Twelve Hours (9 page)

Morgan backtracked to the west end of the terminal, now equipped with the MP7 submachine gun and CZ 110 pistol of the man he had killed and two cell phones.

When Alex was ten, he’d brought her to a behind-the-scenes tour of Grand Central Terminal. She’d hated it, he recalled. But at that moment, he was thankful that he had dragged her to it. Because of that tour, he knew how to get where he needed to go.

The Tiffany clock. If there was one place he could get a signal, it’d be there.

The way to the clock was through the Metro North control room, from which the entire rail network was managed. It was also a likely place to find the terrorists.

He crept along the corridor, listening hard for any sign of the enemy. The way was clear until he reached the door marked
CONTROL ROOM
. Access required a key-card reader, but it was propped open by a fire extinguisher. He pushed the door open just far enough so that he could get a look inside. The control room had two long rows of tables facing two enormous boards, and the passage to the clock was on the far end.

His eye caught movement and he retreated, then popped out for another look. On the far end of the control center was a meeting room of some sort with an enormous window overlooking the entire chamber. Two men were hunched over a desk near the far end.

This could only be a bad idea. But he could think of no other way through.

Morgan assessed his options. Long room, no appreciable alternate routes. No possibility of avoiding exposure. Usually subterfuge, instinct and careful planning won the day. But sometimes, you just had to run at the enemy with a big gun.

Morgan gripped the MP7 and visualized the layout of the room and the men’s position in it. They were far, but he could cover half that distance before they even looked up. The gun would do the rest of the work.

Morgan burst into the room and ran, full tilt. They looked up at him in stupid surprise. He unleashed a burst of bullets, which sailed over them to hit the far wall, but it was enough to make them flinch, which gave him enough time to make it near enough to hit the first man. He pulled the trigger, sinking two slugs into his left arm and one in his neck. The other man scrambled over the desk, knocking down a monitor, then over the second desk, to put space between them. Morgan turned the gun on him and fired, but the bullets flew over him and hit the far wall, splintering wood. He ran toward the door, faster than Morgan would have expected. He fired and fired again, but all bullets missed their target, hitting the wood paneling. He reached the door, and Morgan ran after him.

Morgan erupted out into the hallway and took aim. But something made him hold fire.

Alex.

She was in the hallway, frozen as the man ran right past her toward the main concourse.

“Alex, get down!” he said. She dropped, and he pulled the trigger. Too late—the man was rounding a corner. Morgan had no hope of catching him now.

“What—” he began, fuming. She was a deer in the headlights. “You know what, I don’t even have anything to say to you. Come. Now.”

She followed without a word back into the control room.

“Where are we going?” she asked. “This is the first place they’ll come looking.”

“Up,” said Morgan. He led the way up a flight of stairs into the situation room, which was furnished with expensive office chairs and an sizeable conference table, and had a broad window overlooking the entire operation of the control room. At the back was a brown wooden door. Morgan opened it to reveal a low passage under an X-shaped structural support that led to a tunnel of bare concrete.

“Is this what I—” Alex was interrupted by a muffled yell. Morgan turned his attention to a large wheeled black case, the kind used by musicians to haul equipment. Morgan’s first thought was that it was big enough to fit a man inside, and his second was that a man was exactly what was inside it.

“Help me out here,” he said to Alex. Together, they laid the box on its side and undid the latches. Morgan pulled open the lid.

“Shit!” he said. “Is that—”

“President Ramadani,” said Alex.

The Iranian president, rolled up into the fetal position in the confining box, groaned and blinked glazed-over eyes.

“Mr. President, my name is Dan Morgan. I guess I’m here to rescue you.”

Shir Soroush surveyed the main concourse from the western balcony with satisfaction. The police presence had dwindled, with the few surviving officers stripped of their guns and sent to join the other hostages. The sun, filtering in through the enormous windows, projected rays on the captives seated within the central rectangle of the main concourse, while Soroush’s men patrolled the perimeter. It would not take long now to prepare their escape, as soon as—

Soroush’s thoughts were interrupted as Touraj huffed up the balcony stairs.

“Sir,” he said, “Mansoor is dead. There is a man with a gun. He came into the control room. It was so fast, I—”

“Where is Ramadani?” Soroush demanded, full of righteous anger.

“I—the man with the gun—”

“You
left
him there?”

Soroush swore under his breath as Touraj explained himself. “He came out of nowhere. I barely made it out of there alive.”

“Inshallah. Zubin. Stay. Take care of the hostages. Hossein, Paiman, with me.”

Soroush led the way, Beretta in hand, down from the balcony. The hostages recoiled in fear as he passed. He walked with purpose to the control room, and then down its length and up the stairs to the situation room. The box was on its side, open and empty.

With a cry of rage, Soroush overturned the case. “Where is he?” Hossein and Paiman gave him blank stares. “I want you to comb the place. I want Ramadani found!”

Morgan brought up the rear behind the Iranian president, going up the ladder past exposed pipes and ducts and concrete. Alex took the lead. Ramadani, still groggy from the drugs, climbed slowly. More than once, Morgan had to hold him up so that he wouldn’t fall.

Morgan heard the deep, loud clicking of the Tiffany clock before he saw it. Still, it dazzled him when he caught sight of it. The stained-glass sun radiated from the center of the clock face, glowing bright gold against the sunlight. He helped the President onto a corrugated steel platform with a final push, and then sat down next to him. Ramadani rubbed his eyes and studied Morgan.

“I owe you my life,” he said.

“Don’t speak too soon,” said Morgan, checking the cell phone he had taken from Lost and Found. “We’re not out of the woods yet.”

“Still, you did rescue me,” he said. “I am grateful. What is your name?”

“Morgan,” he said, dialing Conley’s number. “Dan Morgan.” The phone rang. No answer.

“Who are you with?” asked Ramadani. “Secret Service? FBI?”

“I’m just a guy, Mr. President,” said Morgan.

“Just a guy. Of course.”

“What can you tell me about the men with the guns down there?” Morgan asked.

“The ones who took me captive?” said Ramadani. He bent his limbs, working out the aches from his cramped confinement. “Their leader, I believe, is Shir Soroush, my head of security.”

“Do you have any idea why your own head of security would take you hostage?”

“I have a good idea,” said Ramadani. “Though I never thought he might actually do it. If you follow the politics of my country, you know that the Supreme Leader is not happy with me. The Ayatollah is losing his influence on the nation. He will be strengthened by renewed conflict with the United States. I don’t know if he is directly involved, but he would certainly be the beneficiary if I were to die.”

Alex, Morgan noticed, was listening with keen interest. “What’s the angle here, though?” he asked. “What can he gain from this? If he wanted to kill you, why didn’t he just do it at the hotel?”

“I believe his purpose was not just to kill me,” he said, sitting down against a railing. “See, if it is believed that my assassination was connected to him, the people would take to the streets. The Ayatollah himself might fall. But if I were to disappear, and Soroush and his men were able to vanish as well, the truth could be warped and massaged. A propaganda campaign could well convince the majority of Iranians that I was abducted by the United States government, thus ensuring decades of hatred between our nations.”

“But the people would find out the truth!” Alex exclaimed. “They couldn’t pull this over the eyes of everyone in Iran like this.”

“I fear they could convince enough people easily enough,” said Ramadani. “Many are ready to believe the worst of the United States. This could very well lead to war between our nations.”

“That’s why we’re going to stop them,” Morgan said, and dialed again. This time, Conley picked up.

“Conley,” came the voice on the line.

“I’ve got Ramadani,” said Morgan. “I need you to get us out of here.”

Lisa Frieze was jogging back from the northeast doors to the Forty-second Street entrance to give Chambers the bad news. The three-man team of workmen who were trying to cut through the steel barrier into the terminal reported that it would take at least another three hours to make a man-sized hole. She turned the corner at Forty-second and ran toward the space under the Park Avenue overpass when she heard her name called out.

“Frieze!”

It was Peter Conley. He strode over to her. “I’ve just made contact,” he said. “My guy on the inside. He says he’s got Ramadani.”

Conley explained that the man had rescued the Iranian president and gotten him to the Tiffany clock, where they were now awaiting rescue.

“Hell!” said Frieze. “Who
is
this guy?”

“Just a helpful citizen,” said Conley with a grin.

Frieze shot him a withering look. “We need to tell Chambers,” she said. “Come on.”

Chambers was inside the Pershing Square Café, which had been converted into the nerve center of the operation. Blueprints were spread out among the many tables, and rows of laptops had been set up. People yelled and rushed around. Chambers himself was conferring with a young agent at a laptop when Frieze called out his name.

“Frieze,” said Chambers as he saw her approach. “Tell me you have good news.”

“Better than you might expect.” She relayed the information, with Conley, who was standing next to her, breaking in and adding details here and there.

“Do you have him on the phone now?” asked Chambers. Frieze looked at Conley, who shook his head.

“Then get him. I want to speak to this Morgan.”

Morgan undid the latch and pulled open the window that held the number 6 on the clock face, a white Roman numeral in a red circle against a blue background. Bracing cold fresh air rushed in and he breathed deep. Up above him, the clock’s mechanism ticked away, second by second. As he noticed the time, he was glad that the tower had no bell.

“This is our exit,” he told Alex and Ramadani.

“How?” asked Alex.

Before Morgan could answer, the phone rang, and Morgan picked up.

“Is this Morgan?”

“Who is this?”

“Chambers, FBI. I understand you have the president of Iran with you.”

“You understand right,” Morgan answered.

“I’d like to speak to him to confirm.”

“It’s for you,” said Morgan, holding out the phone for Ramadani. They exchanged a few words, then Ramadani handed the phone back to Morgan.

“We have rescue on the way,” said Chambers. “We’ll have a helicopter drop down a ladder for you at the clock window. Meanwhile, we’re going to need you to tell us whatever you know.”

“The terrorists belong to Ramadani’s security team,” said Morgan. “Although I think there might be others helping them. The leader is a man called Shir Soroush.” Morgan looked at Ramadani to confirm he’d gotten it right. On the line, he heard Chambers relay the name to someone else.

“Morgan, I need more from you. Tell me what’s going on inside.”

“I’m not in a good vantage point to see what’s happening in the main concourse,” said Morgan.

“We are planning an operation to take out the terrorists,” said Chambers. “We need to know roughly how many there are and their positions.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” said Morgan. “I’ll call you back.” He hung up, then said to Alex and Ramadani, “I need to scope out the place. I’ll be back soon.”

“Dad,” said Alex. “Let me go.”

“Alex, there is no way—”

“I’m smaller and quicker than you,” she said. “And they won’t shoot me if they catch me. Probably.”

“No,” said Morgan. He checked the CZ pistol and tucked it into his pants waist, against the small of his back. He handed the MP7 to Ramadani. “You know how to use this?”

“Well enough,” said Ramadani, holding it to get a feel for the weapon.

“Dad,” said Alex. “The catwalk. From there you can get a clear view of the main concourse. That’s where you should go.”

Morgan crept down the ladder from the clock, taking each rung slowly so as to make the least noise possible. It was all too likely there would be men in the control room, and he didn’t want to give them advance warning of his coming.

He touched on the concrete floor and crouched, listening against the door to the conference room. He heard no sound of voices or footsteps. He waited for a few minutes to be sure. Then he swung the door open.

The conference room was deserted. Crouching, Morgan made his way forward so that he could just see through the window overlooking the control room. A stroke of luck, for once—no one was there. He stood up straight, clutching the sidearm two-handed as he moved down the stairs and out onto the control room. He walked toward the door, gun raised, then listened for noise out in the hall. Silence.
Good.

Morgan had only a vague memory of the backstage layout of Grand Central, but his sense of direction took him up stairs and down deserted hallways to the catwalk above the main concourse. He had to crouch to see through the semicircular window. He counted seven men, standing guard on the far balcony, and four more on the floor of the main concourse guarding the east passages. He knew more men would be directly below him. He had to find a better vantage point.

He went farther down the catwalk, where a door opened onto the main concourse, to a narrow passage along the edge of the curved ceiling. Morgan emerged, crouching, stretching his neck to see what was hidden from him on the catwalk. A cluster of men stood against the leader—Soroush, Ramadani had called him—on the near balcony. Morgan whipped out his phone and redialed, counting the hostiles in his head. At least sixteen were out in the concourse—certainly more than had been at the hotel. The others would have been at Grand Central from the beginning.

“Chambers.”

“I’ve got the count,” Morgan said into the phone. “There are—”

Morgan heard the shouting first, and then gunshots. It took looking down for him to notice that they were firing at him.

He bolted back into the catwalk, running past the window as bullets cracked the glass and sailed by.

He thought of Alex. The clock was the one place he couldn’t go. Whatever he did, he had to draw the men away from her. He had to give her and Ramadani enough time to get rescued.

He ran down hallways and stairs, gun drawn, down, down, down toward the Iranians.