by Walter Wager
Nobody could. It was an unavoidable accident."
She began to cry.
"Stay with her," Kincaid ordered one of the agents and walked toward the body. As he trudged through the falling snow, he thought about tomorrow. He might well be held responsible for the death of Lloyd—and any airline passengers who perished because the terrorists' demands were not fully met.
He stopped to glance across the highway at the FBI cars and the Mercedes. There had been no assault by armed fanatics, just one bad driver who lost control of a heavy $45,000 sedan in a raging storm. The security formation and the well-trained special agents with machine guns could have dealt with almost anything—except that.
Kincaid reached the body, and looked down at it in anger.
He couldn't believe what he saw.
One of Lloyd's eyes was open . . . staring at him hatefully. The "corpse" was gasping. The impact of being hit by a car doing twenty-five or thirty miles an hour had injured him gravely, but—against all odds—Arnold Lloyd was still alive.
32
IT WAS HOT in the armored car.
Malone was sweating profusely, and so were the Port Authority cops. There was barely enough room for the four men inside the steel-plated vehicle. Malone felt cramped and uncomfortable wedged into the small space beside the driver, and the nasty stench of gasoline fumes added to his annoyance.
It was noisy in there, too.
The sound level was ten times as loud as that inside an ordinary car. The naked metal walls magnified the mechanical growl of the engine. With narrow steel slits instead of the big rubber-sheathed windows of civilian vehicles, almost none of the noise escaped.
Malone peered through the small opening, and tapped the driver's shoulder. The detective pointed left. He had worked this area in a patrol car when he was two years out of the Police Academy. He knew these streets. Well, he hoped he did. It had been a long time ago.
The armored vehicle swerved as he'd ordered. It was eleven blocks to the intersection where the Coast Guard pilot waited. Finding him wasn't going to be difficult. Getting into the building that concealed the transmitter would be much trickier, Malone realized.
There had to be a quick way in.
Quick and sure.
He saw it—dead ahead—a minute later.
"Stop him," he called to the driver. "Stop him!"
The startled man behind the wheel swung the armored car directly across the path of a motorized snowplow that was moving slowly down the street. Malone opened the door beside him, scrambled out and ran to the big Department of Sanitation truck.
"What the fuck is this?" the irate driver yelled.
"Police emergency," Malone replied and pointed at the plainly marked Emergency Services Unit van and the blue-and-white radio cars behind the armored vehicle.
The Sanitation man opened his mouth to ask a question.
Malone spoke first.
"Follow us—right now!" he ordered.
Then Malone hurried back to the armored car. When it reached the phone booth, he got out as a young man in an orange jumpsuit stepped from the shelter. Eyeing the heavy fabric and the outfit's design, the detective reasoned that it could be a flier's winter gear.
"You the chopper pilot?"
The Coast Guard lieutenant nodded.
"How far is it?" Malone demanded.
"Five or six blocks," Saldana replied and pointed west. "Let's go."
With Saldana and Malone leading the way on foot, the vehicles moved quietly through the deserted streets. None of the police in the ESU van said a word. They put on their steel battle helmets, checked the clips in their weapons and wondered whether the terrorists might have armor-piercing ammunition that could penetrate their police flak jackets. Those bulky garments were supposed to stop almost anything under 50 caliber, but who knew what the terrorists might be using?
Suddenly the Coast Guard flier stopped.
"I think it's around this corner, near the far end of the block," he said.
Malone turned and held up his right hand. As the armored car and other police vehicles slowed to a halt, Malone walked to the ESU van to talk with the team's commander. When the wide-shouldered man in the flak jacket stepped down to the street, Frank Malone recognized him. Six years ago—before Anthony Arbolino made lieutenant, Malone had barely defeated him for the department's pistol championship. Arbolino was more than a fine shot, he was a damn good cop.
Neither man wasted a moment on amenities.
"What have we got?" Arbolino asked bluntly.
"Let's take a look."
Arbolino gestured to the driver of the van. Looking larger than life-sized in their bulky body armor, the ESU cops climbed out as Malone and their commander hurried to join the helicopter pilot. With only his head extending beyond the corner, Saldana was warily peering up the block. He stepped back as the two police officers reached him.
"I think it's the third building from the end—the other side of the street," he told them.
"Think?" Frank Malone asked.
"I only saw it for a couple of seconds as we flew over. There are four antennas on the roof . . . and something's projecting from the side of the chimney. None of us could figure out what it was."
"Is that all?"
"There's a wire fence—maybe four or five feet high— running all around the roof."
"What about the building itself?" Malone questioned.
"It seems to be a small warehouse."
The antiterrorist specialist leaned forward past the edge of the building, studied the third building from the end on the other side of the street and then stepped back.
"Looks like a small three-story warehouse all right," he confirmed.
It was then that the ESU team commander shook his head.
"I'm listening, Tony," Malone announced.
"Who's inside that building?" Arbolino asked.
"Armed terrorists."
"How many?"
Malone shrugged.
"What kind of weapons do they have?"
"Assume the worst. These bastards probably have everything,"
Malone said.
"What bastards? Who are they, Frank?"
"They could be West Germans. Their leader is. He's a goddam monster. That's all I can say about him, Tony. Hope you don't mind."
"Let's see," Arbolino answered. "We're not sure it's the right building . . . and we don't know what the hell's rigged to the chimney . . . and we have no idea how many bad guys are in there. We don't know whether they've got bows and arrows or poison gas. You're not sure who these creeps are . . . and you won't trust me enough to say who their leader is. How could any reasonable police lieutenant possibly mind taking his men into a terrific situation like that?"
Malone ignored the sarcasm.
"Tell your guys to bring their gas masks, Tony," Malone said evenly. "We're hitting that warehouse as soon as you've got all the exits covered."
It was a flat statement of fact—nonnegotiable.
"Be nice if we knew it was the right building," Arbolino pointed out. "Can I borrow the fly boy for five minutes?"
"Three would be better."
Arbolino turned toward the van, punching the air in a signal that the men beside it understood. An ESU sergeant rushed to him, listened to the orders and went back to tell the others. Then Arbolino led the pilot around the block to the rear entrance of the building on the north side of the warehouse. Pushing Saldana back, Arbolino drew his pistol. For a moment he considered the court decisions and departmental regulations about search warrants and legally justified entry.
He shrugged, swung the gun and smashed a glass panel in the door. After he reached in and opened it, he pulled a small flashlight from his rear pocket before they entered the building. There were tables heaped with fabric, sewing machines and racks of dresses all over the room. It was a small clothing plant.
Advancing behind the narrow beam of his flashlight, Arbolino led Saldana through the clutter to a freight el
evator. They stepped out onto the roof twenty-five seconds later. The pilot pointed at the top of the adjacent building.
The roof was ringed by a barbed-wire fence that was nearly five feet high.
Three . . . no, four large antennas . . . unusual ones. Arbolino had never seen anything like them.
And there was the tall smokestack. The police lieutenant stared through the snow for several seconds before he realized exactly what was jutting out halfway up the chimney.
"Christ!" he whispered as he jerked Saldana back inside the clothing factory.
In the warehouse next door, Takeshi Ito blinked.
Then he rubbed his eyes and looked back at the television monitor again.
There were six video screens facing him. Each of the half dozen was linked to a different closed-circuit camera. These state-of-the-art cameras were equipped with light intensification devices to provide superior night vision.
Ito studied the monitor displaying what one of the roof cameras "saw." Everything seemed normal. For a few seconds he had thought he was looking at a human figure in some kind of bright orange garb, but there was clearly no one on the roof now. It must have been some kind of optical illusion, perhaps one caused by the flashing lightning.
Orange clothing in New York in midwinter?
What a strange idea, Ito reflected. It was almost surreal, like those dreams in which a naked two-headed woman was choking him.
Neither head had a face. Ito had never quite figured out what this unusual recurring fantasy represented.
Now he saw something move.
On the monitor linked to the camera scanning the street in front of the warehouse, a large white vehicle was approaching through the storm. It was difficult to identify. Ito squinted as he peered at it intently. After several seconds, he smiled and sighed.
It was just a snowplow.
With a major snowstorm battering the entire metropolitan area, it was natural for New York to send out its Department of Sanitation plows to clear the streets. This was both realistic and rational.
No visions of imaginary men in bizarre orange attire.
No nightmares of homicidal and faceless female freaks.
Just a standard, nonmilitary machine being operated by some unarmed and ordinary civil servants—a routine activity anywhere.
It was almost time to depart. He would be glad to get out of this building, this situation, this country. He wasn't exhausted, but he had endured enough of the confinement and growing stress. He stood up, walked to the delayed-action bombs and deftly set the timers.
Then he took another look at the bank of video screens. He saw the snowplow lumber around the corner and disappear. It hadn't really cleaned the street thoroughly, but that came as no surprise to Takeshi Ito. He understood that few Americans were committed to perfect work.
He studied the clocks once more. This would be the last time. It was half past nine. In three minutes, he would descend to his car in the garage below and start for Kennedy Airport.
33
STAMPING THEIR FEET in the cold, the police in the steel helmets and heavy flak jackets watched silently as the snowplow rumbled to a halt beside the armored car. There were two men in the front seat of the Sanitation Department vehicle. The one behind the wheel wore coveralls. Lieutenant Anthony Arbolino hurried forward to speak to the other one.
"It's the right building, Frank," he told Malone. "Antennas on the roof like he said, and those items on the chimney are goddam T-fucking-V cameras."
"There's another one near the front door," Malone replied. "Your people in place?"
"I've got three men on the top floor of the clothing plant next door. As soon as they get the word on their walkie-talkies, they step outside to cover the warehouse roof. Two radio cars are about to plug the other end of the block, and two more are sealing the back alley."
"How about the building on the other side, Tony?"
"Three more of my guys are inside, ready to hit the roof on command. One of them's my best shooter."
"We'd prefer prisoners, not stiffs, if possible. There's just one thing more important than prisoners: knocking out the transmitter. That's our primary target," Malone explained.
As he spoke, an ESU sergeant approached carrying a flak jacket and steel battle helmet.
"We're all gonna be their primary targets, Frank," Arbolino reminded Malone. "Put this stuff on."
Malone stepped down to the street, donned the combat gear and quickly climbed back into the municipal vehicle.
"This is where you get out," he told the driver. "I'll take it from here."
"Wait a minute! This is my plow!" the man behind the wheel protested.
"It could be your hearse," the detective warned. "Don't argue. Go."
The Sanitation Department driver went, and Frank Malone immediately slid over behind the wheel.
"Keep the armored car and your people out of sight until I'm about twenty yards from the warehouse," he said to Arbolino. "When you see me accelerate, come on in like gangbusters."
Arbolino understood just what Malone had in mind. Aware that it would be useless to oppose the plan, he simply made a thumbs-up gesture to signal "good luck." Malone returned it, and started the engine.
In the warehouse, Takeshi Ito put on his overcoat. Then he scanned the video screens again. Everything outside looked peaceful, safe. He put the silenced MAC-n submachine gun and clips in the Pan American flight bag, slipped it over his shoulder and walked to the doorway. Just outside the threshold, he paused to activate the booby trap before turning toward the stairs.
The snowplow swung around the corner.
Malone stared down the block at the warehouse some seventy yards ahead. With the white flakes tumbling down and the windshield wipers slogging back and forth across the soot-smeared glass, it was difficult to see that far on this black winter night. That would not affect his plan. Frank Malone knew exactly where he was going and what he must do.
Within the next forty-five seconds.
When Ito got down to the second floor, he reached under the banister one step below the landing. He switched on another booby trap. This flat, one-pound charge of plastic explosive was rigged to a pressure plate beneath the grubby runner of industrial carpeting. That done, he resumed his descent.
Less than fifty yards to go.
The heavy metal plow was pushing the snow aside steadily.
Malone's eyes shifted from the street to the rearview mirror for a glimpse of the armored car.
Not yet.
Any moment now, he thought.
He fed more fuel to the engine to start building speed.
Ito reached the ground floor, entered the garage and flicked on the light. Turning to the video monitor on the wall, he saw a large white vehicle—another snowplow. It would pass by before he drove out, helpfully cleaning the street he'd use only moments later.
Pleased by this good luck, he turned off the antipersonnel mine that guarded the garage door. Then he got into the Jeep, placing the flight bag with the submachine gun on the seat beside him.
Malone glanced at the mirror once more.
He saw the armored car turn the corner.
Then he looked ahead at the warehouse barely twenty yards away.
It was time.
He stepped harder on the gas pedal, forcing it to the floor. As the plow accelerated, cool Harvard-educated Frank Ma-lone realized that he was probably doing precisely what his unsophisticated aggressive father would have done. In spite of everything, the worldly detective captain was, irrationally and irrevocably, very much the son of the tough street cop known as Big Mike Malone.
Suddenly it all came back.
For an instant, the thirty-five-year-old man in the snow-plow was a twelve-year-old boy at that funeral twenty-three years ago. He felt the pain—and something else. It was fierce primitive pride.
"Hang on Mike," Frank Malone said as he began to twist the steering wheel.
In the garage, the efficient electronic
s terrorist was confident as he put the key in the ignition. The Jeep had four-wheel drive, snow tires, a strong new battery and a full tank of fuel. Having driven to the big international airport on three test runs, he knew the route to Kennedy well. He'd join Staub there in eleven or twelve minutes.
He started the engine.
Malone spun the wheel all the way. The snowplow veered sharply to the right. It hurtled right at the warehouse.
Ito opened the glove compartment. He took out the remote-control device, and pressed the button to send the radio signal that would open the door.
The door didn't open.
It exploded.
The steel prow of the heavy Sanitation Department truck hit it like a bomb. The impact blasted the metal slat door into scrap, spraying jagged chunks and razor-edged slivers like shrapnel. The video monitor screen and three overhead fluorescent tubes shattered into flying shards.
Pipes on the rear wall were gashed open in a dozen places. Water spouted from two of them. Jets of scalding steam erupted from another. A yard away, a ruined burglar alarm crackled and spat sparks.
Liquid dripped from multiple punctures of the Jeep's oil, fuel and hydraulic lines. Almost every square inch of the safety-glass windshield was defaced by a dense cobweb of cracks and scratches that reduced visibility drastically. The headlights were totally destroyed. Bits of the glass faces and inner workings were strewn around the floor.
When Takeshi Ito first heard the sound of the collision, he had thought that it was some sort of explosive charge or perhaps a shoulder-fired rocket such as the U.S. Army's M72 tank killer. He reacted immediately . . . realistically . . . defensively.
He didn't believe in accidents.
Whatever it was, it was deliberate . . . hostile . . . dangerous.
He had a very brief look at the front of the snowplow as it smashed through the door. The driver's strange headgear puzzled Ito for two or three seconds before he recognized it as a metal combat helmet. He was right. The Americans were attacking.
And they'd caught him by surprise. It was his own fault. He should have suspected something when he saw a snow-plow sweeping this street in an industrial area twice within five minutes. He'd been as stupid as they'd been clever.