‘Please do. I’m keen to know what flow of information you’d like and how often you’d like it. Being kept in the loop is one thing — getting strangled by it is quite another.’
‘Indeed. And this is where I have a problem.’ He tries to choose his words carefully. ‘It’s that I know so little of the inner workings of the SSOA.’
‘It is perhaps best that way.’
‘Perhaps, but please credit me with the intelligence to decide that for myself.’
Owain doesn’t respond. He knows there is more to come.
‘I wish to join your Order.’
‘With respect, I think it best that we operate at arm’s length from your good self.’
‘And I think it best you don’t.’
The gold-cased antique clock on the marble fireplace beside them ticks three times before the prince adds, ‘You know my military background, Owain, so please don’t give me some guff about any refusal being a way to protect me. I have spent most of my life on the hit list of some terrorist group or other and I’ve been in more than my fair share of trouble spots.’
‘It isn’t that.’
‘Then what exactly is it?’
‘Unless there is a genetic link to an original knight, the Blood Line is closed to you. And membership of the Inner Circle is not mine alone to grant. It has to be sanctioned by others.’
‘Then have them sanction it; I’m sure you have the influence.’
‘I do. But even then, it is only possible to become a member if you pass the initiation.’ He lets the word sink in, then adds, ‘There have never been any exceptions and can never be.’
‘I seek none.’ The prince looks pleased to have made some progress. ‘What exactly do these initiations involve?’ He smiles like a child anticipating a dare. ‘I still have some scars from the rites I endured during my military days.’
‘Blood, Your Royal Highness. The ritual spilling of yours and the fatal spilling of our enemy’s.’
48
Any hope Antun harboured of simply slipping off the vest and defusing it is being crushed.
Aasif fixes handcuffs behind his back and leads him to a green parcel-delivery van, parked around the corner from the basement hideaway. The enforcer bundles him in to the passenger seat and fastens the safety buckle.
They drive out to the Cross Bronx Expressway, then south-west towards Port Morris, East Harlem and ultimately Midtown East.
The big man dips his hand into his pocket and produces what looks like a metal cigar with a red button on the top. ‘This will help things go smoothly. Just in case you have second thoughts about your redemption and turn into a coward again.’ He gives a yellow-toothed grin as he slips the remote trigger back into his pocket.
The young SSOA operative watches the world rush up and hit the windshield. Sights he may never see again, sounds he’ll never hear.
The journey to Grand Central’s likely to take close to an hour. Best-case scenario is that he’s got sixty minutes in which to get himself out of the biggest jam of his life, or end up scattered in pieces, along with hundreds, maybe thousands of people.
He remembers this isn’t the first time the station has been hit by a bomb. Exactly twenty-five years to the day before 9/11 a group of Croatian nationalists planted one in a coin locker and at the same time hijacked a plane.
Back then, the terrorists had a change of heart. After stating their political demands, they revealed the location of the explosives.
Antun knows that today there will be no change of heart.
Al-Qaeda has no heart.
Only as they join the toll road at Robert F. Kennedy Bridge, about five miles from their destination, does Aasif have all fingers and thumbs on the steering wheel.
Antun sneaks a cuffed hand down to the seatbelt clasp and starts to unlock it.
A coach full of young children pulls alongside the van. Excited faces are pressed to the glass.
He hesitates.
Aasif puts his hand back into the detonator pocket and pulls away from the toll.
The moment has gone.
The next four miles roll by in silence. They come off at exit eleven and join crawling traffic onto East 53rd, then hit gridlock as they reach Second Avenue.
Antun feels his heart belt his chest. They’re less than a mile away but surrounded by cars. An explosion here would be as bad as inside the station.
Aasif sees the anxiety on his face. ‘Be patient. We are nearly there. I suggest you cleanse your mind and prepare yourself for the greatest moment of your miserable life.’
Traffic moves. Cars creep forward. They turn right onto 42nd. Antun sees the outline of the station at the bottom of the street. Time speeds up. The last frames of his life play double-speed.
Aasif insists on running through the plan once more. ‘I will stop just past the Grand Hyatt, then we will get out and walk to the main entrance. You will enter and keep walking. Count to twenty and then detonate. I will be going in the opposite direction but I’ll also be counting. If after twenty seconds I have not heard anything, then I will press my detonator. Do you understand?’
Antun nods.
They join a crush of cars and yellow cabs heading to the Hyatt and the other side of the station.
Aasif stops the car, pulls on the handbrake and takes out the ignition keys. He turns the ring around until he finds the one for the handcuffs and unlocks them.
Antun rubs his wrists. He pops the safety belt free and gets out. There are crowds all around him. The noises, smells and light of early evening seem more vibrant and meaningful than he’s ever known.
He sucks in what might be his last air as he waits for Aasif to lock the van.
The big man walks alongside him. They head slowly to the station entrance. The terrorist puts his hand on Antun’s shoulder and stops. ‘This is where I leave you, my brother.’ He shows him the detonator gripped tightly in his hand as he spreads his arms to embrace him.
Antun makes his move.
49
Captain Zach Fulo, rests his elbows on his paper-strewn desk and listens patiently as Irish summarizes the case.
Occasionally, he glances at the FBI woman to see if her face shows any disagreement with his lieutenant’s account.
It doesn’t.
Far as he can make out, she’s the serious type. Not a drinker. Certainly not a sleep-around, screw-your-way-to-the-top kind of girl. Ten years ago though, he imagines she would have been quite a looker. She’s got eyes that have seen life and the lack of a wedding ring on her finger probably means life has seen a lot of her as well.
Irish finishes with a plea to interview the British Consul George Dalton about his movements on the night of Amir Goldman’s murder. ‘Even if he ends up claiming diplomatic immunity, we owe it to the victim to pursue this line of enquiry and find the killer.’
‘Do you go along with all this?’ Fulo asks Mitzi. ‘You think we — and by that I mean the august bodies of the FBI and DC police — should go shouting through diplomatic doors and demanding ambassadors and attachés turn out their pockets and account for their actions?’
‘I do, sir. I don’t think anyone should be treated any different than anyone else. Regardless of their job, title, sex, age, religion, race or nationality. Equality for all perps; that’s my motto.’
He corrects her. ‘Suspected perps.’
She can see she’s winning him over. ‘Speaking plainly, Captain, if this guy Dalton wasn’t out of the country and wasn’t a member of the British diplomatic corps, we’d already have his evasive ass polishing a seat in one of our interview rooms.’