Fear City (42 page)

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.

*   *   *

11:30
A.M.

Ramzi saw smoke billowing a block ahead. The policemen directing the traffic began to run toward it. Just then a bus began pulling away from the curb. Ramzi darted in behind it. He had a clear view of the General Assembly and Secretariat.

Perfect.

He set the brake and grabbed the butane lighter waiting in the cup holder. He lit all four fuses at once, then jumped from the van and locked it.

Traffic on First Avenue had ground to a complete halt, so he had no trouble weaving between the stopped cars.

Ten minutes … ten minutes to detonation. By that time he would be safely away, waiting for the thunder that would put him in the history books.

*   *   *

11:30
A.M.

“What kind of rounds y'packin'?” Burkes said.

Jack wasn't sure what he meant. “Nines.”

“Hardball or hollow-point?”

“Hardball.”

Burkes grimaced. “Listen, if you get close enough to one of them, use this.”

He handed Jack some leather thing about a foot long. Jack took it. Heavy.

“What—?”

“It's a lead sap. A hardball round can go through your target and hit an innocent. The place is crawling with kids. I mean, if it's you or him, then shoot. But if he's in reach, knock the shit out of him with that.”

Jack lifted it by the handle and winced as he slapped it gently against his knee.

“Man, that'll crack a skull like an egg.”

“Indeed it will. And don't hold back when you swing. You want him to go down and stay down. If—”

He stopped and gaped through the windshield at a plume of smoke rising from the vicinity of the 44th Street intersection.

Both Jack and Burkes were out in seconds. Looking across the hood, Jack figured the MI6 man's puzzled expression mirrored his own.

“That can't be the bomb.”

Burkes shook his head. “No explosion. Got to be—”

“A diversion!” Jack said as he saw the patrolmen hoofing toward the smoke. “No, wait! It's jammed the traffic. That means—”

“They're here! But where?”

Jack searched the half dozen lanes of honking traffic for—what? What were the fuckers driving? Movement upstream caught his eye. A dark-skinned guy with an untrimmed beard wove through the paralyzed vehicles. He glanced around and Jack saw his face, his eyes …

Manson eyes.

Jack pointed. “That guy there! I've seen him before. He's one of them. Shit, he's on foot! That means—”

“—he's parked the truck somewhere! Has to be by the curb over there! Go!”

Jack pointed toward Manson Eyes as he retreated. “What about—?”

“Forget him. We've got to find that truck!”

As they wove across the street Jack spotted a Ford Econoline van parked against the curb between two buses unloading hordes of kids.
HERTZ
ran along the side.

“There!”

With Burkes close behind he raced to it and grabbed the handle.

“Locked!”

Burkes pulled his Sig and gripped it by the barrel. “Look away!”

The driver's window spiderwebbed with the first blow and shattered with the second. When a familiar chemical reek stung Jack's nostrils, he knew they had the right truck.

Burkes reached through and popped the lock. Jack yanked open the door and crawled inside. It took him a few seconds to get his bearings: the cargo bay was stacked floor to ceiling with reeking cardboard boxes. He saw the tops of three metal cylinders like acetylene tanks. Then he spotted the plastic tubing—four strands of it—similar to what he'd found in the garage this morning, except this was all scorched inside. Smoke leaked from the ends.

Fuses! He'd never guessed it came in plastic tubing.

Christ, how much time did he have? And why four? Why not just one? He glanced out the passenger window and saw nothing but kids—wall-to-wall kids.

Suddenly the kids were blocked by Burkes opening the door. His eyes did a Tex Avery bulge when he saw the boxes.

“Jesus cunting Christ!”

“Tell those kids to run!”

Burkes shook his head. “Won't be any use, lad,” he said, his gaze fixed on the load of boxes. “You can't run from this.”

“Then we've got to stop it.”

Jack began pulling on the fuses—all four at once.

“Do you ken what you're doing?” Burkes said, his accent thickening. “Do you have the slightest idea?”

“Only what I know from movies. A fuse goes to a detonator. Disconnect the two and no explosion.”

“Unless the disconnecting triggers one.”

Jack glared at him. “Just what I need to hear.” He paused, sweating. “So, if I do the wrong thing, we're history. But if I do nothing, we're also history.”

“That about sums it up.”

“Not much of a choice. Let's chance the wrong thing.”

“Do
some
thing.”

Ideally he could crawl onto the boxes, trace each fuse to its detonator, and disconnect it. But he didn't know how long the fuses were and how much time he had—
not much
was probably a pretty good guess.

He'd always admired the way Alexander had handled the Gordian knot, so …

He twisted all four fuses around his hand and got a tight grip. With an inarticulate cry that he knew might be the last sound he'd ever make, he closed his eyes and yanked, putting as much of his body into it as he could manage in the confines of the front seat. Some resistance, and then a sudden release—and he was still in one piece.

He began reeling in the fuses. They were long, but eventually he came to the burning portions. Three had pulled free from their detonators, one had not. A black tube with remnants of duct tape tagged along like a hooked fish. Jack pulled it from the fuse, then slumped, swallowing a sob of relief.

“I'm too young to die,” Burkes said, sagging against the door frame.

Jack had to laugh. “
You
are? What about me?” And then he realized—“Hey, there's supposed to be two bombs. Where's the second?”

Burkes had his phone in hand. “Haven't heard anything from the lads. I'll give them a call.”

While he was talking, Jack ran up and down the outside of the bus lane. No other van or panel truck by the curb, and every one he did see had a driver.

Burkes was just ending his call when Jack returned.

“Rob said they've found nothing, but a fair number of trucks and vans made a quick turn-off before their checkpoint. Could be that was the way they were headed in the first place, could be they had bales of contraband in the back, could be one was the second bomber.” He raised his phone again. “I'm going to have NYPD send its bomb squad here.”

“Serve them a steaming platter of crow while you're at it.”

Burkes grinned. “You can count on that. It's lunchtime, after all. It'll be my treat.”

Traffic remained at a standstill in front of the UN. The other truck might be stuck farther upstream.

Jack pointed downtown. “I'm going to have a look that way.”

Burkes nodded and began talking into his phone.

Jack wove through the cars, looking for anything with an empty driver's seat.

*   *   *

11:37
A.M.

Kadir had come downtown on Second Avenue. As he passed 44th Street he saw traffic backed up and fire trucks heading toward the UN. Too early still for Yousef's bomb to have exploded, so this must be Salameh's doing.

At least something had gone right.

He continued downtown and noticed that eastbound traffic was backed up on 42nd Street as well. Up ahead he saw a similar backup of cars trying to turn east onto 40th. But 41st Street was empty, and its arrow pointed east. Most odd-numbered streets in the city ran west, but this appeared to be an exception. He turned into it.

He soon understood why traffic wasn't backed up on 41st—it didn't run through. It dead-ended at a wall overlooking First Avenue near the downtown end of the UN complex. He'd wound up in the middle of a collection of apartment buildings called Tudor City. Detonating the bomb here would leave the UN unscathed. He looked at his watch: 11:40. Yousef's bomb should be going off any second. Kadir had to get away from here.

He raced uptown, crossing an overpass above 42nd Street—still jammed eastbound and nearly empty westbound. He turned onto 43rd, which took him west, away from the UN. What to do? He couldn't get near the target.

And then he remembered their first target. Let Yousef do what damage he could to the UN. Kadir would attack on a second front. Surely the Great Satan would feel itself under siege from all sides.

*   *   *

11:45
A.M.

Jack found nothing. Every truck and van he passed had an angry or frustrated driver behind the wheel. So where was the second truck? If it wasn't already here, he couldn't see any way it could get here. And then he remembered something al-Thani had said on the recording of Dr. Moreau's interrogation.

Towers off-limits.

What towers? The Trade Towers?

Towering towers.

Why are they off-limits?

… Wouldn't tell me. Nobody would tell me. Just that they mustn't be damaged. So we diverted them.

Christ. What if one of the bombers had just become undiverted?

Jack ran for his car.

*   *   *

Noon.

Kadir was so relieved to find Broadway.

He had taken Second Avenue as far downtown as he could, then worked his way west. When he and Ayyad had come into the city via the Holland Tunnel they never had to deal with any of this. But he remembered seeing Broadway on their trip to the towers. Soon after he turned downtown he saw the towers dark against the sky, their tops lost in the swirling snow clouds.

He wanted Tower One, the north tower. That was the one he and Ayyad had inspected, the one Ayyad said would fall into the second tower and bring both down. Kadir remembered where to place the van. He simply had to find the ramp to the parking garage.

*   *   *

Noon.

They were on Chambers, heading west across Broadway, when Tommy began pounding on the back of Vinny's seat.

“That's him!” he shouted. “I just saw the fucker!”

“Where?” Aldo said. “I was watching every cab and—”

“He wasn't in no cab! He was in that yellow Ryder van heading down Broadway. And it wasn't the redhead, it was the little weasel. Turn around! We got him! Do you fuckin' believe it? We got him!”

“I can't turn around,” Vinny said. “It's a one-way street.”

“Fuck it! Turn around!”

“Fuck that.”

Vinny made a left on West Broadway—sure as hell got confusing down here—and raced along Warren back to Broadway. But no yellow van, Ryder or otherwise, was in sight.

“We lost him!” Tommy shouted, pounding again.

“Ease up on the upholstery. We'll catch him.”

Vinny found himself believing that. The goose they were chasing had suddenly become less wild.

*   *   *

Noon.

Jack surged out of the Battery Park underpass and was rewarded with the sight of the snow-dimmed twin towers half a mile straight ahead, both upright and healthy looking.

Instead of weaving down through the city, he'd steered Ralph onto the FDR and hooked around the southern tip of Manhattan. Longer in miles but much shorter in time when traffic was moving. He hoped he'd made up for the other bomber's head start.

The towers weren't on the Cool Buildings list he was slowly compiling. In fact, he considered them a blot on the city's skyline. But he wasn't about to let any goddamn foreign terrorist bring them down. New York had adopted him—this was
his
city now—and no outsider was going to mess with it.

Damned if he wasn't going to enter his house justified.

But first … what?

He didn't know what kind of truck he was looking for. The bombers had used an Econoline from Hertz for the front of the UN. Was the second a Hertz too? That would help, but he couldn't count on it.

And which tower—north or south?

This was looking bad.

*   *   *

12:02
P.M.

Kadir breathed a sigh of relief as he spotted the parking ramp for the north tower. Although he had been here only once before, it felt like coming home.

He entered and maneuvered to the B-2 level, where he found an empty space against the wall, just as Ayyad had planned.

*   *   *

12:03
P.M.

“There!” Aldo said, pointing ahead. “Ryder van turning onto that ramp.”

“The garage?” Vinny said.

He'd just turned onto West Street and hadn't been looking.

“Yeah-yeah,” Aldo said. “I'm sure of it.”

“Follow him in!” Tommy said. “We got him now.”

Vinny didn't know about that. “These towers are pretty fucking big. If he's headed upstairs, we'll never find him.”