in the bombing of a Moscow airport; eighteen killed in an attack of a Russian consulate in Turkey; sixty-two people killed on an attack of a train to Moscow from Grozny.
The deputy scanned the section outlining how the insurgents regarded the president of Mykrekistan as a puppet traitor and the Russian president as a war criminal. Tatayev was known to have financial backing from wealthy corporate interests in the Caucasuses and the support of a global network of highly skilled militant cells.
Tatayev’s dark eyes burned from a photo, his hatred intensified by his full unkempt beard.
Tatayev had vowed to take his cause to a world stage by sending a “martyr brigade” to carry out a “historic” attack at an international event.
The deputy pressed a speed dial number on his encrypted phone for security chiefs in New York.
“Alert the detail for the Russian delegation. We have a credible and active threat. The suspect is Bulat Tatayev, leader of a Mykrekistani terror faction. We’re sending his photo and file now. The delegation is the target. Evacuate them now!”
66
In Manhattan, the white EMS ambulance and police vehicles stopped in a narrow alley somewhere off of Broadway.
The rear doors opened to several uniformed NYPD officers.
Two of them stepped into the ambulance and approached Sarah, who was still strapped to the stretcher. The one who sat on the bench next to her was the leader. He was clean shaven and unrecognizable from the way he’d looked at the warehouse.
He would bear no resemblance to the photograph the CIA would provide for circulation to national security and NYPD officials within the next twenty-five minutes.
He was a different man.
His face was a study of resolve as he removed her oxygen mask.
“Pay attention,” he said.
She was trembling under her bindings.
“It’s very important. Do I have your attention?”
Sarah swallowed and nodded.
The officer standing over them turned his cell phone to Sarah, showing her a small video of Cole. She saw his head and shoulders. His face was a mask of fear while offscreen an adult said something inaudible, prompting Cole to look at the camera.
“I’m so scared, Mom. Just listen to them.”
Sarah cried out in agony for Cole.
The phone was taken away.
“Listen to me,” the leader said. “Are you listening?”
Sarah nodded.
“If you want to see your son again, you will do as we say. If you try to escape or attract attention, your son will die. You will do what we tell you when we tell you. Is that understood?”
Sarah nodded.
The men removed her restraints, gave her a new ID that had been made using her driver’s license photo. It said Press and a forgery of the correct media credential for the event. It looked completely authentic. They gave her a ball cap, dark glasses, a notebook.
They led her out of the ambulance through the front passenger door.
The leader and one of the other officers started escorting Sarah through the streets of New York. Behind her she saw the emergency vehicles ease from the alley.
Sarah could not believe what was happening.
“Today is a day of glory,” the leader said as he looked to the crowd in the near-distance.
67
The old factory was filling with investigators and controlled chaos.
Cordelli and Brewer had huddled at one of the unused worktables with the brass from the task force, Homeland, FBI, NYPD and Secret Service.
Jeff was left straining to make sense of what was unfolding as the rapid radio dispatches and cell phone conversations exchanged among the investigators grew ominous. He moved closer to hear and determine what he needed to do next when suddenly Cordelli and Brewer broke from the huddle and started to leave.
“You need to stay here, Jeff,” Cordelli said. “Ortiz and Klaver are on their way to this building. We have to go.”
“Go where? Where’re you going, Cordelli?”
The detective shot a glance toward Brewer, who had his cell phone to his ear and was several paces ahead, then back to Jeff.
“I deserve to know what’s going on, Cordelli!”
“Jeff, it’s better for you to stay here. Let us handle things.”
Jeff grabbed the detective.
“I deserve to know, Vic.”
Cordelli scratched his chin, glanced around and lowered his voice.
“They think the target is the Russian delegation in Battery Park, the Russian president and the president of Mykrekistan. They’re trying to evacuate them now.”
“What about Sarah and Cole? Is there any trace of them?”
Cordelli shook his head.
“We’re looking. Everyone’s looking. Stay here with Ortiz, Jeff.”
At that moment, a Secret Service agent arrived and passed them while talking on his radio. “The wives? No, no, the target is the Russian president at Battery Park. The Russian first lady and the Mykrekistani president’s wife are at Bryant Park for an event with the library. We’re beefing up things there now…preparing to evacuate right… sending more people…”
Jeff turned back.
Cordelli was gone.
As Jeff walked toward the factory’s large open door he fought to absorb what he’d just heard, tried to figure it all out. It could’ve been instinct based upon what he’d experienced, he wasn’t certain where it came from, but a powerful gut feeling gnawed at him.
Jeff’s focus went back to his battle with the killers in the van, back to the words:
Jeff walked to the door and yard, which was guarded by several uniformed officers from the Fortieth Precinct keeping unauthorized people out. Every investigator and emergency officer at the scene was doing their job. No one noticed as Jeff pulled on his ball cap and dark glasses and walked out of the building. In the factory yard he saw the tangle of emergency vehicles and the plastic tape of a police line at the fence gate keeping news crews and rubberneckers back.
Jeff searched his pocket for the number for his cabdriver, hoping that he was still waiting. He found the card but before he called, his spirits lifted. Beyond the news trucks he spotted his driver, leaning on his parked taxi. The press people had encircled a police official and Jeff edged around them and a fire truck to the cab.
“Hey, man,” the driver said. “What are you doing here? I was gonna leave when I saw all this commotion.
