Countdown, p.27
Countdown, page 27
Dylan says, “Jesus, didn’t you hear what I just said? Now. That means now.”
Tom spares a glance around his cluttered office. “Dylan, I’ve got a lot of files, belongings, other stuff to box up. It’ll take me some time. Be reasonable.”
“Screw you, and screw being reasonable,” he shoots back. “I want to see your Criterion ID and building key card on that desk—right now!—and you out the door. I’ll get your crap boxed up and shipped to your home.”
“Dylan…”
“I’m not in the mood for negotiating, Tom,” Dylan says. “Out. Now. Or I’ll get building security to escort you out, right past your coworkers. You want that, I can make it happen.”
Tom slowly gets up, digs a hand into his left pants pocket, pulls out the key card and drops it on the desk. He takes his Criterion identification card out of his wallet, surrenders that as well.
He closes up his personal laptop and stows it in his bag. As he moves around his desk, he spots the collection of family photos on the wall.
Dylan says, “Hurry your ass up, Tom.”
Tom takes down a framed family portrait, his favorite: it shows the three of them at a lake up in Maine last fall, the foliage bright red and yellow, their smiles so happy and wide.
Dylan says, “I believe that frame belongs to Criterion.”
Tom doesn’t say a word. He goes to the rear of the photo, tries to undo the backing. It’s tight. There are four metal tabs that refuse to bend.
He takes the framed photo, smashes it against the corner of his desk. The glass shatters and he digs at the broken frame, freeing the photo. He folds it in half and puts it in his computer bag.
“Deduct it from my last paycheck,” he says, walking out past Dylan.
Tom walks through the newsroom with his shoulders straight, not catching anyone’s eyes. No time to explain, no time to talk.
He just wants out.
Nearing the elevator bank, he’s surprised to see a small crowd of employees and young girls clustered around.
“Man, we’ve been waiting here for ten minutes already,” someone says. “What’s the holdup?”
He slings the computer bag over his shoulder, gets out his iPhone, and dials his uncle John, out there on the southern end of Staten Island, safe with Denise.
The phone rings.
Rings.
Twice more and it goes to voicemail. Maybe they’re out walking by the marshes, or fishing from Uncle John’s skiff, or doing some shopping.
When the phone greeting is over, he says, “Hey Uncle John, Tom here. I’m…taking the rest of the day off. I’m coming by to see you and Denise. Lunch is on me. Take care.”
He disconnects the call, puts the phone away.
Stands and waits.
Some nearby employees are staring at him.
Why?
He feels something moist on his right hand.
Looks at it.
It’s bleeding from where he broke the photo frame.
Chapter 89
IN HIS darkened office in Lindsay Hall, Horace Evans of MI6 waits, staring at the silent telephone on his desk. There’s a heavy rain outside and he feels that he should switch on more lights, but he’s content to stay here in the soft glow from his desk lamp.
Across from him is his assistant, Declan Ainsworth.
Declan is staying quiet. He looks concerned.
Horace says quietly, “There are those who say waiting—for men, women, and plans in motion—is the hardest part of any operation.”
Declan remains quiet.
Good.
Horace says, “But I always say it’s those few seconds that come at you when the phone finally rings, and you reach to pick it up, and in those few seconds…you’re almost dizzy with fatigue and anticipation, knowing it’s all been cast in stone, and now it’s just the learning what happens next.”
Declan says, “The news we have—that Jeremy is in the United States, in New Jersey—that should be a good sign.”
“It’s a sign,” Horace says, not taking his eyes off the telephone. “Nothing else. And we dare not do anything more to interpret it, lest the Americans find out and keep their vows to hurt us.”
Declan shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “This may be the wrong time to bring this up, sir, but my actions in this matter…I mean, I have confidence in you, but…”
His assistant’s voice dribbles off.
Horace sighs. “If you feel as such, you may tender your resignation from the service. Predate it to a week ago, if you’re so frightened that things will go awry and you’ll be left holding the proverbial bag.”
A brief second or two passes, then Declan says, “I’ll stay.”
“Good,” Horace says. “Then stay quiet.”
The phone remains silent.
“While we wait,” he says.
Aboard a Company-owned Gulfstream C-20, Ernest Hollister looks up as his assistant comes forward and sits down across from him in one of the luxurious leather seats. They are somewhere over the North Atlantic, approximately two hours away from landing at Dulles Airport in Virginia.
Tyler Pope leans forward and says, “We’ve received signals traffic from the Air Force that two RAF Typhoon fighter jets have made an unscheduled landing at McGuire in New Jersey. Two civilians, a woman and a bearded man—a Brit—left the jets and have departed the base. The RAF aircraft earlier departed from a base about forty minutes away from our site where Amy Cornwall had been held.”
Ernest says, “I thought Typhoons were single-seaters.”
Tyler says, “These two are from RAF 29 Squadron, used to train pilots. They have seating for two.”
Ernest thinks for a moment and says, “Any indication that Horace Evans or MI6 had a hand in their transportation?”
“None, sir.”
“How did they grab two Typhoons?”
“I can find out.”
Ernest shakes his head. “No. Waste of time. If they are in New Jersey, then they are there illegally. We can’t have that. Do we have a squad keeping eyes and ears on her husband?”
“Yes, but so far there’s nothing of interest to report. But I’ll alert them that Amy is back in the States, so they can grab her if she meets up with her husband.”
“Nice start—but there’s something else.”
Tyler waits patiently. A good assistant knows when to shut the bleep up, Ernest thinks.
He says, “The Brit belongs to Hector. Get word to him that he’s on our soil, and that he’d better do whatever it takes to run him down. Amy Cornwall belongs to me. She has blood on her hands, she’s violated at least a dozen Agency rules and requirements, and most of all…”
Ernest shuts his mouth. He was going to say, and most of all, she’s humiliated me, but it won’t do to say that aloud.
He says, “There’s an Army major I know, detached to the NSA over at Fort Meade. Rudolf Meyer. Reach out to him—tell him you’re calling on my behalf.”
Like magic, a small pad of paper is in Tyler’s hands and he’s scribbling away. “Yes, sir.”
“They have new surveillance-recognition software that they’ve had success with on a few trial runs,” Ernest says. “Called FACE/GRAB. Tell him we’re going to need it soonest in an area covering whatever county McGuire Air Force Base is in, and then expanding outward. And then provide him with the best facials we have at Langley of Amy Cornwall.”
Pope keeps on scribbling. “What does FACE/GRAB do?”
“It allows the NSA or other duly designated agencies to hijack the stream of any surveillance cameras in an area—ATMs, gas stations, toll booths—and run a facial-recognition software program. If Amy comes in view of any type of camera in that part of New Jersey, we’ll know about it. Better than waiting to see if she hooks up with her husband.”
“I see,” Tyler says. “And then what?”
Ernest goes back to his paperwork. “Then we’ll Gitmo her ass to Cuba before she does any more harm.”
Chapter 90
LESS THAN an hour after leaving McGuire Air Force Base, I’m with Jeremy on the doorstep of a plain yellow Cape Cod house in a dense neighborhood in Bayonne, New Jersey, that dates to the go-go postwar years of the 1940s. Our borrowed car—a light blue Chevrolet Impala—is parked on the narrow street, and I ring the doorbell again and again.
The sun is rising.
It’s a gorgeous day in May, but I feel cold.
Death is coming.
I ring the doorbell again.
Jeremy says, “If nobody answers, then what?”
“Stop with the negative thoughts,” I say, then I open the storm door and start hammering at the wooden door.
Just when I’m about to hit the door a third time, it swings open.
A flustered-looking woman in black tights and an oversize New York Giants sweatshirt is before us, hair done up in a blue-gray perm. She scowls and says, “Yes?”
“Ma’am,” I say. “We’re looking for Gus Carlucci. Is he in?”
She’s suspicious, looking at me and Jeremy, me with wrinkled and smelly clothes, my head and feet aching something awful, and Jeremy’s getup no better than my own.
“I’m sorry, he’s quite busy,” she says. “He can’t be disturbed.”
Jeremy speaks up. “Ma’am, I insist. We need to see him. Please. It’s vitally important.”
Her frown deepens. She looks to be in her late sixties. “The fool is a retired high-school chemistry teacher. What, are you from the school district? About to finally give him a plaque for his years of service to students who refused to learn?”
“No, ma’am,” Jeremy says. “It’s much more important than that.”
She gives a good look to Jeremy. “You’re English, then, are you?”
I let Jeremy take the lead. Maybe this stubborn woman is an Anglophile?
“Ma’am, that I am,” he says.
She frowns. “Gus loves watching those mystery programs on PBS. Why can’t you fellows stop mumbling? It’s a pain to follow.”
I reach for my Beretta because politeness isn’t getting us anywhere, but Jeremy’s smile widens and he says, “Ma’am, we’re from the Queen Elizabeth II Railroad Society, a sister group of your husband’s.”
“Well…” she says, stepping away, “this is his quiet time, but I guess I can let you in.”
We follow her in past three black-and-white cats sniffing in our direction, across a dull-green carpet to a door by the kitchen, where Jeremy and I go down the carpeted steps into the basement. At the bottom there’s an oil furnace; to the right there’s a washer/dryer combo, and to the left—
Paradise.
For a train geek, I suppose.
There’s a U-shaped desk with two large computer screens, each displaying a graphic rendering of railroad tracks, with little symbols and attached numbers moving along. There is radio communications gear, two scanners, and piles of papers and notebooks. On the walls are photos of steam locomotives, diesel trains, and logos from railways across the United States.
A pudgy man with a thin mustache is sitting on a swivel chair, eyes blinking at us with distress from behind black-rimmed eyeglasses. He’s wearing a pink polo shirt with the logo of the National Railway Historical Society over his left breast—said breast almost as big as mine—and to top it off he’s wearing the traditional blue-and-white cap of a train engineer.
Jeremy spots the man’s mood as well and says, “Mister Carlucci, so sorry to barge in on you like this, but we’ve just come from the Queen Elizabeth II Railroad Society.”
And just like that, Jeremy and I are in the cult: “Sure—what can I do for you folks?”
Now it’s my turn. I step in front of Jeremy, pull my jacket aside to reveal my pistol. Gus spots my pistol and gives it a good look, then glances up at me.
“Gus, I’m from the CIA, and Jeremy is from British intelligence. We need your help. There’s a terrorist attack planned for this morning on a local railway, and we’re told you’re the only man who can help us stop it.”
I stare at him with utter seriousness. Then as though his entire sad life has led up to this vital and world-saving event, Gus solemnly nods his head.
“I’m your man,” he says.
Chapter 91
I STAND to the left of our unlikely savior and Jeremy stands to the right, and I say, “Something is going to happen this morning on the Hudson Valley Railroad.”
Gus works a keyboard and mouse; the large screen to the left blinks out and is replaced by a graphic map showing Manhattan, the Hudson River, and the east shore of New Jersey, complete with streets, bridges, tunnels, and the markings for railroads.
“Hudson Valley?” he asks. “For real?”
“For real, yes,” Jeremy says.
Gus says, “Doesn’t make much sense. You want a real serious attack—something that can cause damage and mass casualties, get lots of headlines—you’d want to rig up a commuter train running into Grand Central Terminal, an iconic landmark. Same with Penn Station. But you ask me, destroying the new Penn Station would be a service to mankind, considering—”
I gently reach over and squeeze his shoulder. “Gus. Please. Hudson Valley. Is it a commuter rail? What’s its reach?”
“Nah,” he says, working the mouse and keyboard again and zooming into the graphics. “Strictly freight, running from near Hoboken Terminal up to Albany and back again. Funny thing is, it’s relatively new. Took a lot of design work and money—replacing old rail lines, installing new ones on rights-of-way that were secured.”
Jeremy says quietly, “Like someone with a lot of money was intent on installing a freight railway on this stretch of the Hudson River.”
“That’s right,” he says. “Mostly dual tracks: freight up to Albany, freight down to Hoboken. Day in, day out.”
I say, “Gus, can you tell us what trains are running this morning? And what they’re carrying?”
“Sure,” he says. He works the keyboard until the other large screen springs to new life with numbers, letters, and columns that make no sense to me but seem to mean a lot to Gus.
The door we came through opens up. “Gus! I’m putting the coffee on! Does your company want some?”
He turns his head and shouts out. “Later, Margaret, we’re busy down here!”
“Fine, suit yourself.”
The door slams shut, and Jeremy rests his hand on Gus’s other shoulder. “She doesn’t understand, does she?”
He mutters something, and Jeremy says, “I know that’s the same for train spotters over in the UK.”
Gus’s eyes flick back and forth on the lists of numbers and abbreviations, “Oh, we’re much more than train spotters,” he says. “For one thing, we don’t need to go out and get wet and cold. We can use computer programs that, uh…well, we can tap into railway systems and their dispatch centers to see exactly what’s going on. Oh, okay, here we go: northbound train number HV412-29, set to depart Hoboken in about fifteen minutes. Carrying…number two fuel oil, lumber, shipping containers, fertilizer, chemicals, and…that’s about it.”
Jeremy says, “Any other trains?”
“Sure,” Gus says. “Southbound number HV414-29, left Albany about ten minutes ago. Carrying shipping containers, empty flatcars, chemicals, and…oh. Hoo boy.”
“What?” I ask.
Gus says, “That’s interesting. The tail end of number HV414-29, hauling four flatcars, is carrying casks from the Department of Energy.”
“Nuclear waste,” Jeremy says.
“You know it.”
Jeremy turns to me and says, “That’s it, Amy: nuclear waste. That’s what Rashad is doing—he’s going to explode those two trains and make the world’s biggest dirty bomb, right next to Manhattan. That’s it.”
I look right at Jeremy and wait for a heavy moment, then say what I hate to say:
“No, that’s not it. It has to be something else.”
Chapter 92
ON THIS day of days, this morning of mornings, Rashad Hussain is running late, due to his PATH train’s being delayed from Hoboken to the World Trade Center station on Vesey Street, but he is still in good spirits. On this day he has planned for delays and schedule problems, and his plans are still on track.
Outside the crowded terminal, carrying two heavy black cases, he has luck again, for he is able to hail a cab within just a minute. Allah’s will, no doubt, and the driver happily emerges and helps Rashad place his two cases in the trunk. The driver is tall, thin, and angular, and Rashad guesses that he is a Somali immigrant. Taking a chance, he says, “As-salāmu ‘alaykum, brother.”
The taxi driver grins widely. “And wa ‘alaykumu as-salām to you, brother.”
Seated in the rear of the cab, Rashad notes the driver’s city identification and name—AXMED SAMATAR—and knows his guess was correct. After listening to Rashad’s destination—an address near Rockefeller Park on the Hudson River—Samatar instantly starts talking about his family here and back home in Mogadishu, how happy he is to have his green card, the challenges of raising a pious family in New York City, his hope that he and his family will finally make the hajj to Mecca next year, and on and on and on.
On the short trip west, Rashad nods and gives polite one-word answers. Though their circles have never met before and never will again, he is touched by this immigrant’s work ethic and piety.
Rashad reaches his destination less than fifteen minutes later. Samatar jumps out, opens the trunk, and unloads Rashad’s two bags onto the sidewalk.
Quickly thinking what he should do, Rashad recalls a word the Jews have in their religious writings about doing a good deed—they call it a mitzvah—and their saying about If you save a life, it’s as if you save the world.
“Axmed?” he asks.
“Yes, brother?”
Rashad has nothing personally against Jews. After all, he and they are both descendants of Abraham, and it was simply their misfortune that they decided to settle where they did, rather than in Uganda, which would have prevented so many problems. But they are a wise and industrious people indeed, and in this moment he takes heart in their beliefs.
