second fuse-if you’re lucky. Listen, I haven’t got much time so let me give you the scoop. We had to liaise with the NYPD, and in about fifteen minutes they’re going to close off Doyers Street at both ends with barricades and unlighted, unmarked police cars. They’ll position flatbeds at each end loaded with floodlights and searchlights. And portable generators, of course.
“Our combat control is on the roof of the building across the street from the Yubies’ headquarters. You get up there by going through a courtyard and climbing six flights of stairs. We’ve got men posted on every floor to keep tenants inside their apartments. Everyone’s connected by walkie-talkies-and let’s hope they work.”
“What about the guys on the roof of the United Bamboo building-did they get there okay?”
“No sweat. They’ve been up for about a half-hour now, moving around on felt boots so they don’t spook the bandidos downstairs. They report they’ve got their lines securely anchored-one around a chimney and the other two with grappling hooks. Time’s getting short; let’s go.”
Johnnie leads the way to Doyers, and they begin passing men in dark suits, some of them talking quietly into their radios.
“How many guys you call in on this caper?” Cone asks.
“Almost a hundred. The controller flew up from Quantico. He’s run operations like this a dozen times before. He’s got a good score, but he’s a bastard to deal with. It took me a while to persuade him to let you watch the action. After all, it was your idea.”
“I know,” Cone says. “But I’m just a lousy civilian.”
They go across a bleak courtyard, through the back door of a tenement, and climb the stairs to the top floor, where there’s an iron ladder leading through an opened skylight to a tarred roof. There are two brick chimneys and a number of vent pipes protruding from the roof. Cone spots a waist-high wall with a coping of slates facing Doyers Street.
There are five men up there. One has what appears to be a 4X5 Speed Graphic, another has a shoulder- mounted video camera.
“We’re recording all this for posterity,” Wong says dryly. “I’m not going to introduce you to anyone; they’re too tense for politeness.”
“Yeah,” Cone says, “I know the feeling.”
Two of the other FBI men are using their walkie-talkies. The fifth man, apparently the controller, is standing well back from the wall, hands jammed into his pockets. He’s staring up at the dark sky, his mouth half-open. Johnnie goes up to him, speaks a few words, and jerks a thumb in Cone’s direction. The controller turns to look, nods, then says something. Wong comes back to Cone’s side.
“Keep back from the roof edge until the action starts,” he says. “And no lighting matches, no smoking. Okay?”
“Sure,” Cone says. “Listen, I don’t want to put the whammy on this, but have you made plans for casualties?”
“Two ambulances and medical evac teams standing by on Mott Street. And paddy wagons. Only they’re buses. Well, I’ve got to leave now and get on station.”
“Look,” Timothy says, “do me a favor, will you? Remember that White Lotus shareholder list I showed you at my place? Someone copped it from my loft, and I think it was a United Bamboo picklock. When you get up to their offices, and this whole thing is winding down, will you take a look around and see if you can find it? I promised Chin Tung Lee I’d take good care of it. It’s confidential information.”
“Sure,” Johnnie says, “I can do that. See you soon, old buddy.”
“You bet,” Cone says.
Wong leaves, and the Wall Street dick reaches into his pocket for a cigarette, then pulls his hand guiltily away. He notices the five FBI men on the roof are inching closer to the wall overlooking Doyers Street. Cone inches right along with them.
The controller is holding what appears to be a stopwatch, big as an onion. He consults it and says quietly to his talkers, “Coming up to one minute.”
They murmur into their radios.
“One minute … mark,” the controller says in dullish tones.
The talkers repeat.
They all wait in silence.
“Forty-five seconds,” the controller says. His voice is sluggish. “Thirty seconds … twenty … ten … five, four, three, two, one. Go.”
The talkers begin shouting into their walkie-talkies. Everyone moves to the edge of the roof. They grip the wall coping, stare across the street.
Three men drop on lines from the top of United Bamboo headquarters. They rappel swiftly downward. They use leg kicks to keep themselves bouncing off the brick front of the building.
They come to a stop facing the third-floor windows. They smash the glass with their boots. They toss in grenades. The three explosions are almost simultaneous: one titanic
“Lights,” the controller says in his listless voice.
Searchlights and floods make day of night. The street is frozen in a harsh, greenish glare.
“Go with Unit Two,” the controller says.
Cone figures no one is going to send him to Leavenworth for smoking a Camel now. He lights up, leans over the wall, peers down.
One of the Yubie guards has run out into the street, is staring upward. The other has his back against the iron grille door. He’s fumbling at his belt.
Wong’s squad comes spilling out of tenement doorways. They rush the guards. Grab them. Johnnie works at the iron grille. Motions everyone back, then ducks away. Sheet of flame brighter than the floodlights. Sparks. The grille hangs crazily from one hinge.
Same thing with the inner door. It’s blown completely inward. The attackers cram into the entranceway, Wong leading.
Now the three rappelers have disappeared. They’re inside, through the shattered windows. Gunfire. Single shots. Then short bursts from automatic weapons.
“Unit Three,” the controller says stolidly.
Cone wonders if a reserve has been put on standby. It has. A dozen men come charging down Doyers. These are New York City cops, wearing helmets and flak jackets. Following them is a platoon of uniformed police who set up a cordon around the United Bamboo building.
More gunfire. A lot of it.
“Medics,” the controller mentions. Then: “Let’s go.”
He leaves first, climbing carefully down the iron ladder. Followed by his two assistants. Then the photographers who have been working steadily since the action started.
Cone lights another cigarette and follows them. By the time he hits the street, the small-arms fire is dwindling; just single shots or brief chatters of submachine guns.
An ambulance comes slowly up the street, siren growling. Cone stands in the doorway, watches the stretchers and body bags unloaded. Then an armored bus pulls up.
By this time every building on Doyers Street is lighted. People are leaning out windows; some have gone to their roofs for a better view.
The shooting stops. Cone lights another cigarette and realizes he’s got two going at once. He finishes the butt with quick drags and starts on the other.
Two FBI men come out of the United Bamboo building. They’re gripping Edward Tung Lee by the arms. His knees are buckling, but he can walk. They help him into the ambulance. Then more cops come out, FBI and NYPD. They’re herding a long file of prisoners, some dressed, some in pajamas and robes, some wearing shorts. All have hands clasped atop their heads. They’re stuffed into the bus. It pulls away; another takes its place.
Johnnie Wong comes out, helping to carry a stretcher. The supine body is covered to the chin with a blanket. A medic walks alongside, holding a plastic bag high, the connecting tube disappearing under the blanket.
The ambulance pulls away. A second comes purring up. Wong stands dazedly, looking around. The Thompson dangles from one hand.
Cone crosses the street, goes up to him.
