by Tom Field
He moved around the table and his three lawyers followed him. He got to Ward and stopped two feet away.
“You have powerful friends,” he said
“I do?”
“Yes you do. Friends that have told me to pull out all the stops to help you,” Ashurst-Stevens replied.
“And have you?”
“Yes we have. Mr Walker will explain. My legal team have briefed him on what he can provide you with.”
“Should I be grateful?” he asked, “I would have thought that when it comes to saving hundreds of lives legality does not come into it?”
“The law always comes into it,” Ashurst-Stevens said, leaning in towards him.
“Not in my world it doesn’t.”
Ashurst-Stevens eyed Ward suspiciously.
“Well we have sources and people to protect. Walker will brief you on the assistance that we can give you,” he replied, “Keep up the good work,” Ashurst-Stevens added and the guy guarding the door opened it, and he watched as they filed out, the legal team scurrying after the boss like children following a gang leader in the playground. The guy by the door shut it again and returned to his crossed arms position.
Ward looked at Walker,
“What do you have for us?” he asked.
“We were told that you believe there was a link to the FFW?” Walker replied.
“So?”
“And that you are hunting people who might be sympathetic to their cause?”
“They are pretty much unable to be sympathetic towards anything anymore,” Gilligan interrupted.
Walker looked at him,
“I don’t understand,” Walker said.
“They have all been visited and what they know taken away by us,” Gilligan stated.
“That can’t be right,” Walker said.
“Why not?” Ward asked.
“Because not thirty seconds before you walked in the room we were talking to our source on the phone.”
Ward and Gilligan looked at each other.
“Who is your source?” Ward asked.
“You heard the boss, I can’t reveal that. We are journalists after all,” Walker replied.
“In the interest of national security we can force you to name him,” Gilligan said aggressively.
“No you can’t,” Walker said, “The bosses lawyers got a signed guarantee from the people way above you that they would respect our journalistic integrity and not request who the source is,” he added smugly.
“I could just beat it out of you,” Ward said.
The guy guarding the door adjusted his stance and moved his hands to his side, ready for action.
“Easy small fry,” Gilligan said to him, “We are a little bit more than newsboys.”
Ward ignored what was happening between them.
“And what is your source telling you?” he asked.
“That there is a meeting going to happen tonight,” Walker replied.
“Where?”
“Just off of West Street, near Pier 26, Hubert Street.”
“What sort of meeting?”
“A meeting where he said someone very important was going to be in attendance,” Walker said.
“And who is this person meeting with?”
“The FFW supporters in New York.”
Gilligan and Ward looked at each other. This seemed to be never ending.
“Who are the supporters?” Ward asked.
“I can’t say.”
“You will say.”
“Now guys, we are helping you here. Respect what Mr Walker can and cannot say,” the guy at the door said in his irritating droll.
Ward was too smart to let anything get in the way of finding Asif Fulken and so he took on board what the guy had said, but he made a note to himself that he would smash the guys face in when this was over.
“OK, fair enough,” he said.
Gilligan looked visibly disappointed.
“You think it could be the guy we are chasing?” Ward asked.
“That’s what my source said.”
“You know his name?”
“No,” Walker said, “Don’t you?”
Ward ignored him.
“When is this meeting taking place?”
Walker looked at his watch, “In 40 minutes time.”
“Where exactly?”
“33 Hubert Street.”
“What is there?”
“There are some garages under the apartments that act as a safe place to hide stuff and people meet in the apartment regularly my source informs me. Apartment number seven.”
“How many people are there?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t ask,” Walker replied.
“Some journalist you are,” Ward said.
“He tells rather than answers.”
“How reliable is your guy?”
“He’s never been wrong yet.”
Ward looked at Gilligan,
“Fifteen minutes maximum to get to Hubert from here?” he asked.
Gilligan nodded.
“Let’s go,” he said. “I’ll be back to see you again if it is OK, Mr Walker, there are still a number of things that I need to run through with you. You have been a great help, sorry for our abruptness.”
“Of course it is,” Walker said in his very rich, well-spoken English accent.
They walked to the door and the guy guarding it opened it.
He flashed an arrogant, contemptuous smile at them both as they walked out and down the hallway towards the elevator. They called for the elevator and the doors opened thirty seconds later. They both stepped in.
“I think we should kill that guy,” Gilligan said.
“Which one?” Ward asked.
“The goon trying to play tough guy guarding the door.”
“Is that necessary?” Ward asked with a smile.
Gilligan never smiled back.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I’m pissed,” Gilligan replied.
“Because of that guy?”
“No.”
“Why then?”
“This was meant to be our last call of the night.”
Ward thought back to the conversation they had in the car earlier, about USBC News being their last call and then Gilligan having his son’s birthday with him tomorrow morning.
“It will be a quick visit. I’ll bust in, you keep lookout outside, and I’ll see if Fulken is there. If not, I’ll get what I can out of the people inside, and then we can go home,” he said.
“And I still get tomorrow morning off?” Gilligan asked.
“Yes you will. Deal?”
“Deal,” Gilligan replied.
TWENTY FOUR
Hubert Street was an exclusive and expensive place to live, and not for the first time that day, Ward wondered to himself where all of the money had come from for these people to buy properties in some of the most affluent parts of New York. He also wondered how much CIA money was really involved.
They got out of the car and started to walk down Hubert towards Pier 26.
The street was quiet and nothing seemed out of place.
They slowly walked past the shiny, chrome entrance to 33 Hubert, and noted that there were a number of secure garages, all with green shutter doors and an entrance door built into them.
The door that was marked ‘7’ was locked and there were no obvious indicators from inside the garage or in the street that anything was out of the ordinary.
They walked down to the end of the street and stopped.
“Does this seem right to you?” Gilligan asked.
“It seems as quiet as I would expect it to be,” Ward replied.
“Not too quiet?”
“What are you looking for?” Ward asked, “A sign saying, Bad guys inside, please knock politely?”
Gilligan shrugged his shoulders.
“The door looks pretty secure, let’s walk up again and have on
e last look while we decide how we are going to get inside,” Ward said.
They turned and walked back up the street, the whole area looked even less conspicuous the second time. They turned the curved corner again back onto Hudson and stopped.
“You think I should just knock?” Ward asked.
“Pizza again?”
The fact Ward completely ignored this comment panicked Gilligan.
“You can’t be serious?” Gilligan asked.
“No I’m not,” he replied. “It won’t work twice so let’s be creative.”
“How?”
“We will get into the building, see who is in there and knock on a door. We can say we heard a commotion going on in their garage and maybe they should look at it,” Ward replied.
“And if no one answers?” Gilligan enquired.
“You always have to complicate things Marvin,” he said to him and smiled.
“One of us has to.”
They set off and turned the corner into Hubert for the third time.
They looked just like two friends walking down to the Pier. They reached the apartment steps of thirty three. There was a long row of apartment buzzers, ten to a panel in three brass rimmed plates.
“Pick a number?” he said,
“Don’t want to go high, don’t want to go low. Try fifteen,” Gilligan said.
Ward pressed the buzzer to number fifteen.
Thirty seconds later they were still waiting for an answer after pressing the buzzer a further two times.
“Not very good with numbers, are you?” he said, before pressing the buzzer for apartment number four. Eight seconds later a tired sounding voice said,
“Is that you Dude?”
Ward looked at Gilligan and smiled.
“Yeah man,” he replied.
The buzzer sounded and they stepped into the building. The door to number four opened and a guy in his late twenties, clearly stoned said,
“Who are you man?”
“Sorry?” Ward said.
“You rang my buzzer.”
“I live in number twenty four,” Ward said. “Was it that guy who just ran out of the door as I came in?” he asked.
“What guy?”
“Your friend, describe him?”
“He has long blonde hair, in a ponytail.”
“That guy had blonde hair in a ponytail,” he replied, “What else?”
“He always wears a brown jacket,” the guy said.
“He had that on, anything else?”
“Yeah, he has a goatee,” the guy said, total confusion etched on his face.
“So did that guy,” Ward said, “That was definitely him.”
The guy looked confused,
“Not sure what happened there but thanks man,” the guy said and he turned and shut his door.
The oldest trick in the book Ward thought to himself and the guy fell for it.
They headed towards the stairway.
A quick scan showed that the first floor was numbered one through to six so number seven would be on the floor above. They walked up the stairs, reaching the top, and saw number seven was immediately to their left.
Ward headed past it and knocked on the door of number eight.
A guy in his early thirties with dark hair and a thick beard opened the door slightly but kept the security chain in place, an indication that he trusted Ward and Gilligan enough after looking through his spyhole to see what they wanted, but not trusting enough to leave himself fully exposed to them.
“Can I help?” he asked politely.
“Yes, I live two floors up,” Ward said in his clearest accent, “And when I came in tonight there was a lot of noise and what sounded like raised voices coming from the garage of number seven. I have knocked on their door but there is no answer.”
“No answer from number seven?” the guy asked.
“No and the noises sounded rather suspicious.”
“Have you called the cops?” the guy asked.
“I’m not sure it’s that bad,” he said, “I don’t want to cause any trouble as it might be totally innocent.”
“No,” the guy said, “Have YOU called the cops?”
“I don’t understand?” Ward said.
“Not sure where you were last night but three cops came in and raided number seven. The two women in there had been operating as prostitutes apparently,” he said, rolling his eyes in disbelief to emphasise the point.
“Really?” Ward asked, looking equally surprised for effect.
“Yes. The cops were knocking on all of our doors last night, asking if we were aware of anything suspicious and then they carried out four large metal boxes. Evidence I expect, probably toys, whips and God knows what else,” the guy said.
“I was out of town,” Ward said quickly.
“So maybe the cops are digging around in their garage looking for more stuff, call them and they will probably tell you that it is OK.”
“One night away and it turns into a whorehouse,” Ward said, smiling at the guy, “I never would have known that looking at them. You just never know do you? They looked so sweet,” he added.
The guy looked at Ward quizzically.
“You are thinking about the same two women aren’t you?”
“I think so” Ward replied, “One of them blonde?”
The guy laughed.
“You’ve definitely got those two mixed up with someone else,” the guy said pointing at the door of number seven, “I only saw them a few times. You just never know I guess, but I didn’t see that coming.”
“Why not?”
“Because they were disabled,” he replied, “Bit sick if people were buying sex off of them in my opinion, but hey, who am I to judge, each to their own and all that,” he added with a grimace.
“Disabled how?”
“One of them only had one leg and the other only one arm.”
“I still can’t picture them. What did they look like?” he asked casually.
“Middle Eastern I assume by looking at them. I only caught brief glimpses of them in the foyer previously. Never heard a sound or saw men coming in. I actually thought the apartment was empty,” he replied.
Ward and Gilligan looked at each other.
“Well thanks for your help, I’ll see you around,” Ward said.
“No worries,” the guy replied and went to close the door.
“Wait!” Ward said, and the guy stopped closing the door, “Just out of interest, how long did you think the apartment had been empty?” he asked.
“About fourteen months. The couple who used to live there had a kid and moved out of the city.”
“Thanks.”
The guy shut his door.
They walked back to the stairwell and stopped after descending five steps when they were out of sight of the second floor landing,
“What do you make of that?” Gilligan asked.
“I don’t think anyone ever lived there. Whoever those two women were, I think they were just holing up there. I’m pretty sure they are the bomb makers who got unlucky one day. I think this is where they made the bomb.”
“Make a quick call and confirm if there was a genuine arrest of two women first,” Ward instructed Gilligan.
“OK.”
He headed down to the bottom of the stairs. He waited for thirty seconds and Gilligan came down.
“There was no arrest here last night and definitely no one legged or one-armed prostitutes,” Gilligan said.
Ward walked across the hall and knocked on the door of number two.
Almost immediately a woman in her forties, with long flowing highlighted brown hair and wearing a smart Armani suit opened the door.
“Yes?” she said abruptly.
“Good evening madam. I’m with the NYPD and was just following up from last night,” Ward said,
“I told your colleague last night that I haven’t heard or seen anything. The sickos who have been coming in here have not crossed my path or I would
have told them to get lost. The noise they were making last night moving everything up and down kept me awake until gone two,” she said. “Now if you don’t mind I am very busy so if there is nothing else?”
“No, you have been very helpful,” he said and the woman shut the door.
“They were moving the bomb,” Gilligan said.
“Let’s go and check out the apartment.”
They walked back up the stairs and got to the door of number seven.
Gilligan took out his gun and screwed his silencer on; Ward took out his Glock and did the same before moving to the right hand side of the door next to the door frame.
“You blow it and I will take the room,” Ward said.
Gilligan took aim and fired two shots to the left of the handle. The wood shattered and Gilligan followed up the shots by raising his right foot and ramming the sole of his shoe into the splintered wood. The door swung open and Ward spun around through the doorway and into the room with his Glock aimed straight, in line with his chest.
The apartment was completely empty apart from a workbench on the left which had two spot lamps, one on either side. There were a few short, electrical wires on the floor and nothing else at all.
They walked in.
While Gilligan started checking the rest of the rooms in the apartment Ward stood in front of the workbench and tried to picture the scene in his mind.
The two bomb makers working night and day to create a weapon that would kill hundreds of people. He was now deeply concerned over the size of the bomb. If the people behind this had moved four large metal boxes out then that could mean four smaller bombs or one very big one.
The cover for moving them was obvious. Posing as police to not arouse suspicion, that’s why they knocked on the other apartment doors, to justify them being there.
You only see what people want you to see.
“There’s nothing here at all. I mean zip, completely empty. Not even a bar of soap,” Gilligan said.
“Let’s check out the garage,” Ward replied, “You had better make a call and get the door sorted and get your people to check and swab for explosives and identify the explosive type so we know for sure what they have.”
They walked out of the apartment as Gilligan made yet another call, and headed for the stairs.
Outside, Ward stood looking at the door of the garage marked number seven. He knew there was going to be no meeting, clearly the source that Walker had was right but he was also wrong at the same time.