by Blake Banner
I had to make a decision, but I was out of options, so that meant there was only one decision to make. I had to go and see David Staines. I had to convince him that I was not crazy, and that there was a plot to plant a bomb at the UN. You’d think that such an allegation, coming from somebody like me, might make them shift their asses enough to look into it, but I guess like everybody else in the great machine that is western society, they were engaged in risk assessment and risk management. What was the biggest risk? Canceling the Conference of the Century because some kook said there was a bomb, and then winding up with egg on your face and a PR disaster, or going ahead with the Conference of the Century and having it bombed?
From my perspective and the average guy on the street’s, the answer might seem simple and obvious. But the higher up the ladder you climb in the termite hill that is western society, the more your perspective tends to warp. As Ben had said to me, from Omega’s perspective, sooner or later, all those termites are going to die, and most of their lives will have been insignificant. So when the vast majority of people’s lives become insignificant to you, what is important? Some abstract idea like obedience, or belonging? I didn’t know the answer to that. All I knew was that I had one last shot left, and I had to take it.
I walked to the elevators and rode up to David Staines’ floor. I walked down the long passage with a sense of unreality haunting me. I barely believed myself what I was going to tell him. How the hell could I expect him to believe it?
I knocked on his door and almost immediately it was yanked open. He had his coat in his hand, like he was about to hang it up. He frowned at me from his deceptively flabby face and said, “You?” Then his eyes went to my clip-on name tag, and then back to my face. “You’re not Danny Heinz.”
“No, I’m Lacklan Walker, and I need to talk to you. More than that, I need you to listen to me.”
“Is it about Dr. Marni Gilbert?”
I shook my head. “No. It’s not. I’ve spoken to her and to Professor Gibbons. This is much more serious, Mr. Staines. I really need you to listen to me.”
He examined my face a moment, then heaved a big sigh and stepped back. “Fine, come in. Take a seat.”
I went in. He closed the door and hung up his coat. Then he sat behind his desk and I sat opposite him in a strange reenactment of our first meeting.
“I haven’t got a lot of time, Mr. Walker, I have to catch a flight in about an hour. So I’d appreciate it if you made this brief.”
I smiled, thinking about the irony of his words. He had no idea how little time he had.
“Mr. Staines, somebody has planted a bomb, or is going to plant a bomb, to detonate during Marni Gilbert and Professor Philip Gibbons’ talk. The bomb was planted by agents working for ISIS under instructions from Abdul Abbassi, formerly a member of the Taliban, now probably freelancing for ISIS.” He was staring at me like I was crazy. He went to speak and I raised my hand. “Please wait. I haven’t finished. I know this because I bugged the house they had in the Bronx. I can get the audio files to you. I have already forwarded them to Special Agent Harrison Mclean of the FBI. He is currently either dead or in surgery for a bullet wound to the chest inflicted by Abdul Abbassi. I have on my phone a recording of my interrogation of that man, during which he admits that there is a bomb. Now that is not everything, Mr. Staines. There is one more very important point. The bomb is a dirty bomb, and when it detonates, it will not only kill a lot of people in this building. It will probably kill tens of thousands of people in New York. Maybe more even than that. I realize that this sounds crazy. But let me ask you something. If you had been the Commander at the First Precinct on the morning of the eleventh of September, 2001, and I had come in to you and said Islamic terrorists were going to fly two airliners into the World Trade Center, would you have thought I was crazy? Well, Mr. Staines, this is considerably less crazy than that.”
He stared at me for a slow count of three, then screwed up his eyes and shook his head.
“…What?”
I looked at my watch.
“We have just two hours. What are you going to do?”
Seventeen
“First you come in here demanding to see Dr. Marni Gilbert based on some story about your childhood relationship. Now you barge in, wearing an ID badge that does not belong to you, spouting some cock and bull story about Islamic terrorists and dirty bombs! And you expect me to cancel what is arguably the most important conference in recent history, on the basis of this…” He was momentarily lost for words and waved his hand at me. “Crap! Well the answer is no! Mr. Walker, absolutely not! And furthermore, get out! Or I will have security throw you out!”
I raised a hand. A wave of exhaustion washed over me. “I know it sounds crazy, Mr. Staines…”
“Sounds crazy? No, Mr. Walker, it is crazy! Have you any conception of how difficult it would be to get a weapon into this building?” He shook his head. “It isn’t difficult. It’s not. It’s impossible! And as for the kind of device you are talking about, it would weigh at least two hundred and fifty pounds. And you expect me to believe that a handful of terrorists are going to slip this thing past security without being noticed? You are out of your mind!”
It was what I had expected him to say. It was what I would have said if anybody had told me this story. I sighed. “Will you at least…?”
“No! I am not going to do anything!” He leaned forward with his elbows on the desk, staring at me like he couldn’t decide if I was stupid or crazy or both. “The research Dr. Gilbert and Professor Gibbons are going to present this afternoon is so shattering it will change the course of history. I have a responsibility to ensure that this conference goes ahead and it will take a lot more than the insane babblings of a maniac to make me do anything, Mr. Walker!”
I repeated, “Will you at least listen to my interrogation of Abdul Abbassi?”
He sighed noisily, puffing out his cheeks, like I was really boring him. He glanced at his watch. “How long is it?”
“Not very long, Mr. Staines.” I reached in my pocket, pulled out the phone, and found the recording. Before clicking play, I looked him in the eye. “I understand everything you say, but you also need to be asking yourself, if Marni and Professor Gibbons’ talk is so important to the future of our world, do you really want to be the man who allowed them to get killed?”
I pressed ‘play’, there was a moment’s silence, and then my voice spoke, threatening to torture Abbassi the same way I had tortured Aatifa. It wasn’t a great start. When Abbassi made his references to Former President Dick Hennessy and Prince Awad in connection with the sale of SF2, Staines narrowed his eyes at me and sighed, shaking his head. But as the recording progressed, he became more serious and listened more attentively.
At one point he reached over and paused it. “Who is to say that this is authentic, Mr. Walker? Why should I believe that this is not just something that you have staged?”
I thought about it for a moment. Then I shrugged. “Because if I had staged it, I would have put myself in a much better light. I would not have presented myself as a desperate man prepared to resort to torture. And I would have made Abbassi more convincing.” He stared at me, uncertain what to believe. I hesitated. “You remember the massacre at Sayad, in northern Afghanistan?”
He nodded. “Yes, of course. It was one of the rare occasions when the Taliban and ISIS cooperated.”
“That was Abbassi. He was with the Taliban. And the later massacre at Baykhan, that earned him the title The Butcher of Helmand. He was hunting for me. We had been ambushed and I was separated from my unit. He suspected the villagers of helping me. They hadn’t, but he wiped out the village. This man is now a guest living at Prince Mohamed bin Awad’s house on East 79th Street. And I know that Hennessy and this Benjamin Wilde—I know him as Benjamin Brown—I know that they went to Prince Awad’s house after the fracas at the debate. I know because I followed them.”
He narrowed his eyes at me again, drew breath, shook his head, a
nd sighed. Finally, he said, “Why?”
I echoed his sigh. “I can’t tell you everything, Mr. Staines, not now. It is a very long, complicated story and we just haven’t got the time. But just pause for a moment and think about the interests that are in play here. Think of the stakes. You know yourself that the bulk of the entire planet’s wealth is shared between a tiny number of men and women, and you know very well that they have the power to shape international politics.”
“You are talking about the Bilderberg conspiracy theory.”
“Maybe.”
I reached over and pressed play again. We sat in silence and listened to the rest of the recording. At the end, when Mclean and Jones burst in, he looked up at me and studied my face while he listened. The last words audible were mine, speaking to the 911 operator:
“Shut up! Two FBI Agents down, critical, Bryant Avenue, the Bronx!” Then there was silence, followed by my voice again, harsh and brief, “I warned you. I sent you the damned files.” Another pause, and then, “…I’m going to borrow this. I may need it.” Then the recording abruptly finished.
“What was that?”
“Special Agents Harrison Mclean and Daren Jones. I had tried to warn them, as I have tried to warn you. Just like you, they thought I was crazy. I had Abbassi handcuffed to a chair. Jones made the mistake of un-cuffing him. Abbassi took his weapon and shot them both. I called 911, but Jones was already dead.” I reached in my pocket, pulled out Mclean’s badge and threw it on the desk. “I borrowed this to help me get in here.”
He stared at it a moment, then picked it up and examined it. I said, “If I were you, I would call the Bureau, you must have a contact there, and ask them about Jones and Mclean.” We stared at each other a moment. I pressed him, “This is not a hoax, Mr. Staines, whether the bomb is inside the building or not, whether it is possible or not to get it in, there is a plot to bomb the conference.”
“How do I know you did not shoot these agents yourself?”
My exasperation was dampened by my exhaustion. “For crying out loud, Staines! Listen to the damned thing again! I clearly warned them not to release him!”
I reached over, took the phone from his fingers, found the spot and switched it on again. “Listen to it!”
It started with Mclean’s voice shouting.
“Freeze, Walker! Get on your face!”
“Jesus, Mclean! Where were you when they were handing out brains? Did you get the files I sent you?”
“Get on your face!”
“No. Just listen to me, will you? This man is involved in a plot to bomb the UN conference in about nine hours…”
“I don’t want to hear it! For the last time! Get on your face!”
“I am unarmed, Mclean. Even you can’t be stupid enough to shoot an unarmed man. Do you know who this guy is?”
“I am Abdul Abbassi! I am attached to the Embassy! I have diplomatic immunity! I am an aide to Prince Mohamed bin Awad! You are required by law to release me!”
“Do not release him, Mclean! This man is a dangerous terrorist! Do not release him!”
Some rusting, and then Jones’ voice: “They’re standard cuffs…”
“Jones! For crying out loud! This man is a killer!”
“Shut up, Walker! I’ve about had it with you!”
“Mclean, for crying out loud…”
Some muttering. Then me again, shouting, “Jones!”
A shot followed by a grunt. Then two shots in rapid succession. Then two more shots and the sound of shattering glass. The sound of scrambling, then my voice, urgent:
“Shut up! Two FBI Agents down! Critical! Bryant Avenue, the Bronx!” A brief silence, then, “I warned you. I sent you the damned files… I’m going to borrow this. I may need it.”
Then silence. I watched him while he stared at my cell. Finally, I said to him, “Does that sound like I shot them…? Does it?”
He rubbed his face with his hands. “Jesus Christ…”
“We haven’t got time, Staines. We have…” I checked my watch. “…Barely one and three-quarter hours. You have got to take this on board and respond! If I am right and you are wrong, the consequences…”
“I know! I know! You don’t need to tell me.” He stood. “Very well, Walker. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll talk to the head of security and get him to talk to the FBI. After that, it’s their show.”
I studied his face a moment. “Tell me at least that you’ll order a search of the building.”
“Yes. I’ll do that, and I’ll have them tighten security at the entrances and the area around the building. Just stay here, will you? I’ll be back.”
I nodded and he left the office. I picked up the phone and called Marni again. Again there was no response from the apartment, and her phone was either off or had no signal. I swore under my breath. Maybe she had decided to go to Boston after all. Maybe the battery in her phone had died and she hadn’t had the chance to charge it.
Maybe.
I stood and went to the window. I looked out at the vast, sparkling sheet of the East River, and Brooklyn across its shimmering surface. I looked at the sun rising through the blue sky toward noon. A feeling of impotence and exhaustion drained through me. I felt I would rather face an army of trained killers than the invincible stupidity of a handful of bureaucrats. I glanced at the clock. It was eleven. I tried to decide whether I had got through to Staines. It was hard to tell. He was taking his time in coming back. Maybe he was organizing a search. A chopper flew over the river, banked and headed north.
I sat and closed my eyes. I needed to sleep. I needed rest, but my brain wouldn’t stop racing. I tried Marni again with the same result. When I checked the clock again, it was eleven fifteen.
The door opened behind me and a guy in a suit came in followed by two cops, a man and a woman. They had that blank look that cops reserve for people they think are going to be a problem.
I said, “What’s this?”
The suit said, “I am Hans Gunther, head of security. Are you Lacklan Walker?”
“Yes. Where is Staines?”
“This is the man. Arrest him and take him in.”
I stared at him. “Now wait a minute! Are you insane?”
They drew their weapons and covered me. The woman said, “Now you had better come quietly, sir! We are putting you under arrest on suspicion of murder. You do not have to say anything, but anything you do say may be taken down and used against you. Cuff him, Bill.”
Bill pulled his cuffs with his left hand but kept his .38 in his right, trained on me. He said, “Turn around please, sir.”
I shook my head at Gunther. “Was that Staines in the chopper? What will you do when the blast goes off, Hans? It will kill you too, you know.”
He didn’t answer, but Bill said, “Don’t make me use force, sir.”
I turned around and put my hands behind my back. I felt the cuffs bite and they pushed me into the corridor. I heard Gunther’s voice saying, “Officers, please keep this as discreet as possible. This conference is important and it has to go off without a hitch.”
Bill answered, “Don’t worry, Mr. Gunther. We’ll be discreet.”
They took me to the elevators. There was little or no point in breaking free from these cops. In fact, maybe being taken into custody was the best thing I could do. Maybe an interrogation by an NYPD detective was exactly what was required. It might be my last best hope. But there was no time. I kept telling myself, there was no time.
We reached the first floor and stepped into the lobby. It wasn’t crowded, but it was getting busy. Directly ahead of us was the information center. Beyond it, on the right, were the main entrance and the stairs to the upper floor. On the left was the meditation room, and just before it the entrance to the gallery overlooking conference room four. I stopped dead in my tracks. There, outside the door to the gallery, was Marni. She was talking urgently to Gibbons, who looked flushed and angry. She glanced at me, frowned for a second, then gave her
head a single shake and turned back to Gibbons. I remembered her words: “…I’ll make my own choices. We are what we are, remember?”
I felt a terrible twist in my gut. This was why I loved her and admired her. But now, if I failed, as it seemed I would, I knew that she would die.
Bill gave me a shove and said, “Come on, pal, don’t make this hard,” and maneuvered me toward the main doors, where the security checks were being carried out on the people entering. I seemed to see it in slow motion. They had two channels set up, like the security channels you go through at an airport, only now they also had sniffer dogs. There were two long lines stretching out into the plaza. Two women wearing bhurkas, and three guys in jeans, with long, straggly beards, were arguing loudly with one of the security guards. In the other channel, people were staring and looking nervous. I saw an elderly man in a wheelchair being pushed by a young couple. They were giving disapproving looks at the group which was making the ruckus.
One of the women suddenly shouted, “Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!” Then the others took up the shout. Security guards started closing on them. Others came running from other parts of the lobby. We kept moving toward the exit. The couple turned away from the ugly scene and pushed the wheelchair forward a few feet as another three or four people passed through the scanners and the metal detectors. Behind them, a group of tourists in the eternal anorak and stupid rucksack uniform, with their little bottles of water, closed in.
As we reached the exit, the five Arabs had taken hold of each other and started chanting, “U.S. murderers! Allahu Abar! Israel murderers! Allahu Akbar! U.S. murderers! Allahu Abar! Israel murderers! Allahu Akbar!” And other Arabs in their line had started joining in. For a moment it looked like the security guards had more on their hands than they could cope with. The guards in the near line paused and looked over. I saw a guy on a radio talking to somebody. More guards appeared across the lobby, trying not to run. The wheelchair went through and so did the couple pushing it. It set off the metal detectors and the guards closed in. Bill opened the door and we stepped outside into the late morning sunshine.