Countdown, page 24
Someone has called Mike Patel.
But who?
Freddie joins the frantic stream of people going across Broadway and keeps eyes on Mike, who doesn’t seem to care that he’s being followed.
But the phone call.
It’s the first time Freddie has ever seen the man take a call.
So who could it be?
A feeling comes to him so fast and so strong that he can almost taste it. Oh, to run up to Mike, slam into his back, and steal that cell phone—what he could learn if he did that!
A few more steps.
Yeah.
He’d learn what would happen after royally pissing off his MI5 supervisor here in New York: bounced out of the Yard, sent off to work foot patrol in a council-housing unit in Birmingham.
Mike stops near an ornate fountain shooting four jets of water that meet in a decorative centerpiece. There are two food stalls, kids running around and yelping, a guy in a mime’s costume juggling bowling pins.
Freddie stops, leans against a black wrought-iron fence, yawns like he’s incredibly bored. Or tired.
But Mike takes out his phone and makes a call.
An incoming phone call, then an outgoing one.
Something serious is up, and Freddie feels an itch on his ankle—the one where the pistol holster is fastened.
Nadia, now at the park, takes a few strides toward the fountain.
She waits and glances around, trying not to look too conspicuous.
Where is her Mike?
There are men here, and women, and some kids, and some fool performing as a juggler. She ignores the women, looks at the men. Two businessmen in suits are on a bench, talking at each other. Another is staring at a handheld device. A man in blue jeans and a white T-shirt is talking on his phone. Another man, in khakis and a short blue jacket, leans against a fence, yawning. Yet another man, this one with a young boy, enters the park, then stops and watches the fool juggler.
Where is her Mike?
She paces, feeling like an idiot, carrying her metal case and dragging her luggage behind her. On the subway ride to this park, Nadia had fantasized how this important meeting would happen, what Mike would look like, how exciting those first few minutes of finally being with him would be.
But where is he?
She stops moving, takes her phone from her roller bag.
Makes the call.
It rings.
Rings.
A number of shouts break out.
“Freeze it right there!”
“Don’t move!”
“Arms up! Arms up!”
Black-clad policemen with helmets, body vests, and machine guns swarm through and around the park, all pointing their weapons at Nadia.
Oh, God, she thinks, holding the cell phone in one hand, her precious case in the other.
Where is her Mike?
Chapter 79
WHEN THE police appear, Mike Patel steps back, following the orders of a sweaty Hispanic police officer in standard uniform, holding out her hands, her eyes stern and sharp.
“Move back, move back, folks,” she calls out. “We’ve got a situation developing here. Move back!”
Mike does just that, but still tries to look above the heads of everyone moving with him, just to see what in hell is going on.
More police vehicles roar up and down Broadway and nearby Park Row, lights flashing, horns honking, but no sirens. There are cruisers and squat, lorry-like vehicles that discharge heavily armed men in helmets and full battle uniform. Other police cruisers pull off and stop traffic.
He’s pushed back with the other civilians, wondering how the French woman is doing.
Freddie Farrady has always had a high opinion of his NYPD brethren, but even he is impressed at their full rollout. He briefly wonders if they’re going after Mike Patel—wouldn’t that be a hell of a thing to tell Portia?—but no, they seem focused on a scared-looking woman in a black dress, her raised hands holding a cell phone and a metal case, black roll-on luggage nearby.
Kids and parents and businessmen flow out of the park. Freddie overhears a snippet of conversation—
“…Christ, I heard that woman might have a bomb in her luggage…”
—Freddie manages to duck into some park shrubbery, then scrambles up a nearby tree to assess the scene.
The NYPD has set up a perimeter around the fountain, weapons trained on a young woman with eyes wide as saucers. Four of the cops hold rectangular shields held in front of them. Two officers dressed as Michelin men—thick, heavy, dark-green protective gear—gather near a vehicle. It seems the bomb squad has arrived.
A cop emerges from the perimeter, holding out his bare hands, talking to the woman. Freddie can’t hear the words but knows he’s a negotiator, trying to get her to drop everything on the ground and move away. That guy has balls made of titanium, Freddie thinks, to stand a couple of meters from some nut whose metal case is full of C-4 and ball bearings.
Something warm is trickling down her legs. With horror and shame, Nadia realizes she has just soiled herself.
This isn’t how it’s supposed to be!
No!
Not after the long months of work—the times she came close to contaminating herself, or inhaling the anthrax spores, or after killing poor sweet old Madame Therien. This isn’t supposed to happen!
Where is her Mike?
An American police officer is approaching her, speaking soothing words, holding out his hands. Nadia starts to weep, wondering how all this is going to end.
And then she doesn’t wonder anymore.
Mike Patel is across Broadway, still close enough to see the park, but no longer close enough to see the woman from France.
More and more police units are arriving, blue wooden barricades are being set up, and he sighs.
One more phone call to make.
He takes out his phone, presses the programmed number.
Freddie hears a voice swear and say, “Get the hell down from there, now!” He swivels his head, sees a sweating and angry white NYPD officer looking up at him.
He says, “Just a sec, mate,” wondering if he can convince Portia to check in with her police sources to find out just who in hell that woman is, and if she has a connection to Mike, and maybe—
The flash of light, the billow of smoke, and the heavy thud come all at once. There’s even a breath of wind as the force of the explosion reaches him.
Freddie blinks his eyes.
The woman is no longer standing by the fountain.
Her luggage is scattered across the bloody pavement.
A cloud of smoke rises above the fountain.
Shouts and yells, and Freddie lowers himself from his perch.
The cop isn’t angry with Freddie anymore, but he still looks wound up, his face red and sweating.
“What happened?” the cop demands. “What did you see?”
Freddie says, “Something exploded over there, where the woman was standing.”
“Did it kill her?”
Freddie says, “Cut her right in half.”
Chapter 80
AFTER A brief stop at a sporting-goods store to pick up some sneakers—or trainers, as they call them here in this wonderful land—Jeremy drives us through a side gate to RAF Northolt, an air base just a handful of kilometers north of London. It seems to be a relatively small base—only one runway that I can see—and Jeremy says, “If we’re lucky and I can spin a good tale, we’ll be able to get transportation here to the States. You and I are probably on the local no-fly lists. But I think I can squeeze us onto an RAF flight.”
“Local aircraft from the base?”
Jeremy shakes his head. “No, not here. They just have helicopters and short-range transport. We need something faster and bigger.”
I say, “We get to the States, we’re going to need something actionable.”
“You’re smoked, I’ve been Faroe’d,” he says, pulling his Lexus into a well-lit parking spot just outside a squat concrete building that looks like it was part of a buy-one-get-one-free deal. “You have an idea?”
“Yes,” I say, opening up the door. “A domestic source in the States I can trust.”
“You sure?” he asks as we walk up a small pathway leading to the glass doors.
“Absolutely,” I say. “He’s even seen me naked a few times.”
Inside the reception area are two young RAF officers in dark-blue slacks and light-blue shirts, no neckties. Jeremy takes them into a corner by two desks and talks with them in low tones. One leaves through another door, and Jeremy comes back to me and says, “This will be tricky. So please, don’t disturb me, no matter what.”
I say, “Fair enough. But I need your phone, as insecure as it might be. I want to call my husband.”
“Tom? That’s…oh, I get it. You want to see what he can find out about Rashad.”
He pulls out his iPhone, works the screen, and says, “Here. This Word document lists every company and corporation that Rashad is involved with. Hopefully your Tom can find something out.”
I take the iPhone. “If Rashad’s off to New York, there’s got to be some sort of place he can use as a staging area, a meeting place, even an apartment to get a good night’s sleep. If it’s in New York and Rashad owns it, Tom will find it.”
A door on the other side of the small office flies open with a bang, and a very angry and stout RAF officer stands in the doorway. Near the open door, hanging from the ceiling, is a thin TV showing BBC World News.
“Windsor,” he says.
“Captain Bloom,” Jeremy says. “Thanks for agreeing to see me.”
The officer frowns. “That’s all I’ve agreed to do. Come in.”
Jeremy walks in, the door slams shut, and the young RAF officer remaining says, “Would you like a cup of tea?”
I hate tea, but he’s so damn polite and eager. “I’d love one,” I say, plopping my tired butt onto a nearby sofa. My feet are still sore, so I prop them up on a coffee table that holds a couple of copies of Soldier magazine, Northolt Approach magazine, and that day’s edition of the Times. I start dialing.
It rings.
Rings.
Oh, please…
Click.
“Cornwall.”
I sag against the couch in relief, look down at the screen and at the displayed Word document. “Tom, it’s Amy.”
“Amy!” he cries out. The love and concern—and, yes, even a bit of anger—in his voice reach right into me and squeeze my heart. “How are you? Where are you? What’s going on?”
I find my voice, “Oh, Tom…I’m okay. Really, I’m okay. And…I’m in an undisclosed location. You know how it is. And what’s going on is…Tom, I need your help.”
He says, “You got it.”
The sweet young RAF officer sets a teacup and saucer down on the coffee table. “First things first,” I say. “Ticonderoga. Have you packed? Have you left Manhattan?”
My love says, “Of course. I got the message.”
“Where’s Denise? Can I talk to her?”
“She’s safe,” Tom says. “She’s out fishing with my Uncle John.”
My overworked mind gives up for a moment, and I say, “Who?”
“John Cornwall. Retiree from ConEd. Lives on Staten Island.”
I say, “South end, right?”
“Right,” he says. “Practically in New Jersey.”
I say, “Okay, give her my love, and for God’s sake, neither of you leave there, okay?”
“Amy…”
“Tom, I don’t have much time.”
“I figured as much,” he says. “I tried contacting you…and nothing worked. You’ve been fired?”
“In a manner of speaking, but that can wait,” I say, not wanting to get bogged down in a lot of details. “I’m on the trail of someone, and I’ve come up against a wall, and I need your resources. Please.”
“Go,” he says. “I’m at my laptop.”
“His name is Rashad Hussain,” I say, and I spell it out. “Saudi national and businessman. Age thirty. And I’ve got a list of holding companies and corporations that I’m about to read to you…Tom, I need to know if there’s anything belonging to him or associated with him that’s in the Manhattan area. And Tom…I’m sorry, please, but you’ve got to keep this quiet. Nobody else can know.”
From thousands of miles away I hear Tom’s fingers hitting the keyboard, and that familiar and homey sound almost makes me choke up with emotion.
“This…it’s connected to Ticonderoga.”
“Yes. But please, don’t push me. Not now. It’s too important.”
Tom says, “I know what you’re saying. Nobody else will know. I promise. Okay. Go.”
“First up,” I say, “is a real estate company, Five Corners Realty…”
And so it goes for another five minutes, husband and wife, devoted lovers, speaking professionally and calmly, trying to stop someone intent on killing thousands.
Shouts are coming from the office into which Jeremy and the RAF officer disappeared. “Okay, Hon,” I tell Tom, “that’s it.”
“When do you need it?”
“Soon,” I say, “but you’ve got some time. I’m going to be out of pocket for six hours.”
“Flying home?” he asks.
I laugh. “My dear one, you’ll hear all about it, but only after the two of us have a nice home-cooked meal—by you!—and a long shower.”
He laughs in return. “Who’s taking the shower?”
“The two of us,” I say, “but only if you promise to wash my back.”
“And the front?”
I feel so much better. “Gotta go. Love you, and Denise.”
“Love you, too.”
I disconnect and sit back, feeling still better. The shouting goes on behind the closed door, and I know my Tom so well I’m sure he’s now working hard, digging, and starting to make phone calls.
Jeremy’s phone chimes at me.
I sit up.
It keeps on ringing. The screen says BLOCKED NUMBER.
Jeremy said not to disturb him, but still…this could be important.
I answer the phone. “Jeremy Windsor’s phone.”
A man’s soft voice says, “Is he available?”
“No,” I say. “He’s not. But he might be free in a few minutes. Can I take a message?”
The man says, “Oh, that’s all right. Perhaps I will call later, speak to him face-to-face.”
The voice is cultured, civilized, with a slight accent.
I squeeze the iPhone so tight I imagine I might shatter it.
“Rashad,” I say, “why don’t you give me a number so he can call you back?”
Chapter 81
FREDDIE FARRADY is in the midst of breaking another American law—having begun his illegal activities by smuggling a pistol into New York City—and he doesn’t really care. He has entered the small brick building on the corner of 30th Street and Newtown Avenue by helping an older woman carry in her shopping bags, and now he is working on the lock for Mike Patel’s second-floor flat.
There.
The knob turns open and he puts away the two lockpicks into his pocket, then he quickly enters the apartment and closes the door behind him.
He takes a breath. All right, then.
And something is instantly off.
In all the black-bag jobs like this he’s done for Special Branch—no warrants or paperwork—the flats always had a dreary sameness: stench of cooking grease, tobacco, take-away containers or trash on the floor, soiled nappies piled in the loo.
But not this time.
The tiny flat looks clean, ordered. Two windows—sans screens—are open. Before him is a little kitchen area, small table with two chairs. Fridge and two-burner stove.
He steps in farther, begins a quick toss of the place.
Living room with a single couch and one chair. Small TV on a built-in bookcase, the other shelves empty of books.
There’s a hint of an odor now, something that tickles his memory.
He goes into the bedroom.
An hour after the bombing at City Hall Park and after numerous attempts, Freddie had managed to contact his MI5 supervisor, Portia Grayson. She had instantly cut him off.
“I don’t have time to talk about Patel,” she had said. “I’ve been called to the consulate to work with my French counterparts on finding out who this woman was. All we know is that she came from de Gaulle. Now leave me alone.”
Okay, he thinks in Patel’s neat bedroom. He’s leaving her alone, and he’s also working quickly because he knows Patel will be home shortly. But Freddie doesn’t believe in coincidences, and it’s hard to believe—Portia notwithstanding—that Mike’s presence in City Hall Park is not connected to that French tourist blowing herself up.
The bed is made, the place looks clean. Three newspapers on the small nightstand: the Post, the Daily News, and a four-day-old copy of Al-Quds Al-Arabi, published in Britain. The adjoining bathroom has a shower and a toilet. Here, at least, Patel is not perfect: both the stall and the bowl could use a good cleaning.
That little odor seems stronger.
What is it?
It’s tickling him like a dream half-remembered during the daylight hours.
What’s triggering him?
He opens the closet. A few shirts and slacks dangling from the hanger, two pairs of dirty trainers on the floor.
The smell is even stronger here.
“Oh, shit,” he says.
He gets to his knees, pulls the trainers out, feels the floorboards. Loose. He picks up one, then two.
There.
Nestled in crumpled-up newspaper is an American-made M4 automatic rifle.
Gun oil.
That’s what he’s been smelling.
Gun oil.
He takes out the M4, spies six spare magazines hidden in the packing as well. Thirty rounds each. Meaning two hundred and ten 5.56mm bullets all told, designed to kill and wound and maim in combat, ready to be used…
