She waited like that, teetering at the edge of blackness. Finally, she looked around. Had it been five seconds? Thirty seconds? A minute? Where was the woman? She heard a horrified cry, “Mein Gott!” and the sound of something dragging.
Maggie shifted her shoulders to the edge of the mattress. First she saw Biddle lying on his side, and then she shifted further and saw the woman. She was lying where she had fallen beyond the foot of the bed, propped on her elbows, staring in horror at her legs where they lay splayed like discarded toys. “Help me,” Biddle mumbled, as the woman flashed Maggie a look of hatred mixed with fear. Maggie glanced at the floor between them and saw the knife.
SIXTY-SEVEN
EAST RIVER, JULY 2
BRENT DROPPED TO HIS HANDS and knees and groped about the stern beneath the fuel lines until his fingers touched the squirt gun. He threw the sling over his head then moved toward the bow. The FBI woman had the wheel. As he moved past her, he shouted, “You have any matches?”
She looked at the oversized child’s toy hanging around his shoulders. Whatever her thoughts, she held them back. She reached into her pocket and withdrew a gold lighter. “It should still work.” As he took it, she looked at his bloody arm and shook her head.
Brent climbed into the bow, holding the forward rail with his good hand and peering into the fog. The water directly ahead was flattened, a sign they were very close. Suddenly, there was sound, a rumble of exhaust as the yacht hit a swell. It seemed near enough to touch, and a second later the stern materialized out of the mist.
They closed the last few yards, and Brent recalled the yacht’s schematic, how the stern had a platform right at the water line. When he jumped, he’d only need to clear a low safety rail.
He glanced back at the FBI agent, nodded to signal that he was ready, and then crouched, timing the rise and fall to the pitch of the swells. Finally, he leaped. He cleared the rail, but felt his stomach wound tear as he pitched forward into the bulkhead. He hit hard, going momentarily lightheaded.
After a few seconds he struggled to his feet. He glanced back, but the Whaler was already lost in the fog. He groped with his left hand and brought the pistol out of his trouser pocket. He tried to hold it in his right hand, but gave up because his arm shook too badly.
On both sides of the hull stairways curved to the main deck, while in the center a watertight door led into the crew’s quarters and engine room. He was certain the terrorists and their hostages would be either above or forward, so he crept up the starboard stairs until he could scan the deserted deck area. The salon was directly ahead, the sliding glass doors open, the interior pitch black.
He closed his eyes and pictured the salon and dining area immediately forward, then the stairs leading down to the staterooms or up to the bridge, then forward of that—the galley and lower cockpit. Maggie was there somewhere, but she would be guarded, and he was outnumbered. Attempting to sneak in would leave his back exposed. Surprise and confusion could help even the odds, but only a little. He wracked his brain to remember details about the large boats he and Harry had helped work on. A single possibility came to mind. It involved terrible risk, but he had no other choice.
He backed down the stairs and went through the watertight door in the aft bulkhead. Inside, dim floor lights lit the passageway. He crept forward and checked the crew’s sitting room and sleeping rooms to make certain they were empty. At the end of the passage, he opened a second watertight door, and the roar of diesel engines spilled out.
He located a light switch, flipped it on, and saw the two massive engines, a spotless floor, and rows of switches with red and green lights along the walls. Left of the door he found what he needed, a valve marked with a brass plate reading “Halon Cut-Off.” The fire extinguishment system was meant to be on at all times, except for when the system was repaired or recharged. He twisted the valve closed.
He moved forward, past the tanks that held the diesel fuel, hesitating as he thought again about Maggie and his slim odds. A voice came to him over the shriek of the engines, as though Harry were right there shouting in his ear. She’d do the same thing in your shoes. She’d never let those bastards anywhere near Manhattan.
A workbench stood along one wall with several large piles of oily rags on a lower shelf. He gathered the rags and piled them in the forward portside corner, and then he pulled out the plug on the water gun and emptied the remaining gas. Drawing the pistol, he fired two shots into each of the fuel tanks. Immediately, diesel fuel began to leak onto the metal floor. Finally, he took out the woman’s Zippo and tried to make it light. He struck it once, twice, three times, blew hard on the striker, and finally got a tiny guttering flame, but it was enough. He held it near the rags, and the gas-soaked pile erupted. As soon as it did, he sprinted back down the passage and out the watertight door.
He raced up the stairs to the main deck, ignoring the pain in his stomach and arm, then hurried into the darkened salon. A bar curved out from the wall to his left, just as in Maggie’s diagram, and he ducked behind the partition, knowing he had only seconds before an alarm brought one or more of the terrorists. If things happened according to his plan, the rag fire would begin to burn the fiberglass, and once the temperature became sufficiently high, the diesel would ignite. He had some time—by his estimate maybe ten minutes—until the diesel caught and the whole lower section of the boat was engulfed in flames. That was his window to get Maggie out of there alive.
SIXTY-EIGHT
EAST RIVER, JULY 2
ABU SAYEED COULDN’T DECIDE WHETHER to shoot Mohammed or hug him. Downing the helicopter might have been the worst thing they could have done, but it had also been brilliant. There had been little noise and no explosion because the missile had not flown far enough from the launcher to arm itself, but clearly it had destroyed the helicopter’s engine. Had the crew had time to radio? He doubted it. From the sound of the rotors just before Mohammed fired, they’d been too low over the water to do anything.
Nonetheless, he had continued his slow pace, running as close to shore as he dared, keeping Naif and Mohammed on the flybridge to listen for more helicopters. He stared at the GPS and glanced continuously at the radar, set now at a thousand yards to detect the presence of large ships that might be attempting to block the river, and then he cut it back to a hundred yards to navigate directly ahead. So far, nothing. Allah was protecting them.
A moment earlier when he’d reduced the radar’s range, something had appeared to be very close on their stern, but when he looked again it was gone or mixed up in the shore clutter. He knew that for several minutes after Mohammed fired the missile he had paid little attention to the screen, but he also knew he was growing tired. Stress affected everyone, and sooner or later imagined enemies began to appear in the darkness. Calm, he cautioned himself.
It was time to change tactics. They had been creeping for a long time. With the helicopter destroyed, their enemy was momentarily blinded. Now was the time to charge ahead, past Rikers Island, under the Triboro, and then down the east side of Manhattan. They would fire the weapons as they went. Damage would be slight, just some random explosions and few people killed. But by tomorrow, New York would be a city of refugees with whole sections rendered uninhabitable for years. Imagine the effect when his enemies had to abandon a huge swath of their most important city!
Abu Sayeed gripped the throttles, ready to feed power to the engines when a warning light on the control panel indicated a fire in the engine room. He raced onto the flybridge and shouted for Mohammed.