Janice took out her phone. She tried Bill. No answer.
“He doesn’t want to be found,” Janice said. Both women knew that this must be some security thing. Neither woman could conceive of Bill having a clandestine meet or tete-a-tete with a paramour. Although something in Janice’s spine almost wished it was as simple as that. She knew if Bill disappeared, something big must be happening.
“Cheryl, could you try him again?”
Bill disabled his cell phone battery so that any GPS tracking data wouldn’t give away his position, or that of Bridgestone and Ross, who he was meeting. As he exited his father’s Cadillac, he approached two men sitting on the bench on the edge of the public park.
“Mr. Hiccock! We were expecting Palumbo.” Bridge said.
“He was heading out to Europe. I turned him around, but he’s at least four hours out. So I figured maybe I could help.”
The two warriors looked at each other. Bill felt the need to intercede in his defense.
“Look guys, I’ve seen my share of action and I can handle myself pretty well if it comes to that. Now, what do we got?”
“Our movie producer, Rashani, is too clean. We’ve run him through a bunch of checks and double checks and couldn’t even find a pissed off waiter that he stiffed. Too clean. Too neat.”
“Look fellas, the nuke is accounted for. It’s deep-sixed.”
“That may be, sir, but what we’re onto sure as hell lead us this far, and we’re here because we were on the trail of the nuke.”
“And…?” Bill asked, knowing that that fact alone could not form the basis of their case against the producer.
“Sheik Alzir El Benhan.”
The name of the bio-terror mastermind and reason for the kidnapping of an ambassodor sent a shiver up Bill’s spine. “Go on.”
“Seems the movie mogul, Rashani, had a security guard who is an ex-chopper pilot for the Iranian Air Force. After we did a little digging, we found that the pilot came there” — Bridge hitched his head at the building across the street — “a few weeks back.”
Hiccock could only imagine the trail of broken bones and ripped skin “a little digging” by these two might have caused. He looked across to the mosque on this quiet Jersey City street. “A little obvious, ain’t it, using a mosque?”
“Just another benefit of the great American Suicide Pact, Mr. Hiccock,” Ross said.
“No law enforcement agency could even surveil it now. Not with all the bleeding heart bullshit going on. But the subway boy who was released also came by this way. As far as we can tell, he’s still in there.”
“So why did you need Joe?”
“Ross did some investigating. Rashani’s ex-pilot is working on a movie here in New York.”
“But he’s not working for Rashani; he’s working for Alazir El-Benhan, who is posing as Rashani.”
“You go to the head of the class, Mr. Hiccock.”
“Been there, done that, got the egghead reputation to prove it. What’s the plan?”
“Ross will stay here and bird-dog Rodney.”
“Rodney?”
“Ali Rashid, also known as Rodney Albert, the guy who ran from the subway checkpoint. He’s a loose cannon but he made his money as a freelancer in the L.A. indie movie biz, as an assistant cameraman.”
“Movies again.”
“Yeah. They’ll be the death of Western culture.”
“Let’s go!” Hiccock said.
“Here. Know how?” Ross handed Bill a Sig Sauer.357. Bill popped the clip, checked the load, pulled back the slide, checked the chamber, released the slide gently, reseated the clip, and stuck the gun in his waistband.
“We’ll take our car,” Bridgestone said.
Bill tossed the keys of the car he drove to Ross. “It’s my dad’s.”
“I’ll be careful.”
On the way, Bridgestone filled Bill in on the details. Hiccock started processing what he was learning from the pointy end of the stick that he pointed at the problem. His training as a scientist kicked in as he listened to data that seemed to contradict the commonly held belief that the suitcase nuke threat was over. Bill instinctively knew that the trail that brought B amp;R to this point could have been correctly on the scent of another nuke device. A wholly different one not connected to the one that blew up in the Persian Gulf.
The scientist caught himself in mid-thought.
He pulled out his cell phone and said, “It didn’t blow up!”
“What didn’t?” Bridge asked.
“Li, it’s Bill. Have you done a high-resolution analysis of the Mahgra spike against the Persian Gulf spike? Could ja? Like now! Call me back A.S.A.P.”
He killed the call, then redialed. “Peter, get over to Kronos right now. This thing may not be over. Call me when you get to Kronos’” He hung up.
“Tell me more, Sergeant.”
As Bridgestone further explained the trail of events that brought them to New York, Hiccock realized they had bits and pieces of the puzzle but nothing hard, no evidence. Then Bill remembered that evidence was the purview of law enforcement and the kind of stuff you needed if you planned on going to trial. In this case, if there were a second loose nuke, there would be no trial. In fact, if they didn’t follow these threads there might be no courthouse or enough people left to form a jury. The endgame here was not jurisprudence. The endgame was ending the game before, as the President put it, sudden death overtime.
In a moment of silence, Bill realized his deja vu was happening all over again. He had been here already. He had gone from being a paper-pushing bureaucrat into field operative before. He kept trying to tell himself it was just until Joey got back.
Number 1 looked at his watch and mentally went through the next steps: in two minutes, Number 3 would be on his way and executing his second diversion phase to take place in 33 minutes. In ten minutes, Number 4 would initiate the primary distraction and revenge for Number 1’s brother. One hour from then, the package would be picked up, then five minutes later…
His mental checklist was interrupted when he saw one of the two cops that were chatting with the caterer approaching him.
“Mr. Rashani, Officer Ralph Chesney.”
“Nice to meet you, Officer. Anything wrong?”
“Probably not, sir. But I need to see your original permit.”
“May I ask why?”
“You could ask, but I don’t need a reason.”
“Very well.” Number 1 picked up his walkie-talkie and called to his assistant director. “Please bring me the production book. I need the original permit.”
Number 1 looked back to see the other officer still at the catering truck. “Officer Chesney, let’s go to my camper. The A.D. will meet us there with the paperwork.”
?§?
“Where did you get this?” Hiccock asked, looking over the filming permit.
“They are a matter of public record. You just go to the mayor’s office and ask,” Bridgestone said.
“Description of action to be filmed: ‘Bita Asayesh, ace reporter, exits news helicopter, into boyfriend’s arms, Crane up — End credits’.” Bill looked at Bridgestone. “News helicopter.”
“Yeah. Ya see where this could be going?” Bridgestone said.
Ross watched as the front door of the mosque opened and Rashid, a.k.a. Rodney, walked out carrying a
