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I lay on the horn and sideswipe a delivery van, producing acrunch/bangthat reminds me of driving in London. I see Jeremy working his borrowed iPhone out of the corner of my eye, and he says, “Gus should be making those 911 calls.”
“Of course he is,” I say. “And it just might work…might.But I’m not going to rely on some poor 911 dispatcher believing Gus telling her what’s about to happen…come on Jeremy, what’s the goddamn holdup?”
“Here, here,” he says. “The Nansen Arms. Right on the water, near Rockefeller Park, and across from Hoboken and the southern part of his railroad.”
I punch the steering wheel. “The son of a bitch wants to see it, Jeremy. That’s where he’ll be.”
“And if the bombs on the trains are on timers, he’ll want to use a command switch, and detonate them remotely if they’re delayed.”
“You got it,” I say. “And that’s your job, Jeremy. I don’t know how or where you’re going to do it, but you’re going to get your Brit ass over to that hotel and stop him.”
“And you? The trains? What are you going to do?”
I say, “You tell me right now if there’s a park, or a golf course, or some big empty lot nearby, that’s your job. And I’ll tell you how I’m going to do it, if I can.”
Jeremy flips through his donated iPhone and says, “About a half mile to go. Take the exit to Lefante Way. The Bayonne Golf Course is near there.”
I check my watch.
It’s 10:21 a.m.
“Amy.”
“Yeah.”
“There’s a police cruiser coming up on us,” Jeremy says.
Chapter96
IT HAStaken him nearly a month of preparation and permitting, but Mike Patel is sitting in the rear of a perfectly licensed and legitimate service van that has his HVAC company’s name and logo on its sides. Mike has taped his parking permit and other necessary paperwork to the windshield so that any passing police or transit officers won’t bother him.
He’s parked on the corner of Greenwich and Fulton Street, right in the shadow of One World Trade Center, directly across from the memorial site with the walls of falling water and the rows upon rows of inscribed names.
The interior of the van is painted deep black, and a curtain separates the two front seats from where he’s sitting, facing the twin rear doors. Both windows are tinted so no one can peer in. If someone succeeded in doing so, however, he or she would see Mike calmly sitting on a raised seat, facing the rear doors. Across his lap is a loaded M4 automatic rifle, with six spare magazines at his elbow.
There’s a rope with a pulley system at his left. When the time comes, he will tug the rope and the left-side rear window will lift up. With the dark interior, nothing will be revealed to anyone passing by—especially when he picks up the rifle with the flash- and sound-suppressor, and starts shooting into the crowds.
Mike is wearing a bullet-resistant vest, and the keys to the van are in the ignition. He’s a warrior today, but he doesn’t plan to be a martyr.
He just wants revenge on those who have called him “Paki, Paki” over the years.
Mike patiently waits.
He doesn’t need to know what time it is.
The little surprises he’s planted throughout One World Trade Center will let him know when the correct time has arrived.
Chapter97
ABOARD THEGE diesel electric locomotive for his day’s trip—said train number being HV412-29, from the Hudson Valley dispatch office—Orrin Block is sitting in the right-side engineer’s chair, yawning, watching the gauges flicker and report to him in the green. In front of him are the four control handles that operate this train: a black one to apply the locomotive’s brakes, a red handle to apply the brakes for the entire train, an oblong black handle that’s the combined throttle and dynamic brake, and a fourth handle to reverse the locomotive.
When he first started, Orrin wondered how he would ever tell the four apart. Now he dreams he’s holding them in his hands.
He checks the gauges one more time. Funny thing, the gauges aren’t gauges—they’re two small computer screens constantly feeding him data on the status of the locomotive and the brake systems leading to the rear of its 160-car load today. But the folks running the railroads are big on nostalgia.
Like where his conductor, Miguel Marcos, is stationed on the other side of the cab, beyond the thick center console that splits the cab in two. Since Orrin is the engineer and sits in the engineer’s chair, you’d think that Miguel—being the conductor—would sit in the conductor’s chair.
Nope, that chair was called thefireman’s chair,from the days when a fireman shoveled coal for a steam locomotive.
