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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 heavythudcome 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.”
Chapter80
AFTER Abrief stop at a sporting-goods store to pick up some sneakers—ortrainers,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.”
