’s arrival. As they reached the other side of the street, Vladimir paused, looking up and down the sidewalk, checking to see if Al Rahman was visible but, there was no sign of him.

  They were about ten feet away from her now. As they strode towards he
r it was obvious she had spotted them moving towards her and she turned her head away, trying to act as nonchalant as possible.

  “Myda Kosnar.” Vladimir addressed her using her birth name, hoping it would spark a memory.

  She slowly turned back towards them, trying to keep calm, but inwardly fighting panic welling up inside. The man knew her first name, but he used a last name that was not hers. Still, it sounded familiar, but she was not sure why. As planned, Vladimir and Casey took up positions on either side of her. Casey, fighting her own nervousness, smiled at the woman, trying not to look threatening. Vladimir spoke in Russian.

  “My name is Vladimir Kosnar,” he said slowly, deliberately, gently. “Your name was Myda Kosnar, but now it is Myda Karrina. In 1959, when you were about six years old, you were taken from Orphanage 132. Do you remember?”

  The woman maintained her composure but her eyes were wide with confusion and fear. She had not expected to be approached, let alone by a man who spoke Russian and seemed to know as much, maybe even more, about her childhood than she did. She turned away from him and started to walk up the sidewalk. Vladimir jogged past her and stood in front her, partly blocking her way.

  “Who are you?” she asked in slightly accented English.

  “Vladimir,” he replied. “Vladimir Kosnar. Do you remember being in the orphanage?” He was still speaking Russian. “Do you remember being taken away? Perhaps you remember a small boy who was with you when you left.” Vladimir paused. “I was that small boy. I am your brother.”

  Myda looked over at Casey, then back at Vladimir.

  “What are you talking about?” she said, struggling with confused memories and the disconcerting juxtaposition of her location, her mission, and this strangely familiar man standing in front of her.

  Vladimir made a gesture towards Casey and said in English, “This is Casey. She has been assisting me in my search for you.”