by Ben Coes
He came upon the Land Cruiser, steam billowing from the tailpipe. He made out an outline of a person, seated in the front seat, looking toward his house, waiting.
Moving alongside the car, Buck removed his SIG M26. Dropping the leather bag on the ground, he placed his hand on the driver’s-side door. He waited a moment, then quickly pulled the door latch. He yanked the door open, thrust the silenced weapon into the SUV, and in a precise, trained move sent a bullet into the head of the young driver before he had any idea what was happening.
Marks descended the stairs and nodded to Savoy. They moved to the kitchen.
“He’s not here,” whispered Marks.
“Basement?”
Marks nodded.
Suddenly, both men looked up, noticing something down the street. The lights of the Land Cruiser had turned on. The car suddenly lurched forward.
They moved quickly through the kitchen, out into the backyard, where they retraced their steps. Emerging through the side yard next to the brick house, they came upon Spinale’s body, contorted on the ground, a large chunk of his skull missing. A wet pool of dark blood was gathering on the snow-covered tar.
“My God,” said Marks.
Less than an hour later, Reagan National Airport and BWI Airport in Baltimore were swarming. All flights out of both airports had been temporarily grounded while authorities searched for the fugitive.
But forty miles to the east, on the small tarmac of a private airstrip in Dunkirk, Maryland, Buck flipped the switch on the King Air C90. The twin propellers came to life. He moved the plane down to the end of the snow-dusted runway, then turned, pushing the throttles all the way forward as he steered the plane down the runway. Just fifty feet from the trees, the plane bumped lightly up, its wings lofting the craft into the darkening sky.
Buck allowed a smile to cross his lips as he felt the plane settle into flight. “Wastin’ away again in Margaritaville,” he hummed aloud as the twinkling lights of the coastal towns disappeared beneath him and the plane soared out over the dark waters of Chesapeake Bay.
56
NEWARK INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
The FBI Black Hawk VH-60N made it as far north as Newark, before being forced to land on the tarmac at Newark International Airport, the blinding white of the blizzard making it impossible to fly any farther. After landing, Jessica moved into the cockpit and placed a set of earphones on her head.
“I need a live patch to CENCOM,” she instructed. “Secure channel.”
Frustrated, Jessica stared out the front window of the chopper as snow blanketed the skies outside. A pair of clicks on the headset.
“Hold for CENCOM Commander Fowler,” came the female voice. Another click.
“Jess, it’s Bo.”
“What do we have on Fortuna?”
“We have a hard location,” said Fowler. “Upper East Side, 1040 Fifth Avenue. What do you want to do?”
“Patch in Maguire.”
A few seconds later, another voice.
“Maguire.”
“Mel, tell me you’re good to go,” said Jessica.
“I have four teams ready to move,” said Melvin Maguire, FBI’s commanding agent at Teterboro. “I can have them running right now.”
“I want a hard cordon,” said Jessica. “One block out. Don’t let anything in or out. And get NYPD backup.”
“Already done,” said Maguire. “They’ve got at least fifty men holding on my command.”
“Good,” said Jessica.
“How many you want on the assault team?”
Jessica paused, glanced at the Black Hawk’s pilot, thinking.
“There’s a detonator and we need to hit quietly,” said Jessica. “I want a tight team; your two best men. Tell him the target, Bo.”
“1040 Fifth Avenue.”
“They go in fast, quiet, and they shoot to kill,” said Jessica.
“Got it,” said Maguire. “I’ll get them moving. I assume you want the hard cordon in place before you send in the team.”
“No,” said Jessica. “This is real time. Get them going, let the cordon follow. Fortuna has a detonator and there are forty-one more targets. I want the team moving right now. And one other thing.”
“What?” asked Maguire.
“I want one other person on the assault.”
“You can’t be serious—”
“Dead serious,” said Jessica, cutting him off. “Get him whatever weapons he wants. I want Dewey Andreas on the kill team.”
Fortuna stared at the computer screen, watching the oil futures market as it spiraled wildly out of control. The U.S. government accusing the Saudis of the attack on Capitana had been an unexpected bonus. Most analysts assumed the Saudis and their greed would drive them to a deal. Fortuna agreed, knowing from personal experience that there existed no more powerful emotion on the Arabian Peninsula, in the Fahd house, than avarice. It would win out in the end. But for the moment, another Saudi trait, pride, had widened a rift between the two allies that had caused more damage—and made him more money—than he’d ever dreamed of.
Numbers, money, had long ago lost its power to impress or excite Fortuna, so used to it he’d grown, to having it, to making it. But even he could not help but shake his head in momentary awe at the wealth he’d created.
A day ago, his $10 billion gambit was worth more than $27 billion. Now, it was nearing $32 billion. But the ride was over, at least for now. After several hours of work, Fortuna had completed moving the funds out of the positions he had established through Kallivar, PBX, and Passwood-Regent. Those entities were now shut down, the money placed in an entirely new set of foreign legal entities unrelated to the energy industry and to America.
Finally, he stood up and tried to reach Karim yet again. No answer. He felt tightness in his chest, but pushed it away. Karim is dead. He knew that now.
Setting off the detonator would be the final act. But he would need to do it only after he was airborne. The country would descend into utter chaos the moment he began setting off the remaining bombs. Every airport in the United States would immediately shut down. Yes, he would need to be airborne before he struck.
He called Jean.
“Jean—”
“Yes, Alex.”
“Bring the car around. I’ll be down in two minutes. Then call Pacific Aviation. We’ll need to charter a jet; Karim is still not back. Get the biggest Gulfstream they have available at La Guardia, capable of going to Europe.”
“La Guardia is closed. The storm—”
“Tell them we want to fly out as soon as they reopen the airport.”
“Where should I tell them we’re going?”
“Tell them Paris. But we’re going to Beirut. They don’t need to know that until we’re over the Atlantic.”
Fortuna hung up. He walked to his bedroom. From beneath his bed, he pulled out a large duffel bag, prepacked. In it, some clothing, a laptop with any information he would need, passports. Everything else—photographs, diplomas, anything that might remind him of his life in America—he left behind. Once again, the cord would be cut, only this time it would be he who did the cutting.
He glanced around his room for the last time.
Ten minutes after leaving Teterboro, the black Suburban pulled up in front of Fortuna’s apartment building. In silver block letters above a pair of large French doors that marked the entrance to an elegant granite prewar apartment building: 1040.
Snow was falling heavily. The scene looked eerily peaceful. The doorman was a small man, young, and he watched the thick snowflakes as they dropped downward from the sky. He stood just outside the door. The lobby behind him was deep red, lit by a crystal chandelier that hung down.
Dewey and two SWAT-clad FBI agents jumped out, ran toward the building entrance, weapons out. The FBI agents both held HK MP7 automatic machine guns out in front of them, handguns holstered at the waist. Dewey held his Colt M1911 .45 caliber semiautomatic handgun. Dewey also brought a Colt M203 carbine comb
at assault rifle, grenade launcher attached to it. He kept the powerful rifle slung over his shoulder, a full magazine of 5.56mm cartridges as well as two grenades ready to go, if necessary.
“Can I help you?” asked the doorman.
One of the agents held up an ID.
“FBI. Step out of the way. We’re securing the building.”
“What—”
“What floor is Alexander Fortuna on?” asked Dewey.
The doorman struggled to speak.
“What floor?” Dewey barked.
“Penthouse,” the doorman croaked.
“Key,” said Dewey. “And you might want to leave.”
The doorman, nearly paralyzed by fear, handed Dewey a small gray card. He and the two agents walked quickly back to the middle of the floor where the elevators were.
Dewey could feel it now, the proximity to the mission’s target. Whatever fatigue, whatever worry he had in Cuba, it was all gone now, replaced by a warmth suffusing his entire body and a salty taste in his mouth, the flavor of adrenaline. His heart raced as he waved the card before the small black sensor next to the elevator then stepped inside. He swept the card across the red light and pressed the PH button.
The elevator climbed up through the twenty-eight floors of the building. Quickly, Dewey checked the clip on his gun. His forehead, armpits, and chest dripped with sweat. He looked in silence at the two agents.
“We drop anything that moves,” said one of the agents.
“We find the detonator,” said Dewey.
“Yeah, that too,” said the other agent.
Fortuna walked down the hallway, into the living room. Above the fireplace, he opened the ivory box, removed the detonator, placed it in the duffel bag. He walked to the elevator, dropping the duffel bag on the ground. He walked past the elevator, to the kitchen. There, he opened the Sub-Zero, reached in, pulled out a carton of orange juice, removed the cap, then started guzzling. He’d been at the computer more than two straight hours. He was ravenous, thirsty.
Suddenly, he heard the elevator door bell chime, announcing someone’s arrival.
Fortuna let the orange juice fall to the ground. He sprinted back down the corridor, toward the duffel bag. All he cared about now was the detonator. The elevator was thirty feet away. He galloped down the dimly lit hallway. But then, suddenly, the small green light above the door lit up; the elevator chimed again, and he stopped dead in his tracks; he wouldn’t make it. He turned, ran back to the kitchen, ducking inside just as the elevator doors opened.
Dewey watched the lights climb through the numbered buttons on the elevator wall. He thought of Capitana, of his men. He thought of the remaining targets, along with countless civilians, waiting to be destroyed. He swallowed, his teeth dry, his eyes focused. As the elevator came to its stop at the penthouse, Dewey raised the Colt.
The door opened and the FBI agents stepped quietly into the entrance of the apartment. Dewey followed. Before them, a brilliant cherry sideboard sat against the opposite wall. A large painting of an American flag hung above it. Next to it was a massive mirror. Dewey looked for a moment at himself. He was a disheveled mess. His short hair looked patchy due to the hasty cut back in the mall bathroom in Cali. His pants were stained with blood and sweat. He thought of the irony; an impartial observer would have thought he was the enemy.
He smiled for a mad instant; he hadn’t felt this alive in more than a decade. This was a feeling he’d subsisted on as a soldier; the feeling of mattering, of risking it all for a higher purpose. He was alone in so many ways now, but he felt the warmth of a hundred thousand brothers beside him, American brothers, veterans, men, boys who fought before him, or fought alongside, who died for this country trying to protect it.
Beneath the painting, a duffel bag lay on the ground. Dewey stepped toward it, unzipped it. Inside, he found a laptop, several passports. And the detonator. He held it up, showed it to the agents, then slipped it into the pocket of his leather coat.
One of the agents signaled to Dewey with his hand. They moved right, Dewey left.
In the kitchen, Fortuna searched quietly but frantically for a weapon. He thought he’d placed a Glock 21 somewhere in the room, in a drawer or cabinet, but he couldn’t find it. Was his mind playing tricks on him? He needed to stay calm.
He peeked his head outside the door frame. He saw two SWAT-clad agents, machine guns out, moving slowly, cautiously down the hallway toward the kitchen. He pulled his head back inside the kitchen.
From the knife drawer, he had his choices. There were more than a dozen long, sharp blades, but instead Fortuna pulled out a razor-sharp William Henry steak knife. He gripped the knife in his right hand, blade tip down.
_____
Dewey couldn’t believe the size, the sheer scope, and opulence of the apartment. It opened up into a massive room whose glass wall ran the length of the building and framed an incredible tableau of New York City, the dark patch of Central Park, then lights to the east and south, snow falling in whiteness everywhere. The room was filled with stunning antiques and furniture, with yellow walls and with art everywhere.
He walked down the hallway and entered a bedroom. On the walls were photos of a good-looking man, an American, with dark brown hair. On the dresser were photos of the man, playing lacrosse, in a graduation gown. On the wall, he saw a degree. It was from Princeton. Alexander Blodgett Fortuna, class of 1999.
A cold chill climbed in a vector, up from Dewey’s knees, through his stomach, into his mouth. This was the terrorist’s, Fortuna’s, inner sanctum. He knew it, felt it. He searched through drawers, finding expensive clothing, even a large vial of cocaine.
He walked past the large bed and opened the door. Inside was an office. Dewey looked through the drawers of Fortuna’s desk. In the top drawer, he saw a file with the word “Marks” on it. Inside of it were documents, articles, and photos of Ted Marks.
More files; Savage Island, then Capitana. He pulled out the file and found diagrams of the facility.
Then, he saw words that caused him to stare in stunned silence: “Andreas, Dewey.” He picked up the file and flipped through it. Photos of him going back years, articles on his trial, photos of his wife, Holly, and Robbie.
Fortuna moved calmly into the windowless pantry off the kitchen. On a large shelf, chest-high, he moved several cartons of pasta to the side, then climbed up onto the shelf, eye level to the door. Gently, he pushed the pantry door closed.
Fortuna waited a painstaking minute. He heard no footsteps, nothing, only silence. Another minute passed. Then it came, as he knew it would. Suddenly, a crack of white light appeared as the pantry door opened.
The black silhouette of the machine gun’s barrel appeared first, followed by the large frame of the gunner, stepping silently into the pantry. Fortuna heard the faint brush of the agent’s hand on the wall, searching for the light switch, just inches from his head.
Fortuna swung the razor-sharp tip of the knife in a vicious strike at the agent’s neck. He slashed the blade sideways, directly into the nape of the neck. The blade carved through skin, muscle, and cartilage, the force of Fortuna’s slash so strong that the blade severed all the way through to the agent’s spine. Just as quickly, Fortuna pulled the blade back out. A gurgled cough was all that came from the man as he dropped to the ground.
Fortuna knew the second agent would be right behind the first, and he quickly climbed down from the pantry shelf, stepping over the rapidly growing pool of blood on the marble floor. He pulled the machine gun from the dead man’s arms, then stepped back into the kitchen, crouching, hugging the cabinets, weapon trained at the door.
The other agent stepped into the kitchen. His eyes looked right, away from Fortuna, searching. Fortuna pulsed the MP7 just once. The low serial thud of automatic-weapon fire interrupted the silence. A pair of rounds shattered the agent’s skull, splattering blood and bone on the white door, dropping him to the ground in a contorted pile.
Fortuna moved, MP7 out in fr
ont of him, toward the hallway and the elevator that would deliver him to his escape.
Dewey heard something. Barely discernible, a grunt from somewhere in another part of the enormous apartment. He turned from the terrorist’s files and moved, Colt out.
Dewey crouched and moved out of the bedroom, weapon drawn, finger on the steel of the trigger. He exited the bedroom, moving quickly toward the entrance foyer. He hugged the wall as he moved, Colt cocked to fire. Down the hallway, he saw the elevator, then heard a low chime and watched as the doors opened.
He ran now, weapon out, finger on trigger. A figure suddenly appeared from the other side of the bank, black hair: Fortuna. Dewey raised the weapon and began to fire as Fortuna turned, the barrel of a machine gun aimed at him. Fortuna started firing and a furious wash of lead ripped the air. Dewey dived to the ground, rolled, came up firing. Fortuna anticipated it, stepped back. Dewey’s shots missed, but they forced Fortuna away from the elevator, preventing his escape. The doors of the elevator shut.
Again, the barrel of the machine gun emerged, another spray of bullets. But Dewey had already crawled through a doorway off the hall.
Inside the dimly lit living room, Dewey quickly holstered the Colt at his back, then swung the M203 off his shoulder. From the belt pack, he took a .40mm antipersonnel round, quickly inserted it into the M203 chamber. He slid his hand to the forward trigger.
Dewey moved along the wall of the living room, closer to the elevator. He looked through a crack between another door and the wall, spied Fortuna’s black hair at the opposite end of the elevator atrium, looking for him. Suddenly, Fortuna fired again, auto hail, sweeping the MP7 across the wall at thigh level, and Dewey had to dive to the ground as the line of lead pocked the wall, tearing through the plaster just inches above his head. After the line of bullets crossed immediately above him, Dewey crawled forward, put the tip of the M203 in the door frame and fired the grenade launcher.