He pauses and looks around the room at his team members, who are sitting, standing, or leaning on walls.
“What does Iran want from us? What must we give them? Musavi is now their president. they are about to become nuclear within the next few months. They are on the outskirts of Baghdad and they have all but won their war against Iraq. With the terrorist attacks, he has our attention. He is now twisting our necks and spitting in our eye. Why then is he continuing? What do we have that he wants? What is he trying to prove?”
Josh stops talking, turns, and stands looking at each column. Using the chalk as a pointer, he taps on the blackboard and says, “Except for ATN’s hostages, the others haven’t yet surfaced. Why did they choose Chicago? Are they making their way to rendezvous here to help ATN’s group with its escape? If the telephone call from their boss means anything, then they’re planning something at the airport when the planes take off. They must be pretty confident that they’ll walk out of ATN, out of Chicago and out of the USA. So, maybe we’re talking hijack a plane from O’Hare with hostages until they reach Iran. Also, there may be possible hijacks from any of the other cities.
“OK, Leon, Juliette, Shelley—check Reich’s SA Almanac to see how many political prisoners we’re holding in our jails, then divide them into whichever Middle Eastern countries
they come from.
Josh continues handing out orders. “Kevin, you and Peggy arrange conference calls with heads of Subversive teams in Miami, New York, Atlanta, and LA. Also get me head of DEA. Call me when you’ve got them all. You people, except for Jay and Ms. McGinnis, go out to O’Hare and take up your positions. United Global will take off in about two hours, so get going. These guys must be neutralized. Let the politicians worry about why we didn’t take prisoners. Shoot the motherfuckers first, forget the questions. We do not, I repeat, do not want prisoners.”
The various team members leave to do as instructed.
Josh turns up the sound again. It is 1 p.m. Irene is getting ready to read. Head bowed, not looking into the camera, John Grogan is now sitting behind her. In his place, the man in the kaffiyeh, sits beside her. Another man in a kaffiyeh is sitting on her other side. Both men are ready to intervene if she says or does something they don’t want. Much more composed, ignoring the threat on either sides and without outward fear, Irene starts.
“We deal now with immodest clothing. Men and women, when swimming at the beaches, must swim and sit separately and bathing suits should…”
Suddenly, there is a noise and shouting. One camera pans toward one of the blindfolded women. An Iranian guard is holding a technician by her arm, pulling her away from the others. Afraid and unsure of her fate, she struggles not to go. Bending from her waist, head moving from side to side, she tries to fend him off with her arms, pushing at the man and beating him with her fists.
Shouldering his gun to use both hands, he pulls her toward the camera. Her gag comes loose and she starts shrieking and flailing with her hands. She tries to kick at him and for a second he moves away, unsure of his next move. A split screen shows that Irene has stopped reading and is looking over her shoulder, watching the blindfolded woman wrestling with the Iranian.
Suddenly one of her hands comes free. Blindly she lashes out and catches his kaffiyeh, tugging, she pulls it off his face.
Startled and enraged, the Iranian hits her expertly with a vicious karate chop. A loud moan comes from her throat, and she crumples and falls, completely unconscious before she hits the floor. Turning his back to the cameras, he put on his kaffiyeh, not turning until it once more hides his face. The man sitting next to Irene looks at his watch, turns, and shouts in Farsi.
Josh yells, “Translate, translate.”
The Iranian speaks in a clear and commanding voice. I listen carefully, translating as fast as I can.
“The time is now, my brothers. Heaven awaits us. We have ended our useless, worthless lives on this earth. Take your places. You’ve all done well. Our sacred mission is accomplished. We can now finish our part of the Holy Plan. Our country will be liberated and all of you, my friends, helped our glorious cause. Goodbye, my friends. As one, we will meet again in the heavens reserved for only the righteous. Goodbye.”
Incredulous at what I am witnessing, I yell, “The guy at the door is priming the plunger. Stop him, do something, get your people in there now. They’re going to die. Josh, for fuck’s sake, do something.”
Everyone in the situation room sits rigidly, observing in slow motion people performing on a stage too far away to be rescued. Powerless to intervene, we see murder in its purest form about to be committed. Real people on a screen who are going to die, murderers and their victims.
In the studio, Irene sees what is happening. She is the only one who moves. Falling forward off her chair, ducking under the console, she disappears from view just as the plunger explodes the dynamite.
The screen goes black with angry slashes of static and white lines.
For the Iranians, it was their choice to die. The others had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Lexi, her voice catching, breaking as she speaks in a trembling voice. “Oh, God, oh, God, is Irene dead?”
I put my arms around her shoulders, drawing her toward me. I search my mind for rational explanations.
“She got under the console. Lexi, I’m sure she’s okay. You’ll see. Grogan was sitting behind her and the Iranians were on either side. She was shielded from the explosion. She’ll be okay, you’ll see. Come, let me take you to the studio.”
She is now crying unashamedly. Crushed, she holds onto me, her body convulsing as she keens.
Irene and Grogan are probably dead. Why am I lying? What can I gain by trying to give Lexi hope? Hope disappeared when the bomb went off. Why is she crying for Irene? Not once has she mentioned Grogan.
With my arm around her, we start walking toward the door.
Josh moves to bar our exit. His hand grabs my shoulder. He voice intense as fire, has a raw edge, “If they’re dead, they’re dead. There’s nothing you can do or we can do. I really need you here JR We’ve work to do. You can send Ms. McGinnis with Bob. Bob, you and Tina take Ms. McGinnis to the studio or hospital. Stay with her and get her any clearances to be admitted wherever she wants to go.”
“JR, I really need you here. Hear me out. If you want out, okay, but come here, look at this tape. Can you recognize the one whose face you saw on the TV. All along you said their body bulk was bigger than the five you saw in the hotel. You warned us they would probably kill hundreds. You said they wouldn’t sacrifice four for eight. ATN was probably a diversion so they could get their other team to the airport and they’ve now had plenty of time to get into their positions. The ones you saw are probably in those positions at the airport right now. If you are with me, we might stand a chance of killing those motherfuckers. I can operate without you but I’m going in blind.
“JR, you’re the only one who’s seen them. My chances are that much better if you come with me. We might recognize them using the composites, but not as fast as you could, or with the greater certainty that your eyes will provide. I need your help to find these men before they kill more people.”
Lexi starts crying again, her gaze turns inward, angrily grabbing a tissue from Tina, uncomfortable at the show of weakness to the group of people surrounding her.
Hesitantly she says, “Josh is right, Jay. you still have work to do. They need you. Don’t make it more difficult than it already is. Thank you for caring, I know you’re my friend. As a friend, I ask you to please to help them catch the men who did this to Irene. I, too, have a reason for them to be caught and punished, for they’ve probably killed my best friend. Josh is right look after the living. I’m going to the hospital with Bob and Tina. Maybe Irene made it. I’ve got to find out. Call me when you can. Here’s my number.” She gives me her card. “It has my home number on it. Please call.”
She walks out of the room quickly.
�
��Quick, look here,” says Josh. “Look at his face again. Take your time. Is this one of your guys? Make absolutely sure. Have you ever seen him anywhere before?”
The picture is frozen at the point where the woman has pulled off the Iranian’s kaffiyeh. The man’s face is dark. He has thick eyebrows that nearly came together above his nose, a mustache, curly hair, and full lips.
He looks startled, surprised, not yet angry, but I’ve never seen his face before. He is not one of the five.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Nervously chewing my lower lip, I watch the speedometer hovering at just under a hundred miles an hour as Josh maneuvers the Buick, bucking crazily and careening from side to side, on the narrow shoulder of the Kennedy Expressway reserved for police and emergency vehicles. The siren screams its high-pitched wail, warning motorists to get out of the way.
I am waiting for some stupid driver to do something stupid, and I sit in silence and know my life will be over. My stomach roils. Doom like a flame creeps along my spine. Is this the way my time on earth will end, speeding on a highway crashing into a car or bridge pylon? Has my life been such a waste that this is the way it will finish?
I am trapped a passenger in a car about to spin out of control as the car barrels forward, unable to control my life destiny. Will this Buick be my coffin? have a bad, bad feeling that Josh is going to kill us both. Fear has gone ahead of me and I draw down into it.
The car continues to gather speed. The forbidden lane feels as if it is shrinking and I watch the narrowness of the road stretching out towards a slight curve about a mile ahead. The cars driving alongside the shoulder seem to be far too close. We barely miss them by inches. The motorists’ faces are a blur of fright as our police car speeds past.
Concentrating fiercely on the road ahead, Josh isn’t aware how the foreboding of instant death sits on me. The steady roar and low drone of the engine magnifies the tick of the oscillating high beams revolving on the roof above us. Earlier Josh activated the toggle switch to “yelp,” meaning the siren is on automatic and doesn’t have to be manually operated.
Raw energy rests in his face. Josh talks into the radio tersely, alerting O’Hare he’ll be stopping at Departures. “Notify all law enforcement in the area that I and a member of my staff are armed and in civilian clothing. I’m a big black guy in jeans and a tee shirt on with a blue windbreaker. My colleague is a white male, and we are both about six feet tall. I will run with my shield held in my left hand. There will be a gun on my belt. This is a Code Red Alert and an emergency situation. We will be making our way into United Global departure gates. Make sure that all security personnel in uniform and plain clothes in the area are given our descriptions, including sky caps, and baggage handlers.”
He clicks off his telephone. A few seconds later, without taking his eyes off the road, Josh says, “We’re not in uniform and if security sees us come running in, we could quite easily be shot. Security at all our major airports is a fucking joke. The security people who x-ray your hand luggage are paid minimum wages, less than the fast food chains pay their temporaries. They’re only given eight hours of training and are expected to guard without any experience.”
Concentrating intently, grim-faced and leaning slightly forward as he steers, Josh says, “Passengers should be wetting their pants every time they walk into an airport, let alone a plane. Congress should be yelling and screaming. Groups should be on TV, demonstrating, disrupting, coming out on strike, anything. But guess what, sweet nothing, sweet fucking nothing. U.S. airports are time bombs waiting around with only minimum protection. They’re open targets, open season for any crazy person, angry person, lunatic fringe group, or terrorists like these fucking Iranians. Just wait until the whole wide world out there finds that of all public transportation per capita passenger count, airports are the easiest targets.”
Josh slows, then slams on brakes and I feel the slight fishtail as we enter the main United Global Departures concourse. The smell of burning rubber wafts into the Buick, floating like pungent mist as we swerve and shudder, thrashing to a stop. Miraculously, I am still alive, wondering momentarily how I survived.
Josh stops in the middle lane. We both leap out. I notice Josh has left the key in the ignition. I am about to say something then realize that this way, some patrolman can move the car. I run after him, trying to keep up. Josh holds his badge and walkie-talkie in his left hand, right hand free so he can get to his gun.
The previous night while we were driving around, he’d confided to me that all Subversives use Glazer safety bullets, which contain small lead projectiles and powdered Teflon. On impact, the bullet does tremendous damage because it is flat, not pointed. It doesn’t ricochet, as it is designed for stopping power, not for going through walls. Range is only about 75 feet.
People scatter, shout, and curse us, but we continue running elbowing, kicking out and bumping into those who can’t get out the way in time. Finally, we get to the escalators.
Josh stops, stands on the first step, taking in short breaths, as the escalator moves us downward. Breathing in deeply, he says, “Gate C-16 is at the bottom. We don’t want to alert them.”
Smoothly and electronically, the metal stairs click and creak as we descend. Eventually, Gate C-16 comes into view. When we reach the end of the escalator, Josh walks to the opposite sitting area of C-17. We sit down in two of the hard plastic chairs.
At C-16, passengers overflow out into the walkway. Two lines of people holding hand luggage and suitcases on shoulder straps or wheels are waiting for boarding passes. Luggage, carryalls, carry-ons, tote bags, and plastic bags litter the floor. C-16 is normal. No Iranians are in sight.
“Fly the Skies” posters beckon all to Hawaii, San Francisco, Tokyo, or Hong Kong. I recognize seven of the undercover agents. Josh had introduced two of them, Barry, and Melanie, as his senior assistants. They are sitting together, a husband and wife traveling on vacation with large Phoenix Arizona duty-free plastic bags lying at their feet, a large tote bag on the seat between them. They are situated with the wall at their backs, able to view anyone one walking up from left or right.
These two form Team Genesis. They will initiate the opening rounds of fire, and will take command. Their targets will be the ones leading the group. The other Subversives will be concentrating on taking out the peripheral terrorists who might be with them or a distance away upstairs, ready to fire down into C-16.
Barry is eating an ice cream cone, Melanie an apple. I wonder how heavy the weapons are and how much fire power they have lying in the plastic bags at their feet.
Two other Subversives are businessmen with briefcases, also holding onto plastic bags. Another is a flight attendant holding an overnight bag, standing near the door. The man in a wheelchair also has an overnight bag on his knees, as does his wife sitting next to him. They are scattered in different sections of the hall, blending in perfectly, camouflaged and lost within the mass of people and travelers.
“Can you see the Iranians?” Jay asks in a hushed voice.
“Nope,” I say, scanning the gates and walkway.
“Start on the left. Walk up as if you’re looking for someone. Look at every row. As soon as you see one, put your hand in your trouser pocket and walk back to me. Don’t look at him or make eye contact. Just continue walking and looking around, OK?”
I get up and walk to the end of the hall, staring down the rows. I stare at a man with a beard and decide he is too short. Three Hasidim are standing praying on one side. They, too, have beards but are also too short. Row after row, I see nobody. Returning, I sit next to Josh.
“They haven’t arrived yet. What about outside.”
“Six of our people are ground crew or baggage handlers. Two are on the plane posing as cleaners, and another two are loading food trays into the kitchens in case they come onto the plane dressed as crew or storm it from the tarmac. Where the hell are they?”
The ticket clerk welcomes all passengers to Flight 830, leaving f
or Phoenix at 14:18. “Boarding is through gate C-16. We will first begin boarding passengers in the back of the plane, as well as our first class and business class passengers. Passengers needing special assistance to board, or parents with small children, would you please proceed to the boarding area now? The rest will board within a few minutes. So as to speed up boarding, please detach your boarding card from your ticket folder and have it ready. We thank you for flying United Global and look forward to seeing you again soon.”
Josh is standing, uncertainty clouds his face.
“Josh, the tape said specifically United Global, 14:38 p.m. This flight is leaving twenty minutes early. Let’s look to see if there’s another United flying at 14:38.”
“Ken checked. This is the closest. The next was 15:05 p.m.”
I walk to the TV monitors. Something isn’t right. They’d been too specific. I see the departures. Puzzled, the corner of my eye snags briefly the time 14:38, but it is the Arrivals monitor. Seconds slowly circle and thread around my mind, snatching at some piece of the puzzle. Thinly shaded, my brain just as slowly responds. Then suddenly, I know now where to find the Iranians.
“Josh, Josh, quick.” I point to the monitor. “Look, Arrivals 14:38 from London. Flying in from overseas. It must be a jumbo. We’ve got to get to the international arrivals.”
“You’re right, shit. Let’s go.”
We run up the escalator. Josh pulls out his walkie-talkie, “Josh Blatt, head of Terrorist Task Force here. Security One,
do you read me? Connect me immediately to the chief of airport security. Code Red Alert. Will meet him at international arrivals next to the elevator center. Repeat Emergency, Code Red Alert.”
* * *
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