Countdown, page 33
Some luck.
Only a few minutes pass before I hear the change in the Bell’s engine sound. Lisa cleanly and quickly lands us on a large helipad bounded with a chain-link fence and with a circled orange H in the center. Joe gets up and I help him with the door, and a squad of doctors and nurses run out of a nearby cubelike structure, pushing a crash cart and a gurney. Joe yells the latest stats into the ear of a physician, her light-blue scrubs fluttering in the wash from the rotor, and in seconds the wounded Brian is placed on the gurney.
Standing on the hospital roof, I watch Joe slam the passenger door shut, race around the front of the helicopter, and resume his position as copilot. After he fastens himself in and closes his door, Lisa guns the Bell’s engine and off she goes, returning to duty without a look back at me.
Good for her—though I don’t envy what the rest of her day will be like.
I’m with the nurses and doctors as an IV drip is put into Brian’s arm, a fresh oxygen hose is draped through his nostrils, and there’s a big push as they run back through the entrance door, just yards away. I follow them into an open elevator. When the door shuts, I see Brian’s left hand drop free from the gurney.
I hold his cold hand in mine, squeeze it.
A male nurse, cutting off Brian’s clothes with a long pair of surgical scissors, says, “What’s his name?”
“Brian,” I answer, holding his hand tight as the elevator swiftly descends into the hospital. “I don’t know his last name. He’s a train engineer.”
“And you?”
“Amy,” I say.
“Do you know him?”
“No.”
“Why are you with him?”
I say, “I killed the man who shot him.”
When the elevator reaches its destination, the door slides open, the scrum of doctors and nurses push Brian out into a nearby open area, and I realize we must be in the emergency room at New York–Presbyterian/Lower Manhattan Hospital. Another crash cart comes out and Brian really gets attention; curtains are quickly drawn around him.
I’m alone.
I hear other nurses and doctors working, see scrub-garbed medical personnel trotting up and down the wide, shiny corridors. As personnel cluster around a nurse’s station, I find a chair and sit down, utterly exhausted and drained.
I wait.
Alone.
How soon, I think, before more victims come in, coughing, choking, sputtering, their mouths and lungs burned beyond repair? How long before the men, the women, the children, are stacked up here in the emergency-room corridors? How long before they are lined up out in the parking lot, crowding the streets, the dying and choking, all seeking comfort and aid?
How long?
I close my eyes.
Wait.
A voice.
“Amy.”
I open my eyes.
Jeremy Windsor, looking as tired as I feel, stands there.
“How did you find me?” I ask.
“A security officer told me an NYPD helicopter dropped off a wounded train engineer, with a woman accompanying him. Could only be you.”
I wipe at my face with my right hand, feeling the moisture there. “Ah, shit, Jeremy, we didn’t make it. We failed. So many…”
I can’t finish my sentence.
Jeremy sits down next to me, takes my hand. Ordinarily I’d have a sarcastic retort for such a familiar gesture, but not this time.
“Amy,” he says. “I did, but you didn’t.”
Chapter 123
AMY’S HAIR is matted and twisted, her face is smeared with diesel soot, there’s dried blood on her hands and cheeks, and her clothes are a mess as well, with large splotches of dried blood on her formerly white blouse.
Jeremy gives her hand another squeeze, trying to ignore the bustle around them. “When you stopped the first train, the engineer got word back to his dispatch, and they contacted every police and fire agency along that rail corridor. Evacuations started, roads were blocked.”
“But…I saw the bombs go off. I saw the gas clouds.”
“You saw some of the bombs go off,” Jeremy says, not quite believing it himself. “Something went wrong with the devices. Only a few bombs detonated. The others…they were duds, or they were miswired.”
“But I saw the gas vapors forming, lifting up.”
“You saw some clouds, but nothing like what we thought would happen,” Jeremy says. “There were some injuries and some deaths, I’m sorry to say, but it could have been much, much worse. There’s an elementary school near where the trains met. They were able to close windows, doors, shut down the A/C, and shelter in place. All because of you.”
Jeremy sees Amy’s eyes slowly widen in realization of what happened, how close it had been, and he wishes he could shut his mouth right here and now.
“You…why are you here?”
Jeremy says, “I got to the hotel roof, found Rashad. I hoped he could stop the trains in time…I even shot him in his left leg, trying to make him talk. But it wasn’t going to work. The damn explosives were set on proximity fuses so they would explode when they passed each other…we were just so damn lucky, Amy.”
Amy suddenly laughs. “Rashad…did you toss him over the roof after you shot him?”
Jeremy smiles. “I thought as much. But no, I bandaged him up some, called the NYPD, and brought him here. We had a lovely and interesting chat while we waited.”
Amy laughs again, and Jeremy—hating himself for what he now has to do—says, “Amy…I need to tell you something.”
“What?” she says. “What is it?”
“Your…Tom and Denise. They’re here.”
Amy shakes her head. “No, they’re on Staten Island.”
He gently squeezes her hand again. “No,” he says. “They were in a crowd near One World Trade Center. Smoke bombs were set off. It was…chaotic. I’m sorry, Amy, they were struck by a vehicle. They’re here in the ER.”
Amy stands up, pulling her hand free. “Where?”
Jeremy says, “I’ll show you.”
Amy says again, “No, they’re on Staten Island.”
“Amy, they’re here. And it’s not good.”
Chapter 124
I FEEL like screaming They’re on Staten Island again, but I walk briskly with Jeremy, letting him set the pace, wanting to grab him by the shoulder and tell him to move faster, please, move faster.
“How…why do you think they’re here?”
Jeremy’s voice is sad.
God, please don’t be sad.
“I went past one of the nurse’s stations,” he says. “Somebody mentioned Cornwall. A father and daughter were admitted…and I checked it out.”
Cornwall.
A common name, right?
Must be a mistake.
That’s all.
They’re on Staten Island.
Tom promised me.
“Amy…”
He tries to put an arm around my shoulders but I push him away, passing through curtains into another ER-patient space.
Two hospital beds, sharing a single area. A heavyset Hispanic nurse, looking up at an electronic display overhead.
Debris on the floor: crumpled papers, bloody bandages, latex gloves, lengths of tubing.
On one bed is my Tom.
On the other is my Denise.
I raise my hands to my face.
Denise is sitting up, smiling, sipping from a juice box. “Mommy!”
Tom is sitting up as well. Grinning with some shame and embarrassment, he says, “Honey, I can explain—honest.”
Chapter 125
I SLOWLY lower my hands.
Seeing what’s really there:
The nurse, quietly going through her paces.
My Denise, on the bed, lying still.
Tom on his bed, also lying still.
My beloveds are dead.
I walk forward, feeling like a shell, not feeling human, simply not feeling.
I just know it’s not right.
There are scratches on Denise’s left cheek. Her perfect blond hair is tangled. A light-blue bedsheet and blanket are drawn up to her neck.
Her chest doesn’t rise or fall.
The color of her flawless skin is gray.
And my Tom…
His eyes are closed as well.
A deep bloody abrasion on his chin.
My beloveds.
I failed.
I step around and the nurse finally spots me. “I’m sorry, you can’t be here.”
“Yes, yes, I can,” I say, going to Denise’s bed, stroking her hair, my fingers touching her cold cheek. “This is my family.”
“Oh,” the nurse says. “I’m so sorry.”
There’s a wide gap between the two beds.
My Tom and Denise are separated.
No, that’s not going to happen.
I push against the bed.
It doesn’t move.
I push the bed and the nurse says, “What are you doing?”
“They belong together,” I say. “Help me push the beds together.”
“No,” she says, “that’s not allowed.”
I don’t remember pulling it, but my Beretta is out, pointing right at her.
“Help me move these goddamn beds or I’ll drop you right here,” I say, my voice dim, like it’s being spoken a hundred miles away. “Then I’ll drop the next person who comes in and doesn’t help until I’m out of bullets or I’m dead. Your choice.”
The nurse bites her lower lip and Jeremy steps in. “Here, let me help. Amy, please—put the pistol away.”
With the nurse releasing the brakes on the wheels and Jeremy pushing, my daughter’s deathbed is pushed against her father’s. I sit on the edge of Denise’s bed, roll up my legs, take my dead daughter in my arms, and then stroke the cold forehead of my dead husband. The nurse leaves.
And I start whispering, and I start weeping.
“Oh, Denise…I wanted so much for you…a life with love and laughs…oh, Denise…my girl…my sweet girl…I’m so sorry…oh, so sorry.”
I stroke her hair, knowing that somewhere in the ER I have to find a hairbrush and comb out the tangles. And somewhere back at our townhouse—where I will never spend another night, even if by some miracle my smoke order gets lifted—I will need to find the right clean clothes to…to dress her for the last time.
What will I pick? How will I choose?
A deep rending sob comes out. “And I never said goodbye to you…never talked to you these last few days…and now I never will…oh, Hon…”
I reach over, touch Tom’s forehead, his lips, his cool cheeks.
He has only two suits. Why would a reporter need more than that? Should I buy him a new one?
“My sweet man,” I say, weeping again. “I’m sorry for the times I barked at you, gave you the cold shoulder…oh, Tom…we could have gotten old together, seen our daughter get married…spoil her children…Tom…oh, Tom…”
Jeremy sits in the corner, not moving, not saying a word.
And so a good portion of the day slides by, my body feeling like an empty husk, not wanting anything, not thirsty, not hungry, not being.
Time passes.
The curtain opens.
A deeply tanned man comes in, wearing a fine gray suit, white shirt, blue necktie.
His face is troubled, and he spots Jeremy, sees me, and then my dead family.
This man is why I joined the CIA after my service in the Army.
Jeremy stands up and says, “Amy. I need to leave. Please forgive me.”
He slips out through the curtains, out to where there’s life.
“Amy,” the man says. “I’m so deeply, deeply sorry.”
I can’t speak, can’t think of anything, but then words come to me.
“You promised,” I say, hating how my voice is wavering. “You promised. You said when I was overseas, you’d have a squad watching Tom and Denise, secretly protecting them 24/7…you promised.”
He looks at me without flinching.
“I did,” he says. “And I failed.”
I touch Tom’s hair, then Denise’s.
“No,” I say. “I failed, most of all.”
The tanned man says, “At some point, we’ll need to talk.”
I touch my dead husband and daughter once again.
“Not now,” I say.
“Agreed,” he says.
“And if you ask me again, I will hurt you.”
Chapter 126
IN HIS private hospital room, Rashad Hussain makes himself as comfortable as possible, dressed in ridiculous hospital clothing of loose slacks and a pajama top. His lower left leg feels numb, like it’s been replaced with a length of mahogany. With some difficulty he is sipping from a plastic glass of apple juice, because his arms are fastened by chains and handcuffs to the bed, just like his lower legs.
There are sensors taped to his chest and abdomen, and an IV running into his left hand. The television suspended from the ceiling has been switched off at his request.
His company is two New York police officers, sitting in chairs on both sides of the bed. They ignore him, which is fine, since he ignores them in return. The one on the left is an African American woman with funny braided hair; Rashad still can’t believe a woman dressed like that could be a police officer.
The other officer is a slumping young male who sits staring at a handheld device, thumbs flying. Earlier the woman police officer had said, “Put that thing away—you want trouble?” and the other cop had just shrugged: “Trouble? From you or from him?”
Rashad tries to bring the cup closer to his mouth, but the straw moves back and forth, back and forth. Disappointed, he puts the cup back down on the bed’s movable tray.
He won’t be disappointed much longer.
From outside there are shouts, screams, the crashing sound of something falling, and a deep, coughing sound. The two police officers start to stand up just as a bulky, bearded man dressed in black fatigues and body armor, carrying a small automatic weapon with a sound suppressor at the end of the barrel, puts a round in each officer’s forehead.
Their bodies slump to the floor.
The man comes over, shouts something, and another man comes in, bearing bolt cutters.
Four hard snaps later, Rashad’s restraints are gone.
“Thank you,” Rashad says, pulling off the sensors, wincing some as he tugs the IV from his left hand.
“Sorry we are late,” the shooter says in heavily accented English.
He turns once more and yells out, “Požuri! Donesite mi stolicu za točak, odmah!”
Two armed men enter the room, one pushing a wheelchair, and in seconds Rashad is seated in the chair. “Where now?” he asks.
“To the roof,” the leader says. “A chopper waits.”
“You’ve earned yourself a bonus,” Rashad says.
“No need,” comes the reply. “You pay for job, we do job.”
Chapter 127
AT LINDSAY Hall in Britain, Horace Evans of MI6 enters his office after a long meeting at Vauxhall Cross in London, surprised to find his assistant, Declan Ainsworth, seated behind his desk.
Declan is usually discreet and differential, but on this late afternoon he sits at Horace’s station like he belongs there. Horace can’t be too upset with the lad, though: Jeremy Windsor is standing behind Declan, holding a combat knife to his throat.
Horace gently puts his briefcase on the floor. “Jeremy,” he says. “It’s been a while. Good to see you.”
“The same,” Jeremy says. His MI6 operative looks worn, tired, like he’s not had a good sleep in ages, and Horace recognizes that appearance.
“I take it we’re going to have a talk?”
Declan’s eyes are very wide and Jeremy has a firm grasp on his hair, tugging his head back just enough to reveal his exposed throat.
Jeremy says, “Seems like that’s all I’ve been doing lately—talking. It started with a long conversation with Rashad Hussain after I shot him in New York last week. He tried to keep quiet, but it’s easy to get information from a fellow after you’ve shot him in the leg. All you need to do is stomp on the open wound a few times.”
A slight moan from Declan. Jeremy says, “I knew this op wasn’t sanctioned. But I never realized how out of bounds you were, Horace.”
“I would have told you,” Horace says. “Eventually.”
Jeremy says, “Rashad told me of the support he was getting from MI6. Little news tips, hints, information that allowed him to stay one step ahead of me for many, many months. Even recommending a Polish supplier of explosives and computerized proximity fuses. Were you directing him in his activities?”
Horace shakes his head. “More like guidance.”
Jeremy says, “Rashad told me he didn’t know who was doing the work for him. Just a contact that was handsomely paid. After a frank and candid exchange of views—along with a little nudge here and there—Declan told me he had been Rashad’s source. Even showed me his overseas bank accounts. Under your authority. True?”
Horace says, “All of it.”
“Why?”
Horace says, “Why do you think? We’re at war. Hard decisions must be made. Sacrifices must be offered. And above all, we need to get the Americans back in the game.”
“Go on,” Jeremy says, voice tight and hard.
“It’s been more than two decades since their 9/11,” Horace says. “An entirely new generation has grown up knowing that day only as history. And their president and their Congress have turned inward. They no longer care about us…about Europe…about treaties. We needed to break them out of their isolation, and Rashad was our tool. His assistant Marcel was ours as well, making sure our tool did the job we wanted him to. And yes, on my own, I was determined to use him. There was no way this type of operation would be sanctioned. We couldn’t repeat the mistakes of their 9/11: heads in the sand, ignoring the real world and wishing for the best.”
“The explosives that didn’t work…your Polish supplier sabotaged them?”
