“Let’s move out,” the leader ordered.
Within moments Ferriello’s backup team, which had been parked down the street, was on foot with guns drawn, circling to the back of the building. The nearest SWAT team raced down from their third-floor rooftop for backup.
The four men from NYPD converged on the Russian just as he was putting his key in the basement door.
“Don’t make another move, Vaknin,” the lead officer said. “You’re coming with us.”
————
Sandor chose Ferriello’s car for their transportation, just in case they needed to get through any sort of secure area that became cordoned off. Even though it was unmarked, Ferriello’s car was credentialed. Trying to get through in Sandor’s old Land Rover would have wasted time.
They were sitting curbside in Foley Square, waiting for more information on the whereabouts of the six men from the South Bronx. Sandor looked around at the streetlamp-lit plaza, where any number of vans and trucks were parked. The scene provoked the thought that regularly haunted him—how do you protect a country as large and trusting and open-armed as the United States of America when any sick bastard can load a vehicle with explosives or biological weapons or even containers of gasoline, and then detonate it to murder and maim innocent people?
“It’s a sick world,” he said more to himself than to Ferriello.
“Tell me about it,” the policeman agreed.
Then Craig Raabe called.
“Talk to me.”
“The six suspects exited the subway at Times Square,” Raabe told him. “Crowded this time of night, so it’s been easy for the boys from DHS to keep tabs. They followed them directly to a hotel on Broadway.” He recited the name and address.
“That’s good work,” Sandor said. “Where are they now?”
“In the lobby. Just got word one of them is on the house phone.”
“We’re on our way.” He gave Ferriello the address and the detective threw the car in gear and pulled away.
“I’ve got more,” Raabe said. “A possible lead on Adina.”
“Go.”
“Hold on, the DD is joining us for this. Also patching in Bebon from the FBI.”
After a short pause, Sandor could hear a door closing in the background, then Byrnes was on the call with them. “You there Dick?” Byrnes asked the man from the Bureau.
“I’m on,” Bebon said.
“Go ahead,” the DD told Raabe.
“We got a hit from the CBP. They’ve been helping us with the airports, checking out private flights. We just got word that three men with passports from the Dominican Republic landed in a Citation at Wilmington this afternoon.”
“Wilmington as in North Carolina?” Sandor asked.
“Check. The passengers and crew went through Customs without a hitch. Flew on to Stewart Airport, up in Newburgh. We confirmed arrival about four hours ago.”
“Photos? Descriptions?”
“Hispanics. One middle-aged guy and two young bucks. We have photos, just had them circulated to everyone. You’ll get them on your phone.”
“No one’s had a picture of Adina for more than ten years,” Sandor reminded them. “For all we know he’s had plastic surgery.”
“Listen up,” Raabe said. “There was nothing suspicious about this flight, the crew, or the passengers. Nothing unusual found on the plane. But try this one on for size. Once we had the intel, we brought in State. One of our big boys contacted his opposite number in Santo Domingo. Grabbed some mucky-muck away from dinner and had him run down the three names on their passports.”
“Don’t tell me. All phony?”
“Bingo. But the folks in Wilmington insist the passports were in order.”
“Meaning they could have been created by someone on the inside.”
“Tinkers to Evers to Chance,” Raabe said. “Maybe someone in Santo Domingo owed someone in Caracas a favor, and Adina needed an ID that would get him through Immigration.”
“Forgeries straight from the source. And the in-flight phone call that was intercepted . . .”
“Was to an airplane we fixed as someplace off the coast of South Carolina.”
“So the timing fits?”
“Like a glove. The call was made less than an hour before this Citation touched down in Wilmington.”
As Ferriello sped north on Centre Street he was getting the gist of this new intel. “Where are these three now?” he asked.
Raabe heard the question. “According to some guy working in the private terminal at Stewart, they picked up two rental cars and took off about three hours ago. The older man stuck around for a while, then left by himself. The other two left together shortly after they touched down.”
“I don’t want to rely on ‘some guy,’ ” Sandor said. “Sir, if this is Adina,” he said to the DD, “there’s no one in that airport that’ll be safe if he suspects we’re onto him.”
“I have a team on the way there now,” Bebon told them.
“Sir, with all respect, when your men approach they’ll need to keep an extremely low profile until we have more information. That sonuvabitch can smell trouble from a mile off.”
“Understood,” Bebon agreed.
“I assume the jet is still there,” Byrnes said.
“Correct,” Raabe told them.
“Any flight plan filed for a departure?”
“None,” Raabe said. “But the guy inside the terminal said the crew mentioned they expected to leave in the morning.”
“How big is the crew?”
“Two men.”
“Get me the names, I’ll have them checked out,” Bebon said. “Find out if they’re legit or part of Adina’s team.”
Sandor broke in again. “We’ve got to let the tower know that plane should not be permitted to take off under any circumstances. Use whatever excuse they have to.”
“Done,” Bebon responded.
Sandor still didn’t like the way things were playing out. “We need to lock the place down without Adina or his men getting a whiff of what we’re doing. That’s not going to be easy.”
Before anyone could respond, Ferriello’s phone buzzed. He connected the call, listened for a moment, then turned to Sandor. “They’ve got Vaknin,” he said.
“Keep me posted on what goes on up there,” Sandor said. “They’ve taken Vaknin into custody and I need to hear what he has to say.”
“Get back to us right away,” Byrnes said.
“We’re getting close to the hotel. I’ll report back.”
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX
NEW YORK
REGARDLESS OF THE fact that Manhattan is the world’s most famous island, people tend to forget that it is, in fact, an island. It is joined to the outside world by four tunnels and sixteen bridges.
The Holland and Lincoln tunnels connect to New Jersey. The Brooklyn Battery Tunnel leads to Brooklyn, the Queens Midtown Tunnel to Queens.
The regal George Washington Bridge is the only over-water connection to New Jersey. Three bridges lead back and forth to Brooklyn: the eponymous Brooklyn Bridge, the Williamsburg Bridge, and the Manhattan Bridge. Only one leads directly to Queens, the 59th Street Bridge, with the Triboro Bridge connecting Manhattan with both Queens and the Bronx. Ten other bridges connect to the Bronx: the Henry Hudson, 225th Street, Alexander Hamilton, University Heights, 181st Street Washington, 145th Street, Macombs Dam, Willis Avenue, Madison Avenue, and the Third Avenue bridges.
This arrangement had long been a source of fascination for Rafael Cabello. There was obviously no airport on the island, only a couple of heliports, and a handful of water taxis and ferries. What if every one of those bridges and tunnels were suddenly and violently destroyed? Or temporarily obstructed? Where would people go, how would they escape? How would they react to the sense of isolation?
A thrilling rescue by water followed the destruction of the World Trade Center towers, but that was a unique situation, and the damage to those skyscrapers was confined to a limited are
a of Manhattan. If, however, every bridge and tunnel around the island were rendered impassable in a coordinated strike, panic would reign as droves of New Yorkers would instinctively flee toward the subway and train systems. They would crowd into terminals, flood stairwells, and squeeze into subway stations.
Which would render them absolutely vulnerable to a biological attack.
That was the genius of Adina’s plan, inspired by Hurricane Sandy, when he saw the chaos after some of Manhattan’s bridges and tunnels were closed. He would now shut them all, a first devastating wave of terror that would set the stage for a second, even more deadly assault.
He mulled over the details once more as he sat alone, enjoying a relaxed dinner. Miguel Lasco had gone on his way with his money in hand and the assurance that his share of the cocaine would be delivered in just a few days. The important thing, Adina reminded him, was to successfully implement the first phase of this operation.
Lasco admitted that he was still worried about the involvement of this group from the Bronx, but Adina did what he could to allay those concerns. He explained again they had nothing to do with the scheduled assault on the bridges and tunnels, which was the truth.
Finishing his main course, Adina had a look down at the paper bag Lasco left with him. It contained the loaded revolver and additional ammunition he requested. Ironically, Adina was not personally violent. He actually found physical altercations repugnant. Nevertheless, he felt an unmistakable sense of relief knowing that he had a weapon available—just in case he needed it.
When his cell phone vibrated, Adina pulled it from his pocket and had a look. It was Alejandro, leaving the signal that confirmed he and Jorge were in their hotel room, all six cases in hand.
Adina nodded to himself, certain that all the pieces were in place. He called the waitress over and ordered dessert.
————
Before tonight Lasco knew Adina only by reputation. Now that he had met the man he was certain one part of his legend was true—Rafael Cabello was a very dangerous man. It was in his face, the way he moved, his cool reserve. And in those narrow, green, snakelike eyes.
Lasco was driving south on I-684, his only companion the attaché case Adina had given him, which contained more money than he had ever seen in his life. He did not dare open it in the restaurant, not with Adina watching. Outside, as soon as he got in the car, he had a quick look at the carefully prepared stacks of one-hundred-dollar bills.
Yet regardless of the money, he was not happy with news of detonators being supplied by those lunatics from the Bronx. Truth being told, he was never pleased about their involvement. When he was first approached by Adina’s emissary he was assured of having the preeminent position in coordinating and executing this attack. It was not until weeks later that he was informed of the jihadists and how they would be playing a secondary role. He never trusted them—who in his right mind would trust a religious extremist?—but for so long as he felt he was in charge he assumed he could handle them. Contact with their leader was limited, which was both a matter of caution and consistent with the intended level of their participation.
Now, in the face of what he had learned, he knew that if the source of these funds had been anyone else he might consider a last-minute change in plans. But it was Adina, and so that was impossible.
Early this morning his men were going to drive cars and vans and trucks to their appointed spots on every bridge and tunnel into and out of Manhattan. Once there they would slow down and then arrange a series of intentional collisions across every lane, three cars deep, bringing all traffic in both directions to a complete standstill.
The drivers of those vehicles would then leave their wrecks and jump into the lead cars that would stay ahead of these crashes, providing their means of escape. Before heading off, they would ignite strips leading to the trunks and cargo bays of their smashed vehicles, all of which were filled with gasoline and other explosive materials. The fuses were primitive, no high-tech items required. It would reduce the risks of detection or something going wrong. They would be set off, leaving behind them a fiery wall of destruction.
News of the detonators was a game-changer. Why were they needed? Was this some sort of double-cross?
His people saw themselves as freedom fighters, adversaries of the American capitalist machine, enemies of the privileged elite. They were most definitely not suicide bombers. That insanity was left to deranged zealots who believed their greater reward would come in heaven.
Lasco had no specifics on these devices. Were they timers, radio activated, IFR? What were they really going to be used for? Lasco did not believe for a moment the story about explosions in the financial district. Adina had a plan he was not sharing. Did he intend to remotely ignite the vehicles his men were driving before they could make it safely away?
That possibility turned his stomach inside out. He knew Adina had lied to him, or was at least withholding the truth. Which left him with an agonizing choice. Defying the man seemed absolutely out of the question, but sending all these young men to their deaths seemed equally impossible. Should he share his fears with the other men who had organized this with him? Or should he just move forward, warning them all to remain alert?
Lasco drove on through the night, not sure of what he would do when he returned to the garage in Washington Heights, but certain that he now understood what it meant to shake hands with the devil.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN
NEW YORK
FERRIELLO CONTINUED TO weave in and out of the uptown traffic on his way to Times Square. His cell phone was turned to the speaker mode as he and Sandor listened to news of Vaknin’s capture.
“We brought him back to the precinct,” the SWAT team leader explained, “but the feds want him at Federal Plaza. And fast.”
“Where is he now?” Sandor asked.
“He’s sitting in the captain’s office. Won’t say a thing, already demanding to see a lawyer.”
“Naturally. I assume you explained that he’s not going to be allowed to talk with anyone but us as long as we’re facing a credible terrorist threat.”
“We certainly did. By the way, we took his driver too, or whoever he is. Tossed him in a holding cell.”
“Not anywhere near his pal Ivan I hope.”
“Hey Sandor, we may not be federal agents, but we didn’t just fall off the back of a potato truck.”
“Sorry, no offense intended.”
“Yeah.”
“Just a lot of intel coming at us all at once.”
“Always the way, right?”
“Unfortunately,” Sandor said. “How would you guys feel about my speaking with Vaknin?”
The SWAT team leader chuckled. “Ferriello told me about you and Vaknin. Fast friends?”
“Something like that.”
“Hang on, I’ll clear it with the captain. And Sandor.”
“Yes?”
“FYI, we’ll have to tape the call.”
“Got it.”
A couple of minutes later they were connected to Vaknin, who was told that Sandor and Ferriello were on the line and that the conversation was being recorded. The first thing the Russian said was “I still have a headache from where you hit me.”
“Hey pal, my wrists and ankles are still bleeding from your plastic handcuffs. Just in case I decide to have you prosecuted for kidnapping a federal agent I’ve taken some nice photos of the cuts.”
Vaknin grunted into the phone.
“We’ll have plenty of time to compare bruises later. Right now I want you to tell me everything you know about what’s going down tonight.”
“You mean, other than the raid on my club and the police illegally arresting me and my employees.”
“Yes, other than that.”
“I don’t know a thing,” Vaknin said without hesitation.
“Look, whatever happens, your situation is going to turn from bad to really horrible if you withhold information. Don’t be an idiot Vaknin, you�
�re in the business of narcotics, not terrorism.”
“I want to speak to my lawyer.”
“You’re not listening to me. We’ve got your boy Ivan in lockup. Once he found out this was about a terrorist attack he made a deal.”
“Pizdet.”
“So you say.”
Vaknin huffed and puffed into the phone. The man definitely needed to stop smoking, Sandor noted yet again.
“We have your computer.”
This time Vaknin answered with a loud snort. “So what? You going to arrest me for cybersex?”
“I’m going to hold you incommunicado until you tell me what you know about Adina’s plans.”
“You’re not listening to me, Sandor. I know nothing about Rafael Cabello or his plans, it has nothing to do with me. How much clearer can I be than that?”
“You reached out to Ronny Sudakov again. What did he tell you this time?”
“You tapped my phones?”
“Let’s just say a little birdie told me.”
“Rubbish. If you listened to the conversation you already know what that moron said.”
“Indulge me.”
There was silence, then Vaknin spoke up again. “He admits he became involved with Adina, but insists it was only business.”
“The business of narcotics.”
Vaknin did not respond.
“So, he was dealing with a known terrorist, but he claims terrorism was never on the agenda.”
“So he claims.”
“And you’re also just a businessman, is that it?”
“I am not a terrorist.”
“So you claim.” Sandor looked to Ferriello, then said to Vaknin, “In the interest of saving your own hide, you don’t have a thing to tell me about what’s been planned?”
“If I knew I would make the deal, wouldn’t I?”
Ferriello shot Sandor a look that said he didn’t like the man but he believed him.
“All right,” Sandor said with a nod, “enjoy the hospitality of the Brooklyn Narcotics Squad. We’ll get back to you.”
When he punched the END button he saw that Craig Raabe had sent him an email with images attached. They were the passport photos of the three men who had flown from Wilmington into Stewart Airport a few hours ago. He opened them, one at a time. The first two meant nothing—he had never seen Adina. But when he got to the third image he said, “Damn! I know this guy.”
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