“How could you think Orr isn’t responsible for my father’s abduction?” Tyler said. “Miles told me you found evidence of radioactive material at the warehouse fire, and you have the proof-of-life videos we sent.”
Riegert put up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “We are taking you seriously, Dr. Locke. Your credentials are beyond reproach. But you have to admit that your story does sound far-fetched. And, with two Muslim men involved, don’t you think radical fundamentalists are the more likely culprits here?”
“They’re innocent. I’m telling you, Orr is going to set off a radiological device somewhere in the US, and it might very well be today.”
“But why?” Immel said. “Where? What’s his plan?”
“I can think of half a dozen sites,” Tyler said. “DC, New York, Chicago, Fort Knox, Philadelphia. Anything within a twelve-hour driving range.”
“That’s the entire eastern seaboard,” Riegert said.
“That’s why you need to have every immigration terminal flagging both his aliases.”
“We’re doing that.”
“And what else?”
“We’re not at liberty to say.”
Tyler sighed. “I don’t know what else I can do for you, then.”
Grant appeared at the door. “Tyler, your father just woke up.”
Grant stepped aside as Tyler rushed into the room and went to the bed. Sherman’s eyes were open, but half-lidded. When he saw Tyler, he held his hand up.
Tyler thought he wanted reassurance, so he took it in his own hand.
“I’m here, Dad.”
Sherman wriggled out of his grip. So much for sentimentality.
Then Tyler realized that he wasn’t reaching out to his son. He was trying to sign.
His arms were weak, but he put them up long enough for Tyler to make out the two signs he was making.
At first Tyler thought his father was hallucinating, but Sherman repeated the sign. Blue truck?
Tyler turned to see Riegert and Immel standing in the doorway.
“Was there a truck at the warehouse?” he asked them.
Riegert narrowed his eyes. “How do you know that?”
“My father knows sign language. He just told me that the truck is blue.”
Riegert got his notepad out again. “Anything else?”
“Dad, can you remember anything else about the truck?”
Sherman made a slight nod. He used his left hand to spell out letters.
W I L B I X.
“Wilbix?” Tyler said. Another nod.
Grant plugged the word into the search engine on his replacement smartphone.
“Top find is Wilbix Construction,” he said.
“Dad, is it Wilbix Construction?” Another nod. Sherman patted Tyler’s hand and fell unconscious again.
“Where is Wilbix based?” Tyler asked Grant.
“New York,” Grant said. “Oh, man.”
Riegert tried to see Grant’s screen. “What?”
“Wilbix Construction is doing work at New York Downtown Hospital. That’s less than a mile from Wall Street.”
Immel already had her phone out. “This guy might be trying to detonate the bomb in lower Manhattan?” she asked.
“Possibly,” Grant said. “Maybe this has something to do with his parents’ deaths.”
“How?” Riegert said.
“I don’t know, but we need to get to New York,” Tyler told them. “Grant and I can identify Orr.”
“I’ll see how fast we can get a plane,” Immel said, looking at her phone contacts.
“That’s okay,” Tyler said. “I have my own.”
SIXTY-SEVEN
A fter Orr found an all-night infirmary to bandage his eye, even getting an old-fashioned black eye-patch in the process, he indulged in hiring a charter flight back to the US from the Rome airport with the last of his funds. His phone was underwater in the Midas chamber, so before his flight left he found an Internet terminal and emailed Crenshaw that he was on his way to Newark.
With Tyler, Stacy, Grant, and Cavano dead, the Midas chamber sealed up again, and the warehouse destroyed, there was almost no evidence left of Orr’s true identity and his connection to the Midas Touch. Crenshaw was the final loose end to tie up, and Orr would take care of him after he exacted his vengeance on the smug investment-banking firms of Wall Street and all who profited from their greed.
Crenshaw picked him up at Newark Airport at seven in the morning in a taxi. The weather was bright and clear, with only a slight breeze. Without a word, they rode to a truck stop where the semi was parked.
When they got into the truck, Crenshaw looked at Orr’s eye and said, “What happened to you?”
“Accident. Don’t worry about it.”
“Let’s see the Midas Touch.”
Orr reluctantly opened the pack and held up the container with Midas’s desiccated hand inside.
“That’s it? I was expecting rays to be shooting out of it or something.”
Orr had to admit that it looked less than impressive.
“Believe me,” he said, “it works.”
“I don’t believe you. You have proof?”
Orr gave him the camera, which Crenshaw hooked up to his laptop. He played back the video that Stacy had shot. Even on a tiny computer screen, the chamber was amazing.
Apart from saying “Wow!” a few times, Crenshaw was silent. When the video was over, he tapped a few keys on the keyboard and detached the camera. He removed the videotape and, before Orr could stop him, smashed it against the dashboard.
“What in God’s name are you doing, you moron? We need that to show the auction bidders!”
“I know. And now we’re full partners. I emailed it to myself. Don’t think I didn’t know you were going to kill me as soon as I armed the bomb. You’ve got the buyers, and I’ve got the video.”
Orr peered at Crenshaw and then laughed. A full-out belly laugh. “I didn’t think anyone was as devious as I was, Crenshaw. But I underestimated you. That doesn’t happen often.”
Crenshaw looked as if he didn’t know what to make of Orr, but he seemed satisfied. He put the truck into gear.
They took the Lincoln Tunnel into Manhattan. Orr noted with irony the sign at the entrance, which said NO FLAMMABLES OR EXPLOSIVES.
“Which location are we using?” Orr asked. They had five possibilities for where to park the truck depending on conditions, all of them locations where a Wilbix truck wouldn’t be out of place.
“Vesey Street, just east of Church.” It was just a block from the PATH train station.
The plan was simple. Park the truck on the street, set the timer on the detonator for ten minutes-too short an interval for any tow truck to respond-and walk away. They’d be on their way out of the city before the semi exploded.
Using every trick he knew, Tyler had piloted the flight from DC to Teterboro Airport in New Jersey in just one hour. Riegert had called ahead and arranged for a helicopter to meet them at the airport so they could avoid the rush-hour traffic. Agent Immel brought a Geiger counter to help locate the bomb. Grant, of course, had insisted on coming along.
The four of them had landed at the downtown heliport on the East River at 8 A.M. The New York FBI office had arranged for a car to be waiting for them.
