Targets of Revenge (51 page)

“We saw some of the action via satellite,” Byrnes reported.

“We have those drivers in custody. More important, they grabbed a man inside the building who appears to be in charge. Name of Miguel Lasco. We’ve already brought up the dossier on him. Venezuelan dissident. Anti-American rabble-rouser. Arrests for narcotics trafficking but no convictions. The critical part is that he’s willing to talk.”

————

Lasco’s willingness to talk was due in part to the fact that he saw no way out and in part to his fear of Adina. His agreement to cooperate also came with the usual demands for immunity and protection. Since the situation in New York was at code red and most of the vehicles were already gone, the lead agent on the ground had little choice but to get permission from D.C. to promise Lasco whatever he wanted—provided the information was in time to prevent a disaster.

NCTC linked in and quickly verified through voice recognition that Lasco was on several of the early calls they had recorded between Washington Heights and the area near Barranquitas, Venezuela. He was a key player in whatever Adina had orchestrated for all these vehicles and admitted that a large shipment of cocaine was expected in New York in the next few days. More crucial than that, he claimed to know where the cars were going and what they would do when they got there.

But, if he was to be believed, he knew nothing about an anthrax attack.

The interview was being conducted in Lasco’s office on the ground
floor of the garage. By the time he finished explaining what was about to happen, the two agents interrogating him and the third who was recording the exchange were all speechless. The senior man had rushed from the room, phoned Bebon, and hastily arranged this conference call, which included everyone on the task force who could be found at this hour of the morning.

“With so many of us on the line,” Bebon told them, “this will go much better if no one interrupts my agent. I’ll ask the questions as needed. Now go ahead,” he ordered.

“There are over a hundred cars involved,” the agent began. “Most have already left from this parking garage, the rest are coming from an outdoor lot in the South Bronx, near the mosque we discussed earlier. The drivers have all been assigned bridges and tunnels, covering every means of entering and leaving Manhattan. The earliest departures are heading to New Jersey, Brooklyn and so forth. They’ll be turning around and coming back to the city at the appointed time.”

“What is the appointed time?” Bebon asked.

“Oh-seven-hundred today, sir. The plan is to obstruct every means of ingress and egress on Manhattan Island. At the arranged time the drivers will maneuver themselves into positions in each tunnel and on each bridge so they are side by side, covering all lanes, three deep. As they reach the three-quarter point on each bridge or inside each tunnel they will slow their vehicles, then the trailing cars and vans will intentionally turn and collide with each other. The second row of drivers will do the same. This will form an impassable roadblock, with hundreds of rush-hour vehicles brought to a stop
behind them on each bridge and inside every tunnel. Then the drivers of those disabled vehicles will get out, light preset fuses, and jump into the lead vehicles, which will have stopped to pick them up and drive them away.”

“The fuses. What are they intended to ignite?”

“The vehicles that will intentionally crash into the others at slow speeds have their trunks and cargo bays filled with gasoline and some other explosive materials, all pretty much garden-variety stuff. I’m not sure what that will do on the bridges except to make clearing the wreckage more difficult and possibly impact the cars stopped just behind them. But the air drafts and ventilation systems in the four tunnels are another matter.” He paused. “It could turn them into raging infernos for all the people stuck behind them.”

“And they’re planning to do this on every bridge and every tunnel, in both directions?” Bebon asked.

“Yes sir, every one.”

For several seconds no one spoke. Then Bebon said, “We need as many boots on the ground as we can organize, and I mean right now. We’re looking for more than a hundred cars and vans with no special markings mixed up in what will become a typical rush-hour morning in New York City. I’ll get out an APB. We need to stop them.”

————

When Bebon opened the call to questions everyone began speaking at once. Craig Raabe picked up the phone that had connected Sandor, cutting him off from the chaos.

“You get all that?”

“I did. I’ll report all that information to the team here, but there’s nothing I can do on my end to make a difference. I need to get out of here, and I’ll need your help.”

“You going north?”

“I am, and in a few minutes every helicopter in Manhattan is going to be spoken for. I need a ride, and I need it now.”

A
S
B
OBBY
F
ERRIELLO
sped Sandor crosstown to the Twenty-third Street heliport, Craig Raabe made the necessary calls to commandeer a chopper. It was after 6 A.M.

“FBI is already on their way to Stewart,” Sandor said as he loaded the magazine for his Walther. “I want to be there too.”

“Understood,” Ferriello said. “You want company?”

Sandor looked up at the police detective. “Thanks, but you’re going to have your hands full here.”

Ferriello nodded.

“And you’ve already done plenty.”

“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

When they reached the landing port the helicopter was waiting, the rotors already spinning in the predawn darkness.

“Hey,” Ferriello said as Sandor opened the car door, “maybe you’re not so bad after all.”

“Sure I am,” Sandor said with a smile as he shook his hand, then climbed out of the car and ran toward the entry gate, where he flashed his credentials and disappeared into the chopper.

————

It was just before seven as Sandor approached Stewart Airport. During the flight he remained in regular contact with Raabe, who gave him updates on the efforts to prevent the attacks in Manhattan.

The NYPD, aided by the Fire Department and every federal agent
the task force could muster, were doing their best to intercept vehicles that had been identified by the satellite photos. Attack helicopters had been dispatched from Fort Dix in New Jersey to assist in spotting and stopping them. There were emergency cars and trucks stationed at the entrances to every bridge, and, after the task force contacted the Port Authority, a command decision was made to completely shut off all four tunnels on both sides. The move was wreaking havoc with the early traffic, but at least the most serious threats of death and destruction would be averted—igniting gasoline in the open air would be far less damaging than the creation of a ventilation-swept blaze in the confines of a long tunnel.

All of the major television and radio stations were already covering the story, and this time they didn’t have to gin up the fear factor. The military had stepped in, grounding every news helicopter in New York, but enough video footage had already been shot to fill the airwaves and Internet. The headline was that despite all the manpower devoted to the effort, some of the cars and vans had gotten through. It was too late to stop them all, and hell was breaking loose all over the city.

Three of the drivers had arrived at the Henry Hudson Bridge before the roadblocks had time to set up. The drivers botched their attempt at a controlled collision in the southbound lanes, all of them traveling too fast. When sparks flew at the impact, the containers of fuel they were carrying exploded. The drivers attempted to flee on foot, but they were covered in burning gasoline and they died at the scene.

“That’s the good news,” Sandor said, and Raabe agreed.

Unfortunately, the resulting fireballs carried to the cars of innocent drivers immediately behind them, but all of those people were saved by the rescue vehicles that were just arriving on site.

Similar explosions occurred on the 59th Street Bridge, the University Heights Bridge, and the Macombs Dam Bridge. The drivers of the booby-trapped cars managed to escape the fires, but they could not outrun the authorities. Meanwhile the blasts there caused fatalities and injuries to those unlucky enough to end up behind them.

“How many innocent people dead?” Sandor asked Raabe.

“So far six deaths have been reported. Also a lot of people require treatment for third-degree burns. Whatever they put in there with the gasoline, and however they rigged the stuff, the reports say it was like liquid fire flying through the air.”

“Bastards,” Sandor said.

“Why would Adina have tried something so complicated, involving so many people? What was the point?”

“I have a theory,” Sandor told him.

“I’m all ears.”

“What if these attacks were timed to occur before the anthrax was going to be set off? Even if he only succeeded in hitting half the bridges and tunnels, what would people do once word got out?”

“They’d run for trains and subways and try to get out of Manhattan.”

“Which means the major terminals and stations would be jammed with people still coming into town during the morning rush hour and people trying to get out. Perfect spot to set off the anthrax blasts.”

“Which means we’ve stopped him there.” Sandor paused. “But maybe it’s not over yet.”

“This is one time I hope you’re wrong.”

“Me too,” Sandor admitted. “Keep me posted,” he said, then signed off.

A
DINA WAS SEATED
on the edge of the bed in his motel room, transfixed by the images on the television screen as he listened to the on-site reporters.

Explosions had occurred on the Henry Hudson Bridge. People, their clothes on fire, ran from their cars. Rescue teams were already on the scene. A few other bridges had been hit with similar casualties, but coordinated attacks on Manhattan’s major bridges, as well as her tunnels, had been prevented.

Of more concern to him were the vague and seemingly unrelated reports of a series of violent incidents at a Times Square hotel.

Adina looked at his watch. He had been up all night, still dressed in his clothes from the day before. It was nearly seven and he had not heard from Alejandro or Jorge. Twice he had risked sending them the prearranged signal from his cell.

There had been no response.

He stood and paced the small room for a moment, already knowing what he must do. He pulled out his phone and called the pilot.

The young man answered on the second ring, already awake and prepared for the early departure Adina had predicted.

“It’s time for us to go,” Adina told him.

“We’re here at the airport, we’ll be all set.”

“I’m just a few minutes away.”

“I need to file a flight plan.”

“Of course. We’ll discuss that when I arrive,” Adina told him, then rang off.

He turned off the television and walked to the nightstand, where he picked up the pistol Lasco had given him and secured it in the waistband of his trousers.

Then he lifted the seventh case of anthrax and headed for the door.

A
SHORT TIME LATER
Sandor’s chopper set down at the far end of the airport, where he was met by two FBI agents.

After introductions he asked, “What’ve we got?”

“The suspect just arrived and got on the jet,” one of the men said as he pointed toward the private air terminal several hundred yards away. “He boarded alone. We did not interfere. We were told to take no action until you arrived.”

“The crew on board?”

“Got on just before he did. Two men. Requested a takeoff back to Wilmington,” he said, checking his watch, “five minutes from now.”

“What has the crew been told?”

“The tower told them there was going to be a slight delay.”

“Any indication of their level of involvement?”

“No, we have no information on whether they’re hostiles or not. We’re treating the situation as if they are.”

“All right. I need a mechanic’s uniform. Then have the tower tell them they spotted something and they need to send a man aboard.”

The two agents looked at each other, then the second man asked, “Spotted what?”

“What the hell do I know? An oil leak on the ground. A flat tire. Have them come up with something.”

“Look, we were told this is your operation, but we’ve already got a
dozen men all over this airport. Why don’t we just rush the plane in force? Or tell the crew they all need to disembark?”

Sandor shook his head. “I’ve got my reasons. Trust me on this.”

————

Ten minutes later, Jordan Sandor, dressed in a dark blue mechanic’s coverall, strode across the tarmac and up the stairs onto Adina’s jet. He was surprised to find the cabin empty.

“Hello?” he called out.

“In the cockpit,” a man replied.

Sandor stepped forward toward the entrance of the small cockpit, where he was greeted by the barrel of a revolver pointed at the side of his head.

“On your knees” Adina said, “your back to me, hands on your head.”

“Look buddy . . .” Sandor began, but Adina cut him off.

“Do not waste my time with whatever fairy tale you’ve invented for this occasion. Just do as I say or I will shoot you where you stand.”

Sandor did as he was told.

“You,” Adina said to the copilot, “go into the cabin and pull the hatch closed. And remember, I can see you from here.” Keeping the pistol trained on Sandor, Adina allowed the young man to pass, then positioned himself in the doorway so he had a view of all three men.

The copilot pulled up the steps and secured the hatch.

“Back here,” Adina snapped. When the copilot returned to his seat, Adina said, “We will now take off, gentlemen.”

“I don’t think so,” Sandor disagreed, his back to the man.

“Excuse me?”

“This airport is surrounded by federal agents. Apache helicopters are hovering on the perimeter, out of sight, standing by with orders to shoot this plane down if it gets so much as three feet off the ground.”