Fear City

by F. Paul Wilson

  She coughed a spray of blood, splattering Jack’s face, then stiffened, then went limp. Her eyes lay open, glazing as they fixed on the ceiling.

  “Hadya!”

  He jammed two fingers against the side of her throat, searching for a pulse and finding none.

  “Shit.”

  Gone. Another one gone. Abe had been kidding but maybe he was right: Cristin, Bonita, Rico, Bertel … now Hadya. Knowing Jack seemed like a death sentence.

  With no other recourse, he used the hem of the coat she wore to wipe her blood off his face, then rose and looked down at her.

  Poor kid. She didn’t look more than twenty—twenty-two, tops. Had Kadir done this? Yeah, probably.

  He could see how it might have gone down: Hadya sneaking up for a look, getting caught, one of the jihadists—most likely her own brother—silencing her for good. It made sense on their part. They were on the precipice of committing a mind-boggling act of terror: killing a head of state, a U.S. senator, and heavily damaging, maybe destroying the headquarters of the world’s major international organization.

  They couldn’t let all that be jeopardized by a single young woman, even if she was the sister of one of their own. They couldn’t risk the possibility that she would raise the alarm before they’d done the deed.

  “Why didn’t you stay out of it?” he said. “I told you I was going to look into it. If you’d just…”

  What was the use? She was gone. None of this could be undone.

  And he’d have to leave her here. But first …

  He flashed his light around until he found a ratty rag that looked motheaten but was most likely chemical eaten. He used that to pull the blade from her chest without touching the handle. He wanted to leave any prints there intact for the police. If Kadir was smart he’d be planning to skip the country should his scheme play out. But maybe he wasn’t so smart. If he stayed, this would lead the police to him.

  Unless Jack found him first.

  Jack would find him first.

  He’d start looking, right now. A call to Burkes, a call to 911 about this poor girl, and then over to Manhattan … to midtown east … to the UN Plaza … looking for … what?

  Two trucks. But what kind?

  Hadya’s English vocabulary was limited. She’d seen them, but “trucks” from her could mean an enclosed pickup, a panel truck, a van, a goddamn dump truck, for Christ sake. He didn’t even know what color.

  This wasn’t going to be easy. Which meant he’d better get rolling.

  6

  “Do you know how many bloody trucks there are in this city?” Burkes said, his eyes studying the uptown-bound traffic on First Avenue. “Even an SUV is officially designated a ‘light truck.’”

  They were seated in the front seats of Burkes’s van, idling by a fire hydrant across from the UN complex. They’d move if prompted by NYPD but the diplomatic plates, especially on this block, cut them a lot of slack. Burkes had the wheel, Jack sat shotgun. Rob and Gerald were out wandering around.

  “She wouldn’t have called an SUV a truck,” Jack said.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  Burkes shifted in his seat. “All right, I’ve put NYPD on notice that I’ve had reliable word about a couple of big bombs wheeling around the city and that they’re most likely headed here.”

  Jack looked around at all the traffic flowing by. “Then why isn’t the area shut down?”

  “Because they’re not buying it.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “They asked me for corroboration and when I couldn’t give them any, they looked at me like I was some sort of bampot.”

  Jack couldn’t believe this. “They think you’re lying?”

  “No, but they can’t go disrupting the city on what might well be faulty information. So they want to hear it from the source. What do I do? Give them al-Thani? Bloody lot of good that’ll do. And then they’ll want to know who turned him into a turnip.”

  They couldn’t give the cops Hadya either.

  “Sheesh.”

  “I can’t say as I blame them. Say they believe me and they clamp down. Word can’t help getting out that they’re looking for two trucks filled with explosives. You know what happens then.”

  Jack nodded. “Panic.”

  “Right. So they checked with their own sources and none of them know a thing about it. They called the FBI and the Bureau has no idea what I’m talking about. Without corroboration they’re leery of risking a panic, so they’re playing it cagey.”

  “Why don’t I phone in a bomb threat?”

  “They get those all the time. UN Security screens everything that comes through the gates, so they’re not easily bamboozled.”

  “Swell. So we just sit here and wait for the bombs to explode?”

  “No, we try to look at this as if we were terrorists. That’s what I always did when dealing with INLA and Provisionals. Although, to tell you the truth, I can’t recall ever having the luxury of a time and a place and the means of delivery.” He glanced at Jack. “The Rabin trip is a hoax, by the bye. It was never in the cards. As for Senator D’Amato, he’s still in Washington and won’t be heading home for the weekend until this afternoon.”

  “Then who started it?”

  A shrug. “We don’t know. And no one can imagine why. Whose purpose is served by creating that little fiction?”

  Jack thought about that a moment. “Well, al-Thani and Trejador were funding them. If they wanted them gung-ho to wreck the UN, that would be a surefire way to get them on board.”

  “That it would.” He smiled. “But it’s not like we can ask al-Thani now, is it?”

  “No, it’s not.”

  Jack wondered what was going through al-Thani’s mind now—what was left of it.

  “Nor Trejador,” Burkes added.

  “Okay, okay.”

  He felt bad enough about that already without anyone rubbing it in. If all three of them had burst in and subdued him immediately, Trejador wouldn’t have had a chance to poison himself.

  “There’s two possible MOs,” Burkes said. “Suicide, or set the fuse and run. The most effective suicide approach would be to charge down Forty-fourth, right up there”—he pointed ahead—“careen across the avenue, and try to jump the fence. You won’t make it, but it’ll put you as close as you can get to the General Assembly and your bomb will probably explode upon impact. I recognized the smell of that sample you gave me: urea nitrate. Depending on the balance of urea and nitric acid, its velocity of detonation can get near five thousand meters per second.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It’s an indicator of how powerful it is. TNT runs close to seven thousand m-p-s. Plastiques like Semtex or C-four run a little higher.”

  “So this isn’t exactly top-of-the-line stuff.”

  “Oh, if we’re talking about enough urea nitrate that they need two trucks to transport it, it’s bloody plenty. Blow up two payloads, each weighing a thousand or so pounds after you’ve made that run across First Avenue, and you’ll not only demolish the General Assembly, but collapse the front of the Secretariat as well. Increase the payload to fifteen hundred pounds each and you won’t leave anything at all standing in the whole plaza. You’ll probably break windows across the East River as well.”

  “And what about us?”

  Burkes laughed. “Sitting where we are? We’ll be little more than red smears somewhere in the rubble.”

  “Swell. Anyway, that Forty-fourth thing sounds like a plan.”

  “Indeed it does, that’s why I managed to convince NYPD to put a couple of extra coppers on the last block before First Avenue to pull over and check any vans or trucks that look suspicious, or look like they’re traveling together.”

  “What about Forty-second?”

  “It doesn’t T-bone the General Assembly like Forty-fourth does.”

  “Why can’t they just blow the trucks as they’re passing by on First?”
>
  “That’s another possibility, but the center of the blast would be that much farther away from the target, diminishing the impact. With all the buses dropping off and picking up tourists, you’re not going to get on the inside lane, so the buses will absorb a lot of the blast. They’ll become missiles in the process, but they’ll further diffuse the impact. So what’s your solution?”

  He pictured the layout of the complex: It ran between East Forty-second and East Forty-eighth, sitting between First Avenue and the East River.

  The river …

  “What about approaching by boat?”

  Burkes shrugged. “You couldn’t get close enough to do any real damage to the Secretariat, and the General Assembly would be shielded. Mostly you’d mess up the FDR and—”

  Jack straightened in his seat. “Holy shit! The FDR runs under the back end of the UN! If I had two trucks, I’d set off one in front and one in back.”

  Burkes sat frozen a moment, then grabbed his phone and punched a button.

  Jack said, “You calling NYPD?”

  “Nah.” His Scottish accent thickened. “They’ll nae listen.” He spoke into the phone. “’Lo, Rob. Take Gerald and a couple of the other lads. Get in uniform and head down to the uptown side of the FDR underpass by the UN. No rush. We’ve got time. Get there between eleven and eleven thirty and make sure no truck’s broken down inside. Then start stopping anything bigger than an SUV. If the driver looks like he’s from anywhere in the Mideast, inspect that truck.” After a short listen. “Yes, I know they will, but before they do we’ll either catch the mingers or scare them off. Right. Snap to it.”

  “‘Before they do’ what?” Jack said as Burkes ended the call.

  “Rob says the NYPD isn’t going to like that, and he’s right. But it’ll take the coppers a bit to catch on.”

  “And you put the checkpoint on the uptown side because the downtown-bound lanes put you deeper under the UN.”

  “You catch on fast.”

  “I’m a regular Whiz Kid. What do we do now?”

  “We stay here and watch the traffic and hope nothing happens. But if something does, stand ready to stop anything before it’s too late.”

  Jack was restless and sick of sitting in the car. He didn’t feature standing out there in the snowy cold either, but they might have to.

  “Maybe as it gets near eleven thirty we should go out and walk around—feet on the ground, as they say.”

  Burkes nodded. “Good idea.” He laughed. “We’ll make a field operative of you yet.”

  Be still my heart.

  7

  “Lying son of a bitch!” Tommy said as he dropped onto the backseat and slammed the door.

  Vinny had watched him stalk across the street from the taxi depot office. The look on his face had said he hadn’t heard what he’d expected to hear.

  These were the first words he’d spoken since they’d met up in Ozone Park. He looked horrendously hungover and seemed more surly than usual.

  Christ, he’d been loaded last night. What a cavone.

  “Who?” said Aldo from the front passenger seat. He’d come along because Tony told him to, but he’d have come anyway in the hope of getting a chance to use his fists on a deadbeat or two. “The dispatcher? Want me to take a coupla pokes at him?”

  “Not him. The fucking dune monkeys. The tall redheaded one, Mahmoud with the long last name, whatever it is, yesterday he told the dispatcher he wasn’t coming in today, but he shows up this morning all rarin’ to go.”

  “So he’s here?”

  “No, he ain’t here. He’s out on the streets looking for riders. Guy didn’t want to give me his taxi number.”

  “What’s that? The number on the roof light?”

  “Yeah. Said he ‘wasn’t comfortable’ giving it to me.”

  “No shit? I repeat my offer: Want me to take a poke or two at him?”

  “Already did.”

  “And?”

  Tommy held up a slip of paper. “Got the number right here.”

  “How’s the dispatcher?”

  “Resting comfortably.” Tommy slapped the back of the front seat. “Let’s go.”

  “Where?”

  “Hunting.”

  Shit.

  “What?” Vinny said. “Hunting a yellow cab in New York City. Y’gotta be kidding.”

  “You got anything better to do?”

  Vinny looked at the snow, then at Aldo. Aldo shrugged.

  He put the Crown Vic in gear and got rolling. Its rear-wheel drive didn’t handle too good in snow. He’d have to take it slow.

  Double shit.

  If and when they ran into this Mahmoud guy, Vinny could tell, just tell he’d be in one foul mood.

  And maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.

  8

  11:02 A.M.

  After a long, tense wait in Brooklyn, Kadir’s Ryder van led the others across the Queensboro Bridge. They had decided to enter Manhattan uptown from the UN. This allowed for the extra time it would take Kadir to follow the roundabout route to the downtown FDR on-ramp on East 63rd Street, the same he’d used on his test runs.

  As they came off the Queensboro onto 59th Street, Kadir followed the FDR signs to the right while Salameh and Yousef turned left, taking Second Avenue downtown. Kadir took the ramp to East 62nd where he pulled over and idled. He checked his watch. At twenty after eleven he would drive the three blocks to the FDR and head downtown.

  * * *

  11:10 A.M.

  Mohammed Salameh followed Yousef’s Hertz van downtown on Second Avenue until they reached 44th Street. There he turned left while Yousef continued on.

  He was driving slowly, looking for a place to pull over and idle, when a policeman in a yellow-orange vest stepped out from between two cars and motioned for him to stop.

  Salameh’s heart began to pound. What was this? Had someone talked? Had there been a leak? He pulled over and waited for the officer to approach his window. He glanced at the paper bag with the smoke bombs sitting on the seat next to him. Should he hide it? His heart picked up a wild tempo. He was in a stolen car with four smoke bombs. Surely his next stop was jail.

  He resisted the urge to hide the bag but considered flooring the gas pedal and racing away. He looked ahead at the cars stopped at the light on First Avenue. He had nowhere to go.

  He calmed himself. Trust in Allah.

  He rolled his window down as the officer approached.

  “Good morning, sir,” the policeman said. “Where’re you headed?”

  Quick. Where? Back the way he had come.

  “To Queens. Is something wrong?”

  The policeman ignored the question. Instead he walked back and peered through the rear windows. After a careful inspection, he slapped the roof of the car.

  “Okay. You can go. Have a nice day.”

  As Salameh eased the minivan into motion, he realized he was bathed in sweat. He passed another policeman watching the street. They were looking for something. What? Maybe it had nothing to do with the UN or a bomb. An escaped criminal? In his rearview mirror he saw the first policeman stopping a panel truck.

  Well, whatever they were looking for, it wasn’t Mohammed Salameh. He took a few deep breaths, then found a place where he could idle for fifteen minutes.

  * * *

  11:18 A.M.

  Ramzi Yousef turned left onto 40th Street and pulled his van over to the curb before he reached First Avenue. Ten minutes here, then he would head for the UN, just two blocks away. He rubbed his hands together and ignored the urgings of his nervous bladder. The moment was at hand.

  * * *

  11:20 A.M.

  Kadir pulled the Ryder van away from the curb. He followed East 62nd across First Avenue, then made a left on York. He followed that one block, passing the high-rise apartment buildings of rich New Yorkers, then a right onto 63rd. The downtown on-ramp to the FDR lay just ahead.

  Traffic was moving well as he passed under the Queensboro Brid
ge and Sutton Place. Once again the nearly edge-on domino of the Secretariat Building loomed ahead. The falling snow softened its edges. Kadir smiled. If all went as planned, he and Yousef would erase those edges.

  But as he approached the UN underpass, the tunnel where he would stop and light the fuses, he noticed a line of trucks and vans backed up. Men in uniforms he didn’t recognize were pulling them over. It looked like they were inspecting them.

  No!

  Why?

  He spotted an off-ramp and jerked the steering wheel right. He followed it onto East 49th Street and looked at his watch: less than six minutes until 11:30. He tried to control his frantic, jittering thoughts. What to do now? Could he arrive at the UN in time to make the frontal assault a double blast?

  He clenched his teeth and hit the gas.

  He could try.

  * * *

  11:28 A.M.

  Ramzi eased into the East 40th Street traffic. The light was green so he made a wide left turn onto First Avenue. He avoided the center lane tunnel for cars wishing to avoid the congestion in front of the UN Plaza. The bus-only lane on the right was packed with buses disgorging tourists—elderly couples, young families, swirling mobs of school children on class trips.

  He smiled. What convenient fodder. Their deaths would add to the carnage, the outrage, the terror.

  Despite the vested policemen waving the traffic ahead, the cars crawled along. Ramzi slowed his as much as possible between 42nd and 43rd.

  This was Salameh’s moment. Where was he?

  * * *

  11:29 A.M.

  Salameh had crawled along, positioning himself at the stop line as the First Avenue light turned amber. He stopped, but as soon as it turned red, he gunned the minivan straight ahead just as the First Avenue traffic began to move. One car hit his rear fender, then another rammed his front. As horns began to sound, he pulled the pins on all four smoke grenades and leaped from the car. Horns were blaring wildly as he ran back to the sidewalk and up 44th Street.

  He had left all the windows open an inch—just enough to let the smoke pour out.