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Rashad waits, rubbing his hands not from cold or fear but from anticipation. He is not a particularly religious man, but years ago he had stood on this very roof as it neared completion, remembering with cold rage the constant gibes of his father, who had insulted Rashad for going into mercantile work, instead of the honorable profession of being in government service or the oil industry—essentially the same thing—where he might have worked with the Americans and the British to achieve a more equitable world, and those thoughts were on his mind that day when Allah spoke to him.
The little light remains red.
He was at this very spot, ignoring the words of his architects and builders, looking over the Hudson River at the coast of New Jersey, when Allah spoke to him, giving him a vision of a great cloud coming from that coast and sweeping over here, taking down Manhattan and its empire and the dreams and hopes of so many, including his now thankfully dead father.
The light is now green.
There’s a small keypad at the rear of the viewing system. After Rashad taps in the appropriate GPS coordinates, the system gently whirs into position.
Rashad double-checks that his 9mm pistol is at his side. If anyone dares to question him in the next few minutes—a maintenance worker or a security guard—Rashad will shoot him dead with no hesitation.
He lowers his face to the twin optics, gazing across the river to an area south of the Hoboken Terminal, where his rail business has its southern terminus. The view is crisp and dramatic, showing cars, fences, pedestrians walking, and a collection of freight cars and trains.
But what is best is that he sees a flashing beacon from on top of a diesel locomotive—an infrared signal visible only to Rashad that tells him the first of his blessed trains is about to depart.
And to change the world.
Chapter107
CLICK.
Mike Patel anticipates the slam of the recoil hitting his right shoulder to go along with the sharp bark of the M4 firing, but…
A click?
Must be a jam.
He lowers the rifle and pulls back the action. A cartridge spins out and hits the metal floor of the van.
He lifts the rifle, pulls the trigger again.
Click.
What in God’s name is going on?
Faulty ammunition?
A metallic taste of failure is in his mouth and his hands tremble as he pulls out the rifle’s magazine, works the action, and watches another cartridge spin uselessly onto the floor. Mike grabs a fresh magazine, slams it into the M4, works the action one more time.
He aims at the crowds now moving quickly out of the Fulton Street entrance of One World Trade Center, and pulls the trigger to another disappointingclick.Just then the front passenger door of his van flies open, there’s a push through the curtain, and a pistol barrel is shoved into his left ear.
A British-accented voice says, “You amateurs think you’re full of jihad and glory, but you stupid gits never check the firing pin’s in place before pulling the trigger. Am I right, Mike?”
Chapter108
MY SEATBELTkeeps me secure as I swivel around and look at the rapidly approaching New Jersey side of the Hudson. There’s the Hoboken Terminal, and a spaghetti mix of rail lines with freight trains of differing lengths scattered across my field of view.
In my earphones I hear Lisa say, “Your freight train is departing Hoboken Terminal?”
“No,” I reply. “There’s that small train yard, just to the south. That’s where it’s heading out.”
The male copilot says, “Lisa, look over at eleven o’clock. Northbound freight train leaving the yard—must be it.”
I turn harder in the seat, and as we close the distance I spot the freight train and its long retinue of freight cars and tankers trundling along.
Dual use,I think.Gasoline can power your car or burn down your house, depending on how it’s handled.
“Lisa?” I ask.
