by Rick Mofina
Rung, handgrip, footstep lift—his rhythm was swift, sure and steady.
Cole thought of nothing but his immediate goal.
Get to the top.
Rung, handgrip, footstep lift.
When he lifted his head to check his progress, one side of the rung he’d grasped broke free from the wall. The other side remained precariously anchored with Cole dangling on it as it swung like a hinged door, carrying Cole out from the wall.
Cole’s breathing stopped.
In the strong light he saw the bottom of the pit and dozens of rats swirling in the water. Cole kicked against the wall and swung back toward the ladder just as his damaged rung gave way and fell into the water below, making a splash.
He managed to secure himself on the rungs, and after a minute to catch his breath he hurried to the surface.
I did it. I did it, Dad. I climbed out. Okay, okay, I have to get help.
Adrenaline pumping, Cole moved faster now. In the daylight he found the stairs to the main floor and threaded his way through pallets stacked with old machinery, motors and abandoned equipment. He could hear men throughout the factory as they searched. He found the wall, stayed close to it, looking for a door, a window, any way to escape.
As he neared a corner he found a sheet of aged plywood partially bolted to small section of the wall that had decayed. The plywood was loosened by time and Cole pulled it out to see how the wall had cracked, crumbled to the point of creating a jagged gap about a foot wide.
Cole glimpsed a grassless patch of earth, gravel, a chain-link fence.
He wedged himself behind the plywood, then twisted and angled himself through the gap and…
Freedom.
He was standing in the sun at the side of the building, a few feet from a ten-foot fence topped with coiled razor wire. Cole moved along the building, his heart racing, knowing he was seconds from finding a way to the street and help.
As he rounded the corner he ran directly into the arms of a man waiting by the loading bay of the rear shipping entrance.
“Please call police! My mom and me were—mfph!”
Cole stopped when pain shot through him and he’d recognized that the man, Bulat Tatayev, had seized his wrist and moved quickly to take him back inside. Bulat yelled out to his men before lowering himself to Cole.
He stared into his eyes, saying nothing until the men arrived.
CHAPTER 50
New York City
Jeff had slipped away from the FBI.
Outside, he hurried along Forty-fifth Street until he was a safe distance from his hotel and stepped into the lobby of the Roosevelt where he used his phone to open Cassidy’s list of restaurants, cafés and coffee shops.
His knees nearly buckled and he sat in a wingback chair.
There had to be more than a thousand, no, two, no, more. It went on and on as the listings of every restaurant and coffee shop blossomed on his phone’s tiny screen.
He could scroll for an eternity.
Then he realized he could manipulate the list to display only those that started with L and resembled Lasa or Laksa. He exhaled. That brought the number way down to under a dozen for the five boroughs. After a few tries he was able to map the list on his phone, in order to make the most effective search of the listings.
As he started off his cell phone rang.
“Mr. Griffin, this is Agent Miller at the hotel. Sir, what is your location?”
“I’m outside at the moment. I needed some air.”
“Sir, we request that you return to your room, now.”
“I can’t do that, Agent Miller. I have some things to take care of.”
“Mr. Griffin, we respectfully request—”
Jeff ended the call and picked up his pace. The TV news report echoed in his mind. His fears were mounting; he sensed that he was running out of time as he arrived at the first candidate. The Café Lastanya was in the low twenties on East Forty-first Street. It had a small front with four tinted-glass panels. It was crowded. He made his way past the sandwich and pastry cases to the coffee area and studied the take-out cups. The logo bore no resemblance to the discarded cups he’d seen in the van.
He moved on.
Jeff went back to the street, checked his phone and started walking to the second possibility, the Lassoed Pony Diner, near Grand Central and Forty-second Street. It specialized in cheesecake and was a favorite of commuters catching trains at Grand Central. He examined the logo of the take-out bags and coffee cups—a distinctive horse’s head with the red-and-white stripe logo—and crossed the diner from his list.
Not even close.
Back in the street he flagged a cab for the next one but before he got one his cell phone rang again.
“Jeff, it’s Cordelli. We need you back in the hotel room.”
“Is there a break in the case? If there is, tell me over the phone.”
“Jeff, were you contacted again?”
“No. I’m just looking for my family.”
“Do you have information we should be aware of?”
“No.”
“Because you shouldn’t keep information from us. It leads to problems.”
“Am I under arrest, Cordelli?”
“No.”
“Am I a suspect?”
“No.”
“Am I in custody?”
“No, but for your safety we want you to—”
“My safety? The bastards who took my wife and son may be planning to kill them.”
“Jeff, we’re on your side, you have to let us do our jobs.”
“I came within a heartbeat of rescuing Sarah and if you think I’m going to sit on my ass and do nothing, you are wrong. Dead wrong! I’m going to find the people who took my family and I’m going to kill them!”
“Jeff, I know this is difficult—”
Jeff hung up and waved until he succeeded in getting a cab.
As his taxi navigated through traffic he accepted that there was no logic to what he was doing. How could he possibly find the exact same diner or restaurant where the killers bought their coffee, simply from his memory of the vague image of a take-out cup’s logo? Was he not just going on the blind hope that somehow, someway, he’d find his family again?
All he knew was that he had to keep searching.
The next possibility on his list was Lake of Dreams Café on Seventh Avenue.
Plain white take-out cups, no luck there.
Looking at his map Jeff saw how the other locations on his list webbed across New York City. Before resuming, he went to an ATM for more cash, then flagged a taxi and negotiated a flat rate to hire the driver to take him to every location.
They crossed the Brooklyn Bridge and went to the Lasagne Table in Brooklyn. Take-out cups bore no logo. It was the same at Laserinta Café. Then they moved on to Queens and Uncle Lassiter’s Bar and Grill. Nothing. Then on to Lasha’s Ukrainian Roadhouse without success before going to the Bronx and Lakeshi’s Gourmet Diner. Nothing there. Then to uptown Manhattan, striking out there before working their way to the Village and down to Battery Park where Jeff paid the driver, then queued up for the Staten Island Ferry.
He had two final places to check on his list, the Last Drop Coffee Den and Lakasta’s Eatery. He got a cab at the dock, headed to the locations, struck out in both cases and returned to the ferry.
During the twenty-five-minute ride across New York Harbor back to Manhattan, he looked at the Statue of Liberty and thought of how badly Cole had wanted to visit the landmark.
Jeff took in the view of Lower Manhattan’s bridges and the skyscrapers. The enormity of the metropolis overwhelmed him. But fear was driving him, fear and the unshakable faith he could not, would not, ever give up looking for Sarah and Cole.
He searched the majestic skyline for hope.
CHAPTER 51
Manhattan, New York City
Grand Central Terminal.
From her balcony table in Michael Jordan’s restaurant Aleena Visser looked out over the Grand Central’s main concourse and took in its cathedral splendor while finishing her tea.
She set her cup in the saucer with a nervous rattle as the knot in her stomach tightened.
The time was drawing near. She could still pull out, toss the music box and walk away. But I would pay a heavy price. She could go to police. But there’s no guarantee I won’t be charged and sent to prison. Aleena had no options.
She’d go through with it.
But this would be the last time. When she returned to Amsterdam, she’d go into Joost’s office and she would tell him that it was over, she was done. She’d quit the magazine and go back to newspaper reporting in Rotterdam, back to a normal life.
After today’s job, her life as a smuggler was over.
It was nearly 11:00 a.m.
Time to go.
In keeping with Joost’s instructions, she took an orange scarf from her bag, tied it to her shoulder strap so it hung prominently, making it easy to identify her in a crowd.
She went to the information booth in the main concourse and waited for her contact. They were to arrive precisely at 11:00 a.m. according to the big brass clock above the booth.
At 11:00 a.m. no one had approached her.
By 11:15 a.m. no one had shown.
Aleena grew anxious.
She started to walk slowly around the booth area amid the gentle rush and hum of thousands of people going about their business.
I want to be done with this.
Maybe she had confused her instructions from Joost?
She reviewed them again.
“Go to the Grand Central Terminal the morning you arrive, tie an orange scarf to your bag and at precisely 11:00 a.m., New York time, stand near the information booth with the brass clock in the main concourse. Your contact will approach you and say something about your flight and ask about a gift.”
Aleena had followed Joost’s instructions to the letter.
She glanced at faces in the crowd to determine who among them might be her contact, even though she had no idea what her contact looked like. She knew she was being watched on Grand Central’s closed-circuit security camera system. She’d seen the radiation detectors and motion sensors placed throughout the terminal. And there was no shortage of police officers. Everyone knew that Grand Central was considered a terror target, but how could you tell by looking at the thousands of travelers who passed through it every day what their intentions were, Aleena thought.
She searched the sea of faces again.
Maybe my contact is out there watching me?
It was now 11:32 a.m.
Or maybe the contact was not coming at all? Maybe the delivery had been canceled, called off, abandoned? The possibility gave rise to hope. Before considering it further Aleena was interrupted. Her phone vibrated in her pocket with a text message from Alice, her coworker at the magazine in Amsterdam.
I’m sorry to tell you that Joost has died.
Aleena caught her breath and responded.
No! What happened?
We don’t know. Police are asking questions. They think it was a heart attack at his desk.
This is terrible. What are police asking?
About the two men who visited him before he died.
Who were the two men?
Marta in reception said they were KLPD.
What did the KLPD want with Joost?
It’s a mystery.
This is horrible. Prayers to everyone. Will call later.
Joost was dead.
Why had the KLPD visited him? Could this be connected to her delivery? Aleena covered her mouth with her hand and thought of the emergency contact number: 718-555-76—
“Excuse me, miss, you look lost. Can we help?”
Two uniformed NYPD officers had approached Aleena. Both men looked to be her age. They surveyed her jeans, short-sleeved top, tattoos and blond hair.
“Oh, no, thank you.” Aleena flashed her beautiful smile. “I’m waiting to meet a friend, who is a little late.”
“That’s a nice accent you got there, is it German?”
“Dutch.”
“What brings you to New York?”
“I’m a travel writer for a magazine in Amsterdam.”
“That so?” The cops gave her another subtle head-to-toe look. “Well, enjoy your visit. Hope you write nice things about the town.”
The officers strolled away and about a minute later she bit her bottom lip and thought of leaving.
“Aleena?”
She turned to a tall man in his early thirties with a medium build. He wore a navy T-shirt, faded jeans, a ball cap and sunglasses. His face was dark from several days’ growth. He carried a construction worker’s lunch box and looked like any other tradesman in the city.
“Yes,” she said.
“How was your flight?”
“It was good.”
“And you have brought a gift?”
“Yes.”
“What did you tell the police officers?”
“They asked if I was lost. I said I was waiting for a friend who was late.”
“Is that all?”
“They asked about my accent. I told them I was a travel writer from Amsterdam. That’s all.”
After considering her answers, he glanced around. “Walk this way.” He nodded across the concourse.
At that time, two men, who had been provided security camera footage of Aleena in the preboarding area of Schiphol Airport, arrived out of breath and started searching the terminal for her.
Scanning the crowd, one glimpsed a bright orange scarf—the telltale identifier from central intelligence in Moscow. The two men began making their way through the forest of commuters to catch up to their target.
When Aleena and her contact cleared the concourse area, the man said, “May I have the gift, please?”
Aleena reached into her bag and handed him the music box. He stopped and immediately examined specific points. He was meticulous until he’d confirmed the item as being the one he needed. He placed it in his lunch box, then, as quickly as he’d emerged, he disappeared, leaving Aleena alone.
The delivery took less than thirty seconds.
Aleena decided to return to the concourse and leave from that level. As she walked, she took stock of the thousands of innocent people going about their lives in Grand Central, then thought of the millions busy with their lives across New York City, and recalled the headline in the newspaper on the plane about murders, abductions, fears of terror attacks at the UN meeting.
Is any of this connected to me?
Tears stung her eyes.
Struggling to comprehend, she put her hand to her face.
Joost was dead.
Why were the KLPD talking to him? What did they know? Nothing made sense.
Icy threads of fear webbed up her back.
I am done with smuggling. I need to get home as quickly as possible. I’ll call my friend Harm Bergen at the newspaper in Rotterdam and ask about a job. First things first—I’ll get back to the hotel. I’ll change my ticket to get on the next flight to Amsterdam.
Her mind was racing.
Which way out of Grand Central will take me to the hotel?
She searched the main concourse for a landmark, a sign. Was it west, or east? She’d go back to the information booth and get directions to the hotel there. She headed toward the booth when suddenly two men materialized, walking on either side of her. They were big men in spor
t jackets.
“Aleena Visser?”
“Yes.”
One flashed an official police ID.
“FBI, come with us, you’re under arrest.”
“Arrest? For what? May I see your ID again?”
One of the men gripped her upper left arm. The other man had her right.
“Don’t resist.”
They escorted her through the terminal, to the nearest ramp down to the trains. Something about the look of the men, the cut of their hair, their facial features, told her that they were not Americans.
They were Eastern European, Russian.
Aleena’s pulse quickened—her thoughts swirled.
Joost was rumored to have many enemies in Russian security. Who are these men? What will they do to me?
Amid the throngs of commuters, the men practically lifted Aleena as they hurried her down the stairway, closer to the trains. A rush of hot air thundered toward them, the grind of steel on steel.
Oh, God, they’re going to kill me!
Aleena’s primal instinct to survive took over.
She had taken self-defense courses and with cobra speed succeeded in breaking free and gripping the groin of one of the men, squeezing, crushing with every iota of strength until he doubled over, stopping them dead on the stairs. At the same time commuters bumped and shoved them, enabling her to shake herself loose from the second man, rush down the stairs and up another flight to the main concourse.
Aleena moved fast.
The men pursued her, frightening her with their speed.
On the main concourse she ran for the first door, fearing there might be others with the two strangers. She shifted around people on Manhattan’s busy streets with one thought propelling her.
Run. Run. Run.