“Yes, may I help you?” the young woman asked.
“Yes. Since we’re stopping in New York, I’d like to have a prescription medication delivered to me there, something I need but forgot to bring. Can you find out our gate number for me?”
“Of course,” she replied. She went forward, spoke over the intercom to the cockpit, then returned. “We will be refueling at gate ten,” she said, “and I’ve asked our gate agent to be on the lookout for your delivery.”
“Thank you so much,” Hamish said. When she had left he picked up his seat’s remote control, which was also a satphone, and called a New York number.
“Yes?” His brother Mo’s voice.
“It is I,” he said. “Listen carefully. Do we have a friend at Kennedy Airport?”
A brief silence. “Yes, a-”
“No further information, please.”
“I’m sorry. What do you need?”
“My aircraft is making an unscheduled stop at Kennedy. Ask our friend to arrange for an airport vehicle, appropriately lighted, to meet me at the foot of gate ten, flight BA 106. There may not be stairs. Our ETA is eleven P.M. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“We will be leaving the airport area immediately. Please make arrangements for our departure from the airport and for secure accommodations.”
“It will be done.”
“See you soon. Good-bye.” Hamish broke the connection. They would arrive before the device in L.A. detonated, so there was time for a clean getaway.
–
M ike Freeman flagged a bellman with a cart and began looking for Stone, Dino, and Rifkin.
“Will they be in a cart, sir?” the bellman asked.
“Very probably.”
“I gave my pass card to a Secret Service agent at cottage 202. Is that who you’re looking for?”
“It is. Hurry, please.”
The man put his foot down.
Stone watched the clock count down. His mouth was dry, and his hands were sweating. Thirty-seven, thirty- six…
“Can you stop it?” Rifkin asked the bomb crew chief.
“Unlikely,” the man said, “but I can try.” He found a screwdriver and began removing screws from the panel.
“This isn’t going to happen fast enough,” Dino said under his breath.
Twenty-five, twenty-four, twenty-three… “Give me the jimmy,” the chief said. He accepted the crowbar, placed its edge under the rim of the front panel, and with great force, pried it open. He took hold of the top edge of the panel and put all his weight into bending it down to the perpendicular. Now some of the inner workings were exposed, including the wiring. The chief began sorting through a bundle of wires. “Most of these do nothing,” he said. “They’re camouflage for the active wires.”
Ten, nine, eight…
Stone was salivating, now, and he swallowed hard. He thought of his son, Hattie, and Ben. Everyone he loved would die in six seconds. “Dino,” he said, “give me your gun.”
Dino handed over a snub-nosed. 38. “If you’re going to shoot yourself, shoot me first.”
Stone raised the revolver. “Out of the way, Chief,” he said, and cocked it for emphasis.
The chief turned and stared at him. “You can’t-”
Stone fired twice at the rapidly changing numbers.
“-do that,” the chief continued. The clock stopped at four seconds. “It might still blow.”
Then a voice came from the doorway. “I’ve got the key.”
Mike shoved the chief out of the way, inserted the T-shaped key he had taken from Rick into the slot, and turned it left, ninety degrees.
Three seconds remained on the clock. The numbers went dark.
“Okay,” the chief said, “one of those actions worked-I’m not sure which one.”
Stone handed Dino’s revolver back to him. “Thanks.” He looked around the room for a wastebasket, found one and threw up into it.
Kelli Keane’s knees gave way, and she fell onto the carpet, out.
A few minutes later the chief had disconnected everything inside the trunk, and he began to give his audience a tutorial on the device:
“There’s maybe three kilos of fissionable material,” he was saying. “That would have caused an explosion that would have leveled everything and killed everyone within a two- or three-mile radius. It would also probably have brought the Stone Canyon reservoirs above us down the canyon.”
“How many dead?” Steve Rifkin asked.
“A million, maybe two-lots more over a period of weeks and months. It’s simply but ingeniously designed. The builder would have sent drawings of various machined parts to several suppliers, who wouldn’t know the purpose of their work. Then they would have assembled the device in a safe house somewhere. They could have brought it here in a van, a station wagon, even, or a light airplane.” He looked around the room. “Unless we find these people, they could do it again in a matter of weeks.”
Hamish McCallister’s aircraft stopped at the gate. His briefcase was already in his lap, and the moment the flight attendant opened the door he got up, strode forward, and walked into the boarding tunnel, and looked for the door. It was dead ahead, at the first turn. He opened it and looked outside; no stairs, but a white van with a yellow flashing light on top was parked immediately below. To his right, people with guns were running down the tunnel. Hamish took a deep breath and jumped, landing on top of the van and rolling off onto the tarmac. He got up, opened the passenger door, and got inside.
Mo was at the wheel, and he drove away quickly. “There’s a gate about a quarter of a mile away,” he said.
“Are you armed?” Hamish asked.
“Yes.” He handed Hamish a pistol. “Here’s one for you.”
“If necessary, shoot anyone who impedes our progress.”
Mo drove on. A gate loomed ahead, one man in a small guard booth.
Mo stopped and flashed some sort of ID card. The guard nodded, and the gate slid open slowly.
“Not too fast,” Hamish said.
“Right.”
“Where do we exchange cars?”
“A couple of miles, at a rest stop on the Van Wyck.”
“Good.”
Lance Cabot jumped from the boarding ramp onto the tarmac below, spraining an ankle. He raised his gun to fire, but the van had disappeared behind another airplane. Lance grabbed at the radio on his belt. “Seal the airport,” he said. “Intercept a white van with a yellow flashing light. I need transport at gate ten right now!”
59
Lance leaped into the front passenger seat of the black SUV. “Nearest exit gate!” he yelled. Two more of his people, carrying submachine guns, jumped into the backseat.
“Got it,” the driver replied, stomping on the accelerator.
