The Columbus Code (40 page)

This was exactly the scenario that had terrified Winters. Fighting against a sense of panic, he turned to their escort, who stood helplessly at the hangar door, cell phone in hand.

“You want me to call nine-one-one?” he asked.

“Where's your car?” Winters barked.

The guy broke into a run toward a silver SUV parked a few yards away. Winters followed. The cell phone he was digging out of his pocket rang and he jammed it to his ear.

“Winters,” he said in a huff.

It was Donleavy.

“I've been listening to the chatter in New York,” he said. “Just in case.”

“And?”

“The pilot of an airborne RadNet radiation detector flying over Manhattan has picked up a spike in gamma rays.”

Winters climbed into the SUV and motioned for the driver to follow the car that was now turning onto the main road on the other side of the security fence.

“They've narrowed the radiation source to a four-block sector of Lower Manhattan,” Donleavy continued. “But nobody knows what they're looking for.”

“A suitcase,” Winters said. “Call them. Tell them to look for someone carrying a suitcase.”

“I tell them I heard it from you and they'll put
me
in the psych ward. I thought you were headed down there.”

“I can't! Those thugs just took Maria.” Winters grabbed the dashboard with one hand as the driver careened the SUV out the gate. “They went left!” he shouted to the driver.

“John, listen to me.” Donleavy's voice was calm and even. “They're not going to kill her. I heard the conversation myself. Tejada told Molina to make sure nothing happened to her.”

“This wasn't Molina. It was some guy. Louis, I think.” Winters gestured to the driver again. “Take a right—cut across that lot!”

“Even better,” Donleavy said. “According to Maria he's further down the food chain. He'll do whatever Tejada said—”

“I can't just let them take her—”

“And you can't just let them blow up Manhattan. Get to Wall Street. No one will believe me if I tell them. I'll find Maria. Did you get a license number?”

“A license number?” Winters cried indignantly. “I didn't have time to—”

The driver rattled off a series of numbers and letters. Winters asked Donleavy, “Did you get that?”

“I'm on it,” Donleavy said. “Keep your phone on.”

Winters shoved the phone into his pocket and scanned the road ahead of them.

“What do you want me to do?” the driver asked.

Winters watched the traffic swallow the car and gave a heavy sigh. “Take me to Wall Street,” he said with resignation. “And get there as fast as you can.”

When the SUV turned onto Bleecker Street, confusion was already taking hold. Police were setting up roadblocks that pedestrians sullenly disregarded, while red-faced drivers leaned on their horns, stuck their heads out of windows, and shouted obscenities.

“You know any shortcuts?” Winters asked.

“A few.”

“Get me to the corner of Broadway and Wall Street—”

“Done,” the driver said and made an impressive U-turn into an alley barely wide enough to walk down. He appeared unruffled by the pile of empty pallets he clipped and, in fact, seemed to enjoy the excitement.

Winters wished he could say the same.

Sweat had already formed salt rings under the sleeves of the brown uniform shirt, and his eyes burned from the strain of searching the sidewalks for signs of someone carrying a suitcase. The streets were clogged with briefcase-toting men in business suits, but none of them were the right size. A 1970s-era Soviet suitcase bomb wasn't really a suitcase but more like a golf bag or an oversized duffel. Small by comparison to a bomb dropped from an airplane but hardly as small as the suitcase the moniker suggested.

Winters felt rusty and unprepared too. It had been months since
he'd put his observational skills to a test like this. Yet something was kicking in. Something familiar. He glanced at the driver as they made the corner onto Broadway. “What's your name, pal?” he said.

“Alejandro,” the driver said. “But you can call me Al.”

“You're a prince, Al.” Winters pointed to the right. “Drop me here.”

“I can take you around the block.”

“This is safer. You don't want to be anywhere near here, so—”

“I'll wait.”

“No, man,” Winters said as he opened the door. “You don't understand—”

“In that alley across the street.” The driver pointed to the left. “I will wait for you there.”

“We're not actors in a movie, Al—”

“You will need me to get to your daughter. After this is over. I will wait,” he insisted.

Winters didn't have time to argue. Another barrier was going up in the next block. Soon he would be hard-pressed to get anywhere near the New York Stock Exchange.

“Okay,” he said, finally. And with a nod to Al, Winters left the SUV and ran down Broadway.

Though no doubt weakened by time and lack of maintenance, a suitcase bomb would still carry enough force to create a blast radius of six or seven blocks. Much larger than the four-block area Donleavy said the police were focused on. Either way, it was an area much too large for a single person to effectively search.

If the stock exchange really was the target, it would have to be attacked from outside. A layperson would have little chance of getting inside the building with a case that large. And besides, security at the entrance would stop them immediately. If they used a layperson.
What if they had someone on the inside? A trader or technician. They could enter the building a different way. But surely, even employees go through the security checkpoint—don't they?

Still, Winters threaded his way through the foot traffic and hurried toward the stock exchange building. He had no option now but to try. And hope for the best.

As he made his way down the sidewalk, he craned his neck over and around the oncoming crowd, eyeing every attaché and tote bag on Broadway and stopping only to check the alleys and side streets. He was about to circle back to the other side of the exchange when he took a cursory glance down Exchange Place. It was virtually empty, except for a lone figure standing at the far corner with his back to Winters. Holding an oversized metal case.

The man was about Winters' height but even from a distance his muscular build was obvious. His black jacket strained at the shoulders and his beefy arms hung at his side as if he'd spent every day in the weight room.

If the man had any moves at all he'd have the upper hand physically. Winters wouldn't be able to wrestle the case away from him. He'd have to talk him out of it.

As Winters started toward him, the man with the case reached into his jacket with his free hand, took out a cell phone, and thumbed a text message. That was a good thing. If they had to fight, maybe Winters at least would have the advantage of surprise.

And, from the way he flexed his arm, the guy seemed to be getting tired. That case—if it was the bomb—wouldn't be light and the longer he stood there the heavier it would get. That was the thing with weight lifters. They were strong but they seldom had any stamina.

With a few more steps to go, the guy still didn't seem to realize Winters was coming up behind him. He stuffed the phone in
his pocket and shifted the case to the other hand. That was
not
a good thing. If he'd been holding it for that long, time was running out.

“Excuse me,” Winters said. “Could you tell me—”

The figure whirled around to face him and in an instant he realized—the man with the case was Ben, his brother.

“What do you think you're doing?” Winters shouted.

Ben took a step backward, both hands white-knuckling the handle of the case. “What are you doing here, Johnny?” he asked. “You're supposed to be somewhere else.”

“I asked you first, Brother,” Winters replied, his mind reeling with shock. Nothing he had planned would work.

“Go away, Johnny,” Ben said in a sullen tone. “This is my gig. I don't need your help.”

“Your gig? With who?”

“The Service. They sent me.”

Ahh. The Service. Winters knew the angle now.

“Well, look, buddy. Change of plans,” Winters said. “I have orders to take over from here.”

Ben shook his head and held the case closer. “Whose orders?” he asked. “The Service isn't even using you right now. You've got PTSD.” Ben took another step back.

“I'm over the PTSD,” Winters said. “Look, you've done a great job up to this point, but they sent me to take over. I know what to do with it.”

“No, man! Why does it always have to be you?
I
know what to do with it!”

Winters scanned the case for a button, a switch, anything, even as he gave Ben a nod.

“What are your orders?”

“I get the text, I set the case down here. Not until then.”

The switch was on the bottom. Winters forced himself not to lick the sweat off his upper lip. Ben had no such self-control. He released the case with one hand to pull off the watch cap and mop his high forehead.

“That's the deal with these ops,” Winters said. “You have to be flexible. Last-minute changes happen. They knew you would trust me, which is why I'm here.”

“They told me
not
to trust you.” Ben's voice was high-pitched and tremulous and he had trouble getting the cap back on with one hand. “They said you might show up and try to mess with me, but not to let you. It's part of my training.”

Forget everything he'd thought about Tejada's choice of a carrier. The man was a genius.

“I have orders, too,” Winters said. “They sent me on purpose to try to mess you up—just the way they sent you to mess me up. You know, the whole thing with the laptop?”

Ben's blue eyes now showed fear, but Winters forced a smile. “It's part of the training game, Bro. No worries. But you see, what they've done here is pit us against each other, to see how you handle it.”

“I know how I'm gonna handle it. I'm not putting this down until they tell me to.”

“Even though I outrank you?”

“Yeah,” Ben said defiantly.

Winters shrugged. “You can do that, but do you know the penalty for disobeying a direct order from a superior?”

“
They're
my superiors.”

“Who? Give me some names.”

Ben's face went blank. “They never told me their names.”

Winters smirked. “They took that approach, huh? This way it doesn't come back on them.”

“What doesn't?”

“Look, Brother, this isn't just a training mission. There's some serious stuff in that case. This goes down wrong and heads will roll, including yours.”

“So,” Ben said, pleading. “What do I do?”

“You show them that you know the protocol. You have no way of knowing what rank these people have, but you know mine. And it trumps yours. So, hand me the case and do it gently. You got it?”

Ben nodded, lifted the case to hold it with both hands, and offered it to Winters. Winters reached for the handle—and Ben's cell phone buzzed.

The case slipped and they both went for it. Ben grabbed it once more and clutched it against his chest, then turned away as he fumbled for the phone.

“Ben, give it to me,” Winters demanded. “Give it to me now.”

“They said to set it down and I'm doing it. This is my chance, Johnny.” He held the case out to his side and began to lower it.

As Ben stooped to put the case on the pavement, Winters thrust his hand behind Ben's arm and swept it away from his body. At the same time, he grabbed it with his other hand and slammed his full weight against his brother's body. Ben staggered to the ground. His head smacked against the sidewalk.

Winters held the case at arm's length and stared down at him. Ben looked like the kid brother he'd once seen beaned by a baseball. “Don't move,” Winters said to him. “I mean it.”

Ben groaned.

Holding the case in his arms, Winters turned away and walked back toward Broadway. All he needed was a cop, a firefighter, anybody to take this thing off his hands. He had to get to Maria.

Before he reached the end of the block, he spotted two members of the bomb squad heading toward him in hazmat suits.

“This what you're looking for?” he said.

They stopped a few feet away.

“Agent John Winters, Secret Service,” he said, barking the words in an authoritative tone. “Got it off a Middle Easterner.” He nodded over his shoulder. “Took off toward the river.”

The bomb squad guys looked stunned.

“Here,” Winters said, thrusting the case in their direction. “Take it. And don't set it down. The trigger is on the bottom. I'm available for questioning later but I have another matter to take care of.”

The great thing about guys in those squads was that they were interested in only one thing—the bomb. No one came after him or hailed him as he sprinted back up the alley, and helped Ben to his feet. When Ben was standing, he slung an arm over John's shoulder and the two of them made their way up the alley, away from the bomb squad.