by Sam Christer
The young SSOA operative watches the world rush up and hit the windshield. Sights he may never see again, sounds he’ll never hear.
The journey to Grand Central’s likely to take close to an hour. Best-case scenario is that he’s got sixty minutes in which to get himself out of the biggest jam of his life, or end up scattered in pieces, along with hundreds, maybe thousands of people.
He remembers this isn’t the first time the station has been hit by a bomb. Exactly twenty-five years to the day before 9/11 a group of Croatian nationalists planted one in a coin locker and at the same time hijacked a plane.
Back then, the terrorists had a change of heart. After stating their political demands, they revealed the location of the explosives.
Antun knows that today there will be no change of heart.
Al-Qaeda has no heart.
Only as they join the toll road at Robert F. Kennedy Bridge, about five miles from their destination, does Aasif have all fingers and thumbs on the steering wheel.
Antun sneaks a cuffed hand down to the seatbelt clasp and starts to unlock it.
A coach full of young children pulls alongside the van. Excited faces are pressed to the glass.
He hesitates.
Aasif puts his hand back into the detonator pocket and pulls away from the toll.
The moment has gone.
The next four miles roll by in silence. They come off at exit eleven and join crawling traffic onto East 53rd, then hit gridlock as they reach Second Avenue.
Antun feels his heart belt his chest. They’re less than a mile away but surrounded by cars. An explosion here would be as bad as inside the station.
Aasif sees the anxiety on his face. ‘Be patient. We are nearly there. I suggest you cleanse your mind and prepare yourself for the greatest moment of your miserable life.’
Traffic moves. Cars creep forward. They turn right onto 42nd. Antun sees the outline of the station at the bottom of the street. Time speeds up. The last frames of his life play double-speed.
Aasif insists on running through the plan once more. ‘I will stop just past the Grand Hyatt, then we will get out and walk to the main entrance. You will enter and keep walking. Count to twenty and then detonate. I will be going in the opposite direction but I’ll also be counting. If after twenty seconds I have not heard anything, then I will press my detonator. Do you understand?’
Antun nods.
They join a crush of cars and yellow cabs heading to the Hyatt and the other side of the station.
Aasif stops the car, pulls on the handbrake and takes out the ignition keys. He turns the ring around until he finds the one for the handcuffs and unlocks them.
Antun rubs his wrists. He pops the safety belt free and gets out. There are crowds all around him. The noises, smells and light of early evening seem more vibrant and meaningful than he’s ever known.
He sucks in what might be his last air as he waits for Aasif to lock the van.
The big man walks alongside him. They head slowly to the station entrance. The terrorist puts his hand on Antun’s shoulder and stops. ‘This is where I leave you, my brother.’ He shows him the detonator gripped tightly in his hand as he spreads his arms to embrace him.
Antun makes his move.
49
POLICE HQ, WASHINGTON DC
Captain Zach Fulo, rests his elbows on his paper-strewn desk and listens patiently as Irish summarizes the case.
Occasionally, he glances at the FBI woman to see if her face shows any disagreement with his lieutenant’s account.
It doesn’t.
Far as he can make out, she’s the serious type. Not a drinker. Certainly not a sleep-around, screw-your-way-to-the-top kind of girl. Ten years ago though, he imagines she would have been quite a looker. She’s got eyes that have seen life and the lack of a wedding ring on her finger probably means life has seen a lot of her as well.
Irish finishes with a plea to interview the British Consul George Dalton about his movements on the night of Amir Goldman’s murder. ‘Even if he ends up claiming diplomatic immunity, we owe it to the victim to pursue this line of enquiry and find the killer.’
‘Do you go along with all this?’ Fulo asks Mitzi. ‘You think we – and by that I mean the august bodies of the FBI and DC police – should go shouting through diplomatic doors and demanding ambassadors and attachés turn out their pockets and account for their actions?’
‘I do, sir. I don’t think anyone should be treated any different than anyone else. Regardless of their job, title, sex, age, religion, race or nationality. Equality for all perps; that’s my motto.’
He corrects her. ‘Suspected perps.’
She can see she’s winning him over. ‘Speaking plainly, Captain, if this guy Dalton wasn’t out of the country and wasn’t a member of the British diplomatic corps, we’d already have his evasive ass polishing a seat in one of our interview rooms.’
Fulo rocks on his chair. ‘Amazingly, Irish, I find myself agreeing with you and the lady here. I’m not one for people hiding behind position or privilege. Bad is bad, even if it’s dressed up in a diplomat’s thousand-dollar suit.’ He sits up straight and clicks open the log on his computer. ‘I take due note that you’ve referred this to me, so feel free to ask whatever questions you need, in whatever quarters you have to. Hell, go to England and shout them through the gates of Buckingham Castle if that’s what it takes to solve this case.’
‘Palace,’ says Mitzi. ‘It’s a palace, not a castle.’
He gives her a famous Zach Fulo stare then eyeballs Irish. ‘Wherever it is – and wherever you go, just make damned sure you take your manners with you. Do things politely, quickly and as economically as you can.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Fulo adds a final remark. ‘Don’t screw this up, Fitzgerald or so help me God you’ll need a castle to keep me off your ass.’
50
GRAND CENTRAL STATION, NEW YORK
Antun smashes his forehead into the middle of Aasif ’s face.
The terrorist grunts and snorts blood.
Antun twists his left wrist and breaks it. He rams the busted bone up the giant’s back and feels the shoulder dislocate.
Aasif doesn’t want to die. He knows he’s got to overcome Antun and then get away from him before he detonates the vest. He also knows he’s being beaten. He focuses past the pain and kicks out wildly.
Antun sidesteps the sweep. He hooks his heel around the hulk’s shin and clatters him onto the hard ground.
Aasif rolls over on his good arm and gets to his feet. He’s pumped with adrenaline and delivers a nerve-numbing kick to Antun’s thigh.
Antun takes it and doesn’t fall. He retaliates with a punch that a heavyweight would be proud of. While the big guy sways from the shock, he spins and dropkicks him in the abdomen.
The enforcer hits the ground like a felled oak.
Antun drops on top of him and jams two knuckles over his windpipe.
Aasif senses death. He punches with his one good arm and connects with Antun’s lower jaw.
Antun channels his weight into his fingers and the softness of the throat beneath them.
People gather round. They shout for the cops. Someone tries to drag Antun off, but he doesn’t loosen his hold. The body below him goes into spasm. Legs kick. Heels bang on the sidewalk.
A final downward thrust of knuckle.
It’s over.
Antun falls back and catches his breath.
Someone shouts, ‘Jesus!’ Screams break out. Enough yells to stop every beat cop for a mile.
Antun stands. Sweat drips from his face. He turns to the freaked-out crowd, ‘Stand back! All of you, get right back.’ He opens the black, baggy jacket he’s wearing. Shows the vest. ‘I’ve got a bomb. They’ve made me wear a bomb.’
Bedlam breaks out.
To his left, uniformed cops stand frozen in their tracks. One of them mutters into a radio. Another sneaks his fingers towards a gun. To his right, fifty yards
away, Antun sees a face he recognizes.
Nabil.
The cell commander turns and walks away.
Antun knows what’s about to happen. He closes his eyes just before the remotely detonated explosion blows his body into a thousand pieces.
51
WASHINGTON DC
Mitzi and Irish are on the way out of police HQ when the newsflash comes in.
‘Bomb blast at Grand Central!’ The shout comes from an old timer working the front desk. ‘Hell of a fucking mess.’
The two cops drift back his way.
‘More than a hundred dead.’ He reads the graphics bar crawling across the TV on a shelf to his right. ‘Maybe as many again injured. Reporter said the bomb could be heard more than a mile away.’
Mitzi swears.
Irish leans on the counter to see the screen. ‘They say who’s responsible?’
‘Not yet.’ The uniform guesses the story is so important it’s okay for him to crank up the sound.
A journalist is doing her best to report live from the scene. The constant wail of ambulances and fire trucks fights with her piece to camera. ‘The blast happened a little before six p.m. at the height of rush-hour traffic here in the centre of New York. At that time, this station, the sixth most visited tourist spot in the world, was at its busiest. Early reports say the explosion was caused by a male suicide bomber. Eyewitnesses describe him as being in his late twenties and of average height and build. Police are investigating reports that he got into a fight with another man on the sidewalk before revealing his suicide vest to onlookers and then detonating it.’
A caption rolls across screen with a number for people to call if they’re worried that a loved one, relative or friend might have been at the station.
Mitzi’s seen and heard enough. Everything beyond this point is just news people doing their business and depressing everyone else in the process.
She wanders outside and thinks of Jade and Amber, Ruthy and Groping Hands Jack and even her bum of an ex. She thanks God that they’re safe in boring old California rather than NYC, the new bomb capital of the world.
After a few minutes, Irish emerges scratching a muss of hair that feels like it’s turning into a bald patch. He glances at the news footage on the screen. ‘Kind of takes the shine off the good news the captain gave us.’
She’s not really listening. ‘D’you mind if I head back to the hotel and see if I can fix a flight out of here in the morning? I reckon I can be as much use to you on the phone from San Francisco as I can from here.’
He wishes she was staying but understands her desire to go. ‘Sure. Give me a minute and I’ll drive you back.’
‘No need. You look like you’re ready to crash out. I can get a cab.’
‘I’d like to drive you. That’s if you don’t mind sitting in the trash one last time.’
She appreciates the gesture. ‘I guess my tetanus and cholera jabs are good for a final ride in your crapmobile.’
52
BUCKINGHAM PALACE, LONDON
The encrypted phone vibrates inside the pocket of Owain’s black dinner suit. ‘I’m very sorry,’ he says to the Canadian ambassador, ‘I’m afraid there’s an urgent call and I really have to take it.’
He doesn’t wait to hear the diplomat’s answer and presses the answer button as soon as he reaches the refuge of a corridor. ‘Hello, Gareth.’
‘Antun is dead.’
‘Dear God.’
‘A bomb has gone off at Grand Central in New York and he was at the centre of it.’
Owain feels sick. Sick and angry. He tries to keep a soldierly focus. ‘This presumably is the work of the cell he’d infiltrated and Nabil.’
‘It is. We have eyes back on Nabil.’
Owain wants to kill him. Have him shot within the hour. But he knows it’s not the answer. ‘Tabrizi is a commander but he’s not the main man. In fact, he’s probably their weak link.’
‘I agree. That’s what Antun told us. It’s why he wanted to stay within the cell and try to work his way up the chain of command.’
‘Then we must respect his bravery and not shoot this animal on sight. How many dead at the station, Gareth?’
‘Latest count is a hundred and eleven. Close to two hundred injured by debris.’ He’s almost reluctant to add the information he’s just learned. ‘It seems Antun was made to wear a suicide vest.’
Owain grimaces. ‘Then either he volunteered, hoping he could do it, or his cover was blown. Do you have an idea which?’
Gareth Madoc has been trying to piece together the same puzzle. ‘The police say he fought with another man on the sidewalk and killed him before detonating the vest.’
‘They have their facts wrong, someone else will have detonated it.’
‘It could have been Nabil. We only got eyes back on him post-explosion as he returned to a safe house.’
Owain watches guests heading in to the dining room to take their places at tables. ‘I have to go. I’ll call you later. For God’s sake, make sure we don’t lose Nabil. He’s young enough to make mistakes. We’re old enough to capitalize on them.’
‘I’ll look after it personally.’
‘Thanks. I want you back here unhurt. We’ve lost too many good men in too many bad situations and I fear this wave of attacks is far from over.’
53
WASHINGTON DC
Mitzi and Irish listen to the news on the car radio as they drive to her hotel in Kensington.
She notices he’s pale and sweating. He’s gripping the wheel and seems pained by a migraine or more likely the mother of all hangovers. ‘You got any help on this case? Maybe you do need to lie up for a day or two.’
‘Some borrowed hands from other investigations, that’s all.’
‘A double homicide doesn’t get you your own team?’
‘Team? Child murder will get you a team. That’s about all that does these days.’
‘Times get tough, criminals get tougher. It’s the way of the world.’
‘Sure is. There’s a bright kid called Kirstin Collins doing some leg work for me. She’ll be a good cop one day. If the system lets her.’
‘Or she doesn’t get pushed upstairs to drive a desk.’
He thinks about asking her some personal stuff. About her career. Her colleagues. Her life. Men. Relationships. Only a wave of sickness washes over him.
‘You okay?’
Irish coughs. Blood spatters the wheel.
He splutters red all over his hands and collapses.
‘Christ.’ Mitzi grabs the wheel.
His foot is jammed on the gas.
The Ford surges forward.
Sixty.
Mitzi swings the Ford wide of an SUV. Horns honk all around her.
Sixty-five.
Her heart hammers as she struggles to push Irish off the wheel.
Seventy.
A monumental shove sends his unconscious body crashing into the drivers’ door but his foot stays heavy on the accelerator.
Mitzi can’t move him any more.
Seventy-five.
Traffic brakes hard in front. She jerks the wheel. It twitches and skids from the outside lane to the middle one.
Eighty.
There’s a truck ahead. Red brake-lights flare. Mitzi squeals the Ford through to the inside lane. Crashing is now inevitable. It’s only a question of where.
The Taurus mounts a grass verge. A wing mirror clips a tree. The back of the car fishtails. Mitzi sees a clump of oaks rushing up fast. She spins the steering wheel.
The car flips. Slides on its side. Rolls on its roof. Metal crunches. Glass shatters.
There’s a deafening thump. She feels a vicious stab of pain in the middle of her face.
Then there’s blackness.
PART TWO
54
LONDON
Angelo Marchetti feels like someone clubbed him with a baseball bat. He puts a hand to the pain in his forehead. Opening his eyes is like w
inding up rusty metal shutters and squinting into the blaze of a scorching summer’s day.
He’s in bed. That much he can work out. The lights are on, the curtains open. But it’s black outside. The digital clock next to him says 0447. No time to be awake.
But this is not his own room. It’s a hotel. Not in America. Abroad.
There’s a noise. The stirring of a body. He pulls the duvet back.
A naked woman is asleep alongside him. No one he recognizes. Which isn’t so strange. Women he had relationships with bailed on him a long time ago.
Angelo pulls himself upright and looks at her. She’s olive-skinned, Latin, maybe Hispanic. Hair even longer and blacker than his. Small-breasted and full-hipped. A tattoo of a serpent hugs her waist like a belt. Its diamond-shaped head rests upon her shaved pubic area and its long, thin tongue disappears between her legs.
Insects are buzzing. Not in the room but in his head. Swarms of crickets, wasps and bees are angry at being woken and are stinging the soft grey honeycomb of his brain.
Marchetti gets up and wanders around. There is white powder on a low table. Needles. Mirrors. Antiseptic wipes and empty plastic bags. Speedballs.
Now he remembers. He’d sat in here with the hooker. Gisela – her name had been Gisela. Spanish and wild. They’d done enough coke to kill a rock band.
The floor ahead of him is covered with torn-off clothes. Empty bottles of water. Money.
Stacks and stacks of pound notes.
It all comes back to him. He’s in London. And last night he got lucky. Very lucky.
55
POLICE HQ, WASHINGTON DC
Sharp morning light bursts through a beat-up shade in Fulo’s office and makes Mitzi squint painfully.