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Standing in the narrow parklike area between One World Trade Center and busy West Street, he checks the message, now fifteen minutes old.
He must have missed it when he was in the elevator.
“Hey, Tom, it’s your uncle John. I’ve been calling and calling, but you haven’t picked up. I know this is a surprise, but Denise is insistent I take her into the city today. She says you promised her a tour. Denise is pretty upset, so…I’m on the road now, and let’s say I meet you at the Fulton Street entrance to your office at 11 a.m. Thanks. See you soon.”
Shit!
He calls Uncle John and it goes straight to voicemail. He knows Uncle John and his devotion to his old flip phone—“I don’t need those fancy apps and gadgets”—and lots of times, depending on the weather or even sunspots, you can’t reach him.
He’s walking up Fulton Street now, seeing a blue-green construction van parked at the corner of Fulton and Greenwich—always, always some construction going on in this place—and he tries again.
No answer.
What promise? What tour?
Then it hits him.
May 29.
Take Your Daughter to Work Day.
He almost laughs. How about Take Your Daughter to the Unemployment Office Day instead?
No matter.
He’ll stay here and wait.
He checks his watch.
It’s 10:20 a.m.
Chapter95
OUR DONATEDImpala is running on fumes. After a quick stop to buy a gallon of gas—“No more than that,” I yell at Jeremy as he shoves the nozzle in the tank, “we can’t afford to waste time driving”—we’re rocketing along the two northbound lanes of NJ-440, heading in the direction of I-78, which I don’t plan to take.
“Amy, time,” Jeremy says, as I weave in and out of traffic, thinking furiously, running through options, choices, and realizing that as much as I hate to do it, we’re going to have to divide our forces.
I say, “I’m goddamn well aware of the goddamn time. We’ve got two missions ahead of us: stop the trains, and stop Rashad.”
Horns blare as we keep speeding north. “We don’t know where Rashad is!”
“I know, I know, just…quiet.”
Jeremy shuts his mouth. I think of all I’ve learned about Rashad, about what he wants to do, about his earlier actions, all of them quiet and behind the scenes.
Then he kills his father.
Starts getting bolder. Showing off. Boasting.
Like he’s telling the spirit of his father that he’s no longer a scared and ignored little boy.
Gotcha,I think.
“He likes to be near the action now, Jeremy,” I call out. “Like when he told you about the aircraft going down in Saudi. Being at the nuke-exchange site in France. Rashad wants to see the results of his planning; heneedsto see the results. He wants to watch the trains explode. He wants to witness the gas clouds form, see people in the distance start to panic and choke to death.”
“But where would he be?” he asks.
“His hotels,” I say. “When I talked to him back in the UK, he bragged he would stand on top of his wealth and watch us die. His wealth? The three hotels. Get on your phone, find the one nearest the Hudson River. C’mon, pickup truck, move it, move it,move it!”
