Fulo rocks on his chair. ‘Amazingly, Irish, I find myself agreeing with you and the lady here. I’m not one for people hiding behind position or privilege. Bad is bad, even if it’s dressed up in a diplomat’s thousand-dollar suit.’ He sits up straight and clicks open the log on his computer. ‘I take due note that you’ve referred this to me, so feel free to ask whatever questions you need, in whatever quarters you have to. Hell, go to England and shout them through the gates of Buckingham Castle if that’s what it takes to solve this case.’
‘Palace,’ says Mitzi. ‘It’s a palace, not a castle.’
He gives her a famous Zach Fulo stare then eyeballs Irish. ‘Wherever it is — and wherever you go, just make damned sure you take your manners with you. Do things politely, quickly and as economically as you can.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Fulo adds a final remark. ‘Don’t screw this up, Fitzgerald or so help me God you’ll need a castle to keep me off your ass.’
50
Antun smashes his forehead into the middle of Aasif ’s face.
The terrorist grunts and snorts blood.
Antun twists his left wrist and breaks it. He rams the busted bone up the giant’s back and feels the shoulder dislocate.
Aasif doesn’t want to die. He knows he’s got to overcome Antun and then get away from him before he detonates the vest. He also knows he’s being beaten. He focuses past the pain and kicks out wildly.
Antun sidesteps the sweep. He hooks his heel around the hulk’s shin and clatters him onto the hard ground.
Aasif rolls over on his good arm and gets to his feet. He’s pumped with adrenaline and delivers a nerve-numbing kick to Antun’s thigh.
Antun takes it and doesn’t fall. He retaliates with a punch that a heavyweight would be proud of. While the big guy sways from the shock, he spins and dropkicks him in the abdomen.
The enforcer hits the ground like a felled oak.
Antun drops on top of him and jams two knuckles over his windpipe.
Aasif senses death. He punches with his one good arm and connects with Antun’s lower jaw.
Antun channels his weight into his fingers and the softness of the throat beneath them.
People gather round. They shout for the cops. Someone tries to drag Antun off, but he doesn’t loosen his hold. The body below him goes into spasm. Legs kick. Heels bang on the sidewalk.
A final downward thrust of knuckle.
It’s over.
Antun falls back and catches his breath.
Someone shouts, ‘Jesus!’ Screams break out. Enough yells to stop every beat cop for a mile.
Antun stands. Sweat drips from his face. He turns to the freaked-out crowd, ‘Stand back! All of you, get right back.’ He opens the black, baggy jacket he’s wearing. Shows the vest. ‘I’ve got a bomb. They’ve made me wear a bomb.’
Bedlam breaks out.
To his left, uniformed cops stand frozen in their tracks. One of them mutters into a radio. Another sneaks his fingers towards a gun. To his right, fifty yards away, Antun sees a face he recognizes.
Nabil.
The cell commander turns and walks away.
Antun knows what’s about to happen. He closes his eyes just before the remotely detonated explosion blows his body into a thousand pieces.
51
Mitzi and Irish are on the way out of police HQ when the newsflash comes in.
‘Bomb blast at Grand Central!’ The shout comes from an old timer working the front desk. ‘Hell of a fucking mess.’
The two cops drift back his way.
‘More than a hundred dead.’ He reads the graphics bar crawling across the TV on a shelf to his right. ‘Maybe as many again injured. Reporter said the bomb could be heard more than a mile away.’
Mitzi swears.
Irish leans on the counter to see the screen. ‘They say who’s responsible?’
‘Not yet.’ The uniform guesses the story is so important it’s okay for him to crank up the sound.
A journalist is doing her best to report live from the scene. The constant wail of ambulances and fire trucks fights with her piece to camera. ‘The blast happened a little before six p.m. at the height of rush-hour traffic here in the centre of New York. At that time, this station, the sixth most visited tourist spot in the world, was at its busiest. Early reports say the explosion was caused by a male suicide bomber. Eyewitnesses describe him as being in his late twenties and of average height and build. Police are investigating reports that he got into a fight with another man on the sidewalk before revealing his suicide vest to onlookers and then detonating it.’
A caption rolls across screen with a number for people to call if they’re worried that a loved one, relative or friend might have been at the station.
Mitzi’s seen and heard enough. Everything beyond this point is just news people doing their business and depressing everyone else in the process.
She wanders outside and thinks of Jade and Amber, Ruthy and Groping Hands Jack and even her bum of an ex. She thanks God that they’re safe in boring old California rather than NYC, the new bomb capital of the world.
After a few minutes, Irish emerges scratching a muss of hair that feels like it’s turning into a bald patch. He glances at the news footage on the screen. ‘Kind of takes the shine off the good news the captain gave us.’
She’s not really listening. ‘D’you mind if I head back to the hotel and see if I can fix a flight out of here in the morning? I reckon I can be as much use to you on the phone from San Francisco as I can from here.’
He wishes she was staying but understands her desire to go. ‘Sure. Give me a minute and I’ll drive you back.’
‘No need. You look like you’re ready to crash out. I can get a cab.’
‘I’d like to drive you. That’s if you don’t mind sitting in the trash one last time.’
She appreciates the gesture. ‘I guess my tetanus and cholera jabs are good for a final ride in your crapmobile.’
52
The encrypted phone vibrates inside the pocket of Owain’s black dinner suit. ‘I’m very sorry,’ he says to the Canadian ambassador, ‘I’m afraid there’s an urgent call and I really have to take it.’
He doesn’t wait to hear the diplomat’s answer and presses the answer button as soon as he reaches the refuge of a corridor. ‘Hello, Gareth.’
‘Antun is dead.’
‘Dear God.’
‘A bomb has gone off at Grand Central in New York and he was at the centre of it.’
Owain feels sick. Sick and angry. He tries to keep a soldierly focus. ‘This presumably is the work of the cell he’d infiltrated and Nabil.’
‘It is. We have eyes back on Nabil.’
Owain wants to kill him. Have him shot within the hour. But he knows it’s not the answer. ‘Tabrizi is a commander but he’s not the main man. In fact, he’s probably their weak link.’
‘I agree. That’s what Antun told us. It’s why he wanted to stay within the cell and try to work his way up the chain of command.’
‘Then we must respect his bravery and not shoot this animal on sight. How many dead at the station, Gareth?’
‘Latest count is a hundred and eleven. Close to two hundred injured by debris.’ He’s almost reluctant to add the information he’s just learned. ‘It seems Antun was made to wear a suicide vest.’