Khalil asked again, "What do you have?"
Tarik replied, this time in a flat tone of voice, "Ammonium nitrate fertilizer, liquid nitromethane, diesel fuel, and Tovex Blastrite gel. It is all mixed in fifty-five-gallon drums--eighty-eight of them--and half the drums are connected to electrical blasting caps." He added, "It took us two years to amass these chemicals in this quantity without arousing suspicion."
Khalil asked, "And how do you know you have not aroused suspicion with these purchases? Or were they stolen?"
It was Edis who replied, "Everything was purchased." He said to Khalil, "All of these chemicals are legal for their intended use, and they were purchased in small quantities by others who had legitimate uses for them, and then resold to us at a criminal price." He smiled and said, "What is not legal is mixing them together."
Bojan and Tarik allowed themselves a small smile, but they did not laugh. Edis added, "Or attaching blasting caps to the mixture and blowing it up."
Even Khalil smiled, so Edis also added, "The most expensive ingredient at today's prices was the diesel fuel."
Bojan and Tarik laughed, and Edis said to Khalil, "The Arabs are going to bankrupt this country with these oil prices."
The three Bosnians all laughed, and Khalil thought they were idiots--but useful idiots who had apparently accomplished their task. Khalil said, however, "The FBI are not like the police in most countries. They do not make an arrest when they see an illegal activity. They watch, and wait, and keep watching until they are certain they know everyone and everything there is to know. They have been known to wait for years before making mass arrests--sometimes only hours before an operation is to begin."
None of the men replied, but then Tarik said, "They would not have waited this long--for all they know, this truck can be detonated in seconds."
Khalil again nodded. There was some truth to that.
Edis reassured their Arab friend, "Since September 11, the authorities have kept better track of certain chemicals, but with the proper authorizations for legitimate use, and in small quantities--and with patience--one can amass the ingredients for a very large bomb."
Khalil asked, "How large is this?"
Tarik, who seemed to be the expert, answered, "Behind us is 45,000 pounds of explosive." He wasn't sure the Arab understood, so he added, "As a comparison, the bomb that was detonated in Oklahoma City was only 4,800 pounds in a small truck. And that bomb created a crater that was ten meters wide and three meters deep, and it destroyed or damaged over three hundred buildings and killed 168 people."
Khalil nodded, though he knew nothing of that explosion, and he wondered who had set it and why.
Tarik continued, "The explosion that will result from this quantity of chemicals will be the equivalent of 50,000 pounds of TNT." He added, "This explosion, if it was detonated in midtown Manhattan, would cause death and destruction for a mile in all directions, and it would be heard and felt for over a hundred miles."
Khalil thought about that, and he wished that the bomb would be detonated in midtown Manhattan, among the skyscrapers and the hundreds of thousands of people on the streets and in the buildings. But those who had planned this operation had decided on something else--something not as destructive or deadly, but a symbolic act that would shock the Americans and open a recent wound. An attack that would shake American confidence and morale and strike a blow at their arrogance.
The man next to him, Bojan, lit a cigarette and Khalil said, "Put that out."
Bojan protested, "The ingredients are inert--not volatile. They are safe until detonated--"
"I do not like the stink of your tobacco." He was tempted to tell them all that he had just killed a man whose cigarettes offended him, but he snapped, "Put it out!"
Bojan threw the cigarette on the floor and ground it out with his heel.
Khalil asked Tarik, "How is this detonated?"
Tarik replied, "It is electrical. There are fifty blasting caps in the drums--more than enough--which I have connected by wires to a standard twelve-volt battery. The current from the battery must pass through a switch, and the switch will make the electrical connection when the electronic timer reaches the hour I have set it for." He asked Khalil, "Do you understand?"
In fact, Khalil did not fully understand. His experience with explosives was limited, and the roadside bombs he had seen in Afghanistan were called command detonated--a person with a handheld detonator chose the time to explode the bomb. Or a suicide bomber initiated the explosion with a simple device.
Khalil did not completely trust this method of a timer--he would have preferred a martyr in the back of the trailer, who he thought would be more trustworthy than an electronic timing device. But this idea for the bomb was not his idea--he was in America to kill with the knife and the gun, the way a man kills, the way a mujahideen kills. His jihad, however, needed to be paid for, and so he had agreed to assist with the bomb. But he had made certain that his mission and the mission of his Al Qaeda backers came together on this last night of his visit.
Khalil looked at his watch and said, "I have much work to do tonight. You will hear from me at approximately ten P.M., and until then, you will move this truck every half hour and you will do nothing to attract attention or arouse suspicion."
No one replied, and Khalil continued, "If a policeman is inquisitive, and he asks you to open the trailer, you will do as you did at the tunnel. If he becomes more inquisitive, you must kill him."
This time, each man nodded.
Khalil addressed each of them by name and said, "Edis, Bojan, Tarik, are you all armed?"
Each man produced an automatic pistol with a silencer, and they made certain that Khalil saw the guns.
Khalil nodded and said, "Good. You are not being paid to buy chemicals, or to drive a truck. You are being paid to kill anyone who is a threat to this mission." He added, "I will be with you later to assist you in the killing of the guards. Then you are free to leave." In fact, they were not going to leave--they were going to die. But Khalil did not think they suspected this. And even if they did, they were stupid and arrogant enough to believe that three former soldiers with guns were safe from harm. But Khalil had killed better men than these in Afghanistan, men who were better armed and better trained than these three, whom he considered mercenaries for hire, not mujahideen who fought for Islam.
Khalil would have liked to give his final encouragement to them in Arabic, the language of the Prophet, which was beautiful and sonorous, but he said in English, "In the name of Allah--peace be unto him--the most merciful, the most compassionate, I ask his blessing on you and your jihad." He ended with, "May God be with us this night."
The three men hesitated, then responded in English, "Go in peace."
Tarik opened the door, and Khalil climbed out of the cab. Bojan said in Bosnian, "Go to hell."
The men laughed, but then Edis said, "That man frightens me."
No one had anything to add to that.
PART VII
Manhattan
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Bellevue. I'm gonna miss this place.
I'd brought Kate some clothes that she'd asked for, plus makeup and whatever so she'd look good when they wheeled her into an ambulette the next day, and good when she walked through the lobby of our building.
Kate, however, was exhibiting the classic symptoms of short-timer anxiety--like, something is going to go wrong, I'm not really getting out of here, and so forth.
I reminded her, "You have a gun. We'll get you out."
She asked me, "Anything new?"
Well, yes, our apartment building has been under round-the-clock surveillance by terrorists for maybe three weeks. But that might send her into a tailspin, so I replied, "Nope."
She asked me, "Have you spoken to Tom or Vince?"
"Nope."
She moved on to family matters. "My parents were going to call you today."
"They did. Didn't I mention that? Your father wants to know why I
didn't shoot the terrorist who attacked you."
She seemed a little embarrassed and said, "I explained that to him."
"I'll explain it again." Or, with luck, I'll cut off the terrorist's head before our flight and bring it to him in my overnight bag. "Here he is, Mr. Mayfield. He won't be cutting any more throats. This calls for a drink."
Kate said, "Your mother told me she was going to call you."
"She did."
"What did she say?"
"Eat more fish."
"She asked me why I'm not pregnant yet."
"Eat more fish."
Kate and I watched some TV--a History Channel documentary about the earth being wiped out by a meteorite, which, if it happened tonight, would put the Minnesota trip on hold for a while. God?
Visiting hours ended at 9 P.M., and Kate and I kissed good-bye, and she said, "I'll see you tomorrow. Get here an hour early and get me checked out." She added, "This is the last time we have to say good-bye here."
"Get some recipes before you go."
Officer Mindy Jacobs was on duty outside Kate's door, and I said to her, "Kate's being discharged tomorrow."
"That's good news."
"Right. So if you're superstitious--"
"I hear you." She assured me, "If I don't recognize a nurse, a doctor, or an orderly, I get someone I know to ID them before they get past me."
"Good."
I wished her a nice quiet evening and left the ward.
My FBI driver was still Preston Tyler, who was putting in a long day. He informed me that there would be no driver on duty until morning, but he assured me, "Your surveillance and protective detail is still in place."
"Terrific."
There were no messages on my home phone, no e-mail, and my cell phone was silent. Maybe everyone was dead from anthrax. Nerve gas?
I thought about calling Boris again, but then I thought about just sneaking out of here and making another unannounced visit to Svetlana. Maybe I'd spend the night on Boris's couch and see if Khalil turned up. But maybe Khalil would come for me here, and I didn't want to miss him.
I decided to wait a half hour, and if nothing happened here, then I'd go see Boris.
At 10:15, as I was watching another History Channel documentary about possible doomsday scenarios--earthquakes, supervol-canoes, meteors again, gamma-ray bursts, and an avalanche of fourth-class junk mail that could bury entire cities--my cell phone vibrated.
It was a text from Paresi that said: Urgent and confidential. Meet at WTC site, PA trailer. ASAP.
I stared at the text. Was this the break I'd been waiting for?
I wasn't sure what Paresi meant by confidential, and he wasn't going to say in his text, "This is cop-to-cop," but that was the implication. Maybe he was finally getting his head on straight.
I texted him: 20 minutes.
I called down to the parking garage and was happy to get Gomp on the phone. I said, "Gomp, this is Tom Walsh."
"Hey, Tom, how ya doin'?"
"Swell. I need a ride down to Sixty-eighth and Lex again."
"Sure thing."
"I need you to meet me at the freight elevator."
"Freight elevator?"
"Right. Two minutes. And mum's the word." I added, "Fifty bucks."
"Sure thing."
I hung up and strapped on my gun belt and hip holster. On the belt, in a sheath, was Uncle Ernie's K-bar knife that I'd taken with me on all my walks in the park. I put on a blue windbreaker and left my apartment.
As I was speed walking toward the freight elevator, I realized my vest was packed in my luggage. I don't normally wear a vest, so it's not second nature, like my gun, or my shield, or leaving the toilet seat up. I hesitated and looked at my watch. The hell with it. I got in the freight elevator, hit the garage button, and down I went.
The elevator doors opened, and there was Gomp sitting in a nice BMW SUV. I was glad he hadn't stolen my green Jeep.
I came around the car and said to him, "I need help with something in the elevator."
"Sure thing."
He got out of the BMW and moved toward the freight elevator as I jumped in the driver's seat.
Gomp shouted, "Hey! Tom! Where you--?"
I hit the accelerator, drove up the ramp, and turned right onto 72nd Street. I caught the green light at Third Avenue and continued on.
I looked in the rearview mirror. There wasn't much traffic at this hour on a drizzly Sunday night, and I didn't see any headlights trying to keep up with me. That was easy.
Subways are faster than cars in Manhattan, but the closest station to the World Trade Center has been damaged and closed since 9/11, and the other stations in the area were a five- or ten-minute walk to Liberty Street where I had to meet Paresi at the Port Authority trailer. Also, subway service to that devastated part of the city was subject to changes, meaning delays. So I'd drive. It was a nice car.
Crosstown traffic wasn't too bad on this Sunday night, and I drove through Central Park at the 65th Street Transverse Road, then got over to the West Side Highway and headed south along the Hudson River. Traffic was moving and within fifteen minutes I was on West Street driving between the dark, devastated sites of the World Financial Center and World Trade Center.
Pre-9/11, a footbridge spanned West Street at Liberty, and I saw the remnants of the structure and turned left. I parked the BMW near the chain-link gates and got out.
I'd expected to see a few unmarked cars or cruisers here, but the only vehicle around was the Port Authority cruiser parked near the fence.
I walked quickly to the gates and saw that the heavy chain and lock were in place, but there was a lot of slack in the chain and I squeezed through and walked quickly to the trailer.
I knocked on the door, then tried the handle. The door was unlocked, so I took my creds out, opened the door, and called inside, "Federal agent! Hello? Coming in."
I stepped up into the trailer and saw that the front area--an office with two desks, a radio, and maps--was empty. An electric coffee maker was on in the galley kitchen, but the TV on the counter was turned off.
There was a narrow hallway that led to a bathroom and a bunk room where the PA cops could catch a few winks or whatever, and I called out, "Anybody home?" but no one answered.
My cell phone buzzed. I looked at the text message, which was from Paresi: We're down in the pit. Where are you?
I replied: PA trailer. 1 minute.
I left the trailer and started down the long, wide earthen ramp that went into the deep pit.
The excavation site was huge, covering sixteen acres, and it would have been pitch-dark except for some lights strung along the remains of the deep concrete foundation, and a dozen or so stanchion-mounted stadium lights that illuminated some of the desolate acreage.
There were pieces of equipment scattered around--mostly earthmoving equipment and dump trucks, plus a few cranes. I also saw some construction office trailers, and one big tractor-trailer parked near the center of the site.
About halfway down the ramp, I stopped. I looked into the pit, but I didn't see anyone. The stadium lights didn't cover the entire site, and large areas were in darkness or in shadows cast by the equipment.
I texted Paresi: Where?
He replied: Center, big semi.
I looked at the tractor-trailer I'd seen, about two hundred yards away, and I saw someone pass from light to darkness.
I continued down the hard-packed earth ramp.
Okay, so why did Paresi want to meet here? Something to do with the big tractor-trailer? Who else was here? And where were the Port Authority cops? Down in the pit? And what's with the cell phone silence?
The drizzle had stopped, but at the bottom of the ramp the softer earth had turned muddy, and I wished I'd changed out of my loafers. I also noticed deep, fresh tire marks made by what was probably an eighteen-wheeler that had come through not too long ago. Assuming these were made by the big semi in the center of the site, I followed the tread marks.
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I was passing in and out of darkness, and the banks of stadium lights to my front were shining in my eyes.
I saw the tractor-trailer--CARLINO MASONRY SUPPLIES--about fifty yards ahead, but I didn't see Paresi or anyone else.
I took another few steps and stopped. I was getting a weird feeling about this. Something in the back of my mind... the stadium lights... the shadows...
I pulled my Glock and stuck it in my belt, then moved more slowly toward the tractor-trailer.
My cell phone buzzed loudly in the quiet pit. I looked at the text from Paresi: I am to your left.
I stopped beside a big dump truck and looked to my left. About ten yards away, I could see something moving in the half-light. As my eyes adjusted, I could see an object swinging from the cable of a crane... and it took me a few seconds to realize it was a person... and then I realized I was looking at the face of Vince Paresi.
I grabbed my gun out of my belt, and as I was dropping to one knee, I heard a high-pitched scream from the top of the dump truck behind me, and a fast-moving shadow flitted across the light, then something slammed into my back with such force that I was driven face-first into the wet ground. The wind was knocked out of me, and I saw my gun lying in the mud a few feet in front of me. I lunged for it, but something hit me in the back of my head, and then a foot kicked the gun away.
I jumped to my feet and realized I was wobbly, and as I caught my breath and tried to get my bearings, I saw someone in dark clothing standing about ten feet from me. I took a deep breath and stared at The Lion.
Asad Khalil had a gun in his hand, but it was at his side. I could cover the distance in about two seconds, but it would take him one second to aim and fire, and he didn't have much aiming to do at this distance.
Finally, he said, "So, we meet again."
He wanted to talk, of course, so I replied, "Fuck you."
He informed me, "That is the second time tonight someone has said that to me. But the last man said it in Russian."
Well, I knew who that was, and since Khalil was standing here, I knew that Boris was not standing anywhere. And Vince... my God... I felt a rage rising inside me, but I knew I had to keep it under control.