by L. D Beyer
The president turned to the mayor. “What can I do to help?” he asked.
“We need FEMA, sir,” the mayor responded immediately.
The governor nodded in concurrence.
“They’ve already deployed,” the president responded. “I’m told that they’re in the air and circling, waiting for your order. They can be on the ground within the hour.”
___
Five minutes later, after a brief huddle with the mayor and governor, the president climbed into the waiting helicopter. Fifteen minutes after that, for the third time that morning, he climbed the steps to Air Force One where he made a brief statement to the reporters on the plane then retreated to his office.
As the president sat back in his chair while the plane taxied, his mind raced with what he needed to do. He had been amazed at how quickly and efficiently New York City had responded. Ever since September 11th, they had been preparing for when, not if, the next strike would come. And city officials and the police and fire departments had been well prepared. FEMA teams had landed and were in the process of offloading their equipment. The FBI had dispatched their HazMat team as well as a specialized Evidence Response Team to assist in the forensic investigation. The Nuclear Regulatory Commission’s NEST, or Nuclear Emergency Support Team, was on the scene, and FBI Tactical Aviation units had been deployed, not for medical evacuation but to assist New York officials in their search. The idea that another dirty bomb would go off at any minute weighed heavily on everyone.
He leaned forward and glanced at his notes. He had sketched the outlines of a speech. Once back in the White House, he planned to address the people of New York City, the nation, and the world. Then he had numerous phone calls to return to world leaders who had offered their condolences and pledged their support. But first and foremost, he told himself as he sat back again, he had to prevent the terrorists from striking again. He pushed the speech aside and grabbed the phone. The Air Force communications specialist sitting behind the cockpit on the deck above him answered immediately.
“Get me Matthew Richter and Pat Monahan,” the president ordered.
While he waited for the call, he realized that he didn’t need to script his speech. He knew what he wanted to say.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
President Kendall stared somberly at the camera for a moment before he spoke.
“Earlier today, America was attacked by terrorists in yet another incident that reminds us of the fragile hold we have on peace. This morning, in New York City, our fellow citizens were attacked on their way to work, on their way to school, and as they were going about their daily lives, enjoying the freedoms that we as a nation have come to cherish. As most of you know by now, a radiological device was detonated in Grand Central Terminal in the middle of the morning commute.
“To those directly affected by these terrible and tragic events, and to those who lost loved ones, who lost friends, neighbors, and coworkers, America offers its deepest condolences and its prayers for healing and for peace.” He paused, his eyes firm on the camera. “At the same time, America offers you this commitment: we will stand by your side until those who were responsible for these criminal acts are brought to justice.”
The president stared hard at the camera.
“Make no mistake. These were criminal acts, acts of murder and terror committed by cowards who once again seek to test America’s resolve. To many around the world, America represents freedom, America represents democracy, America represents equality and, more than anything, America represents opportunity. Our prosperity has been earned through our own sweat, our own ingenuity, and through our own hard work and sacrifice. While most around the world admire these traits, those very things which make us a leader among nations, there are those who seek to destroy them. There are those who seek to use the blood of innocent people to spread their message of hatred, their message of intolerance. There are those who seek to destroy our way of life.”
The president shook his head. “They will never succeed. They will never take away that which makes us a great nation, for our resolve is firm, our faith is unshakable, and our commitment to freedom knows no bounds.”
He paused a moment, but his eyes never left the camera.
“I want to assure you that we are doing everything we can to assist those affected by today’s tragic events. This morning, I met with officials in New York City, and I was comforted by the level of organization and professionalism of those in charge and by the magnitude of the response that they were able to bring to bear in a very short period of time. To the brave men and women of the fire and police departments in New York City, to the dedicated medical personnel working as emergency medical technicians and as doctors and nurses in the many hospitals around the city, to the relief agencies, and to the ordinary citizens who responded today to help their fellow man, we salute your heroic efforts. Your bravery gives us hope. Yet we know that our task has only just begun. After meeting with the mayor and the governor, I activated the federal emergency response plan, and units of the federal government are currently assisting in the rescue and recovery efforts.
“Unlike September Eleventh, and unlike the recent terrorist attack in Mexico City, this was a radiological attack designed to sow fear, designed to shake our faith, designed to make us run and hide.” He paused and his eyes narrowed. “We will never run. We will never hide. We will never cower in fear. We will never give up our faith in America.”
He paused again as he took a breath. “As I speak, specialized units of the federal government, working with state and local officials, are working to assess the impacts of this event and the extent of the damage. They are working diligently to contain the radiological materials that were released. This will not be easy, and I ask for your patience. But the teams I met with this morning are up to the task, and the plans I reviewed give me comfort that we will succeed.”
He lay his hands flat on the desk and continued. “I have ordered all agencies of the federal government to do everything in their power to ensure that an event like this never happens again.”
He paused once more, his eyes still on the camera.
“New York City will come back. We will recover, and both New York City and America will be stronger than ever before because you can never extinguish the lights of freedom and you can never break the character of our great nation.
“I want to thank the many leaders from around the world who have offered their condolences and who have pledged their support. Your friendship and your compassion is a comfort in our time of need. And to those behind these cowardly acts, I say this: Your day will come. I have authorized the full resources of federal intelligence and law enforcement agencies to do everything in their power to bring those responsible to justice. And we will not stop until we have done so.” His eyes narrowed again. “You may run and you may hide, but you will be caught. And you will pay the price.”
The president looked down for a moment before continuing.
“For many this morning, their peaceful world has been shattered. And as a nation, we mourn your loss and we offer our prayers and our continued support. And with you, all of America is united in our resolve for justice and peace. We will restore. We will recover. And our freedom will ring loud and clear for all to hear.
“Thank you and God bless America.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
While she stared at the screen, Agent Mona Baylor grabbed her cup and took a sip before she realized that it was empty. It was six in the morning and she was coming up on twenty-four hours without sleep. She glanced over at the coffee pot, just twenty feet away. Not yet, she told herself. One more station. She clicked on the icon and copied the three files onto her computer. Then she sat back and rubbed her neck while she waited. This was her seventh station and she was tired; all the more so since each station had multiple cameras. She had checked almost thirty already and while she found a number of matches that were concerning—a handful of people currently wanted for parole
violations and one former Wall Street investment banker wanted on charges of security fraud—she hadn’t found what she was looking for.
The copy complete, she leaned forward again and clicked the mouse several times, checking to see that all three files had copied properly. Each contained the security footage from one of the three cameras in the Westport, Connecticut, Metro-North station. Westport was next on the list, she told herself, and it had to be either here or Stamford. Then she caught herself as she remembered. Or Harlem. She selected the file for the camera on the westbound platform. That was the best place to start, she knew. The person she was looking for, whoever that might be, had to have boarded the train at some point.
She opened the file with the viewer and scrolled through in fast forward, watching the time stamp until she got to 6:14 am. She stopped and the picture froze. She saw the train in the station, the clusters of people waiting to climb on board. Then she scrolled in reverse, watching as people seemingly walked backwards, literally and in time: stepping off the train instead of on, into the station instead of out. She kept scrolling until the platform was empty. She checked the time stamp: 6:09 am. That was when the first person stepped onto the platform. She clicked the mouse again and began to watch the video in slow motion from that point forward.
She was searching for someone with a bag. Male or female, young or old; she wasn’t sure. But someone had climbed on board with a bag—a carry-on suitcase, with wheels, the now dead conductor had radioed.
She stopped on a woman. She scrolled forward then backwards a few times, searching for the best image. Then she studied the bag. It was on wheels and it looked like a computer bag, the modern-day version of a briefcase. She enlarged the image, placing the box around the woman’s face. She clicked the mouse and the image brightened and sharpened automatically. She saved it. She would check it against the database when she was done.
An hour and a half later, when she had finished with the Westport station, she had nine images that were of interest. She looked at them all again, one at a time, but kept coming back to the man. He had waited on the platform for three minutes before the train arrived. What struck her was his smile. Whereas most people wore resigned looks—the toll of years of commuting—he had smiled and nodded at several people before boarding. She would run him first.
Three hours later, Agent Baylor knew that she had him. The grinning man had boarded the train in Westport at 6:14 am, pulling a suitcase on wheels behind him. It was the type of soft-sided nylon case seen frequently being pulled by harried passengers in airports around the world. Then she saw the man again, on the 125th Street platform, at five minutes after seven. He had just exited the train and, minutes later, after speaking to someone on the platform, he had caught another train north. His carry-on was nowhere in sight.
What clinched it for her was when she ran the face through the database. The facial recognition software had compared his face to the millions of images of convicted felons, suspected terrorists, law enforcement officers, government officials and federal employees, foreigners visiting the country on visas, and ordinary citizens whose image had been captured for one reason or another. In the man’s case, the computer had matched the face on the train platform to that of Terry Fogel, Irish terrorist and explosives expert.
She reached for the phone to call her supervisor, making a note as she did so to run the face of the young, well-dressed black man that Fogel had spoken to on the 125th Street platform. The FBI would have to track him down and find out exactly what his connection was to Fogel and to the bombing of Grand Central Terminal.
___
The NRC agent frowned. “Three canisters are unaccounted for.” She stared at the manager, waiting for an explanation.
“That’s impossible!” the owner insisted.
The agent spun the papers then pushed them across the desk. “Here’s the latest inventory. We opened all of the containers and checked each serial number against the log then against invoices and return orders.” She tapped the sheet. Three canisters were highlighted. “These three are missing.”
The owner shook his head. “There must be some mistake!” He stared at the documents, then flipped through the thirty pages of sales records, trying to find it. By the time he got to the end, he felt sick. “These are the paper records,” he said, looking up. “Have you checked the computer?”
“Of course,” the agent responded, sliding another report across the desk. “We’ve gone back eleven years,” she said. She folded her arms across her chest and waited.
The owner grabbed the report, stared at it for a second, then dropped it on the desk. Eleven years, he thought. A medical doctor, he had seen the opportunity years ago. His first investment was in an imaging center, providing X-Rays, MRIs, and CAT scans. While that had proved to be lucrative, he had quickly realized that many of his colleagues were thinking the same thing. Then he discovered he could make just as much money—more actually, a lot more—helping them to set up their own imaging centers. His company provided the equipment, the software, the training, and the service. Imaging had branched into nuclear medicine and soon hospitals were knocking on his door. And they had been doing so for eleven years, ever since he sold his first brachytherapy system.
He glanced up at the agent, a look of panic in his eyes.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
“The Islamist angle appears to have been a diversion,” Monahan began. “We’ve uncovered evidence indicating that this was ordered by Pablo Guerrero.”
Richter waited for the FBI Director to explain. Monahan handed him a series of photos. Richter picked up the first: a black and white security camera shot of a man waiting on a train platform. The second, the same man on a train platform again. But the platform looked different, Richter realized. He flipped to the next. It showed the man, dressed differently this time, in a crowd. He had a small bag slung over his shoulder. In all three pictures, Richter noticed, he wore a lopsided grin. Richter started to flip to the next then paused to study the man’s eyes more closely. Scowling, he looked up.
“Terry Fogel?”
Monahan nodded. “Correct. The first is a picture of him on the train platform in Westport, Connecticut.” He pointed at the picture. “Notice the carry-on.”
Richter glanced back at the first photo and spotted the bag that Fogel was pulling behind him. He had missed that earlier.
“The second,” Monahan continued, “is on the 125th Street platform.”
Richter flipped to this and noticed that the bag was missing. Son of a bitch! He glanced at the third photo.
“That’s in Philadelphia, in the airport.” Monahan held up another group of pictures. “Long story short, after he hopped off the train in Harlem, he somehow made his way to Philly. We suspect that he had a car waiting somewhere in the city. From Philly, he flew to Houston; we have pictures of him there. Then he caught a flight to Mexico City”—Monahan flipped through the photos and pulled one out—“where he was met by one of Guerrero’s contacts.”
Richter shook his head as he glanced at the photo. Unfortunately, all of this came from reviewing security camera footage after the fact. Apparently no one had noticed Fogel or anything suspicious at the time. Which, he realized after a moment, raised a question.
“False passport?” he asked.
Monahan nodded and slid another photo across the desk.
Richter picked it up. The passport photo—a U.S. Passport, he noted—was in color. Fogel, he could see, had changed both the color of his hair and of his eyes. Other than that, he looked the same. Christ! he thought. The man was arrogant.
“There’s something else,” Monahan said.
Catching Monahan’s tone, Richter looked up.
“More cesium canisters are missing.”
Oh, shit! Richter thought. “How is that possible?” he asked, then his eyes narrowed. “How many?”
“Three,” Monahan said. “Apparently, record keeping at the medical supply company was spotty.”
> Richter frowned as Monahan continued.
“These things are shipped and stored in lead containers. When the driver reported that the van had been broken into, the company only inventoried what was on the van. They opened the container and validated that only one canister was missing.”
“But they never inventoried the warehouse,” Richter guessed.
Monahan nodded. “Correct. As I said, these things are stored in lead containers. Initially the company checked the containers in the warehouse, made sure that all were accounted for, checked to see that the seals were intact and thought everything was fine. It wasn’t until an NRC team went in, opened all the containers and compared the contents inside with the company’s records and with their own records, that they noticed anything missing.”
Richter’s eyes narrowed. “Is there any way we can measure how much cesium was released in the blast?”
Monahan shook his head. “I don’t know. I’ve asked the same thing. Most of the blast was confined to the tunnels. We’re taking samples from the blast site outwards: in the main concourse, in the surrounding vicinity, the tunnels, the air vents…” His voice trailed off. “Based upon that, we’ll do some mathematical modeling.” He shook his head. “But I’m not sure how much confidence we can place in the results.”
Richter nodded slowly as he considered the implications. Fogel might have used only one canister of cesium in his dirty bomb. Or he might have used all four. And without knowing for certain, he had to assume the worst.
He and Monahan shared a glance. The possibility of a second dirty bomb attack already weighed heavily on everyone’s minds. And now the risk of another attack had suddenly increased.