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Amy says, “Great idea, but I got some police on my ass. I can’t make it there without being arrested, and I can’t be arrested.”
Holy shit,Lisa thinks.What am I getting myself into?
And the weeping of her uncle comes to her.
“Be there in less than five. Aviation 19 off.”
She switches the communication system so that her copilot can hear her. Then she takes a breath and gently banks the Bell helicopter to the left.
“Joe?”
“Right here, Lisa.”
She talks slowly and plainly. “That was a CIA officer I served with in Afghanistan, when she was in Army Intelligence. I trusted her with my life then and I trust her now. This…is outside channels, but she needs me to pick her up to prevent a terrorist attack in less than thirty minutes.”
The deep thrumming of the two Pratt & Whitney engines is the only thing Lisa hears.
“She’s hiding out at the Bayonne Golf Course. We’ve got no authority, no orders. If this goes south, we’ll probably both lose our shields—if we’re lucky. So…you can get out in New Jersey when I pick her up.”
A second passes.
“Lisa?”
“Yeah, Joe.”
“Fly the goddamn bird,” he says. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Chapter102
JEREMY WINDSORwalks briskly along the floating docks of the Freedom View Marina—don’t run; running always raises attention and suspicion—until he sees what he’s looking for: a lovely 48-foot bright-red speedboat that he knows can reach 80 miles per hour with its twin 500-horsepower Mercury outboard engines.
The trip here after he dropped off Amy took about five minutes, and he feels the weight of time and pressure on his shoulders as he leaps into the boat.
Work,he thinks.Work fast.
He pulls apart a section of the dashboard next to the boat’s steering wheel, reaches in, and yes…
The ignition wires.
He pulls the red and yellow ones out, thinking how fortunate he is that most boats still depend on 1960s ignition technology—nothing like the latest models of cars and trucks. In a few seconds of flicking the raw ends of the wires together, both engines roar into life, throbbing with a noise that instantly relieves him.
Jeremy climbs out of the open interior, unties the stern line and bowline. A man yells, “Hey, hey—who the hell are you?”
He jumps back into the boat, pushes away from the dock. Two men are running down after him, one in khaki shorts and a pink polo shirt, the other in a security guard’s uniform. Jeremy waves a hand and says, “Just borrowing it for a few minutes, fellows! I’ll do my best not to prang it!”
Jeremy maneuvers the boat through a narrow channel clustered with sailboats and other powerboats of all sizes and shapes—their obscene cost the common denominator—then shoves the twin throttles forward and powers his way out to the Hudson River. It’s a gorgeous late-May morning and there’s lots of marine traffic out here, from ferries to sailboats.
Jeremy stares ahead. Based on the quick research he did on the new iPhone, there’s the Nansen Arms Hotel, rising up near Rockefeller Park, almost directly opposite him. Getting across this stretch of river with the powerboat should take less than five minutes.
But what will be waiting for him when he gets there?
Is there another information source he can tap?
With one hand on the steering wheel, Jeremy keeps the powerboat roaring along on a straight course. With the other he grabs the iPhone and makes a call. After a brief discussion, thankfully, the call goes through.
“Amanda Trevor, agricultural attaché,” comes the familiar voice.
“Amanda,” he says. “It’s Jeremy Windsor. I need your help.”
