“Jan-”
“Can it, Bill.” McVeigh studied her notepad, then drew a breath and directed her attention to Alex. “That’s a smart idea to check if our shooter has tattoos, but Bill will handle it.” She smiled in a patronizing way, and Alex knew she was about to get the coup de grâce. “Bill is right,” McVeigh went on. “This is nothing for CT-26. Given the nature of the threat, I’ve made the decision to set up a task force, and I’m asking Bill to head it up.”
“But this is my deal-”
“Not anymore it’s not. I want you to take a few days and get some rest. You’ve been through a lot. You need to process this, and you can’t do it working twenty-four hours a day.”
“We don’t have a few days,” said Alex.
“Is there something you’re not telling us?”
Alex grabbed the sheaf of paper listing everything that had been found at Windermere. “Check the inventory. Page three-the list of all the food. I broke it down into meals. Three meals a day. Seven operatives, each eating a minimum of twenty-five hundred calories. There’s enough food for three days.”
“Guesswork,” said Barnes.
“Damn right it’s guesswork,” said Alex, putting a fist to the table. “That’s what they pay us to do. You want to call it a guess. I call it a plausible theory. The stuff in that fridge was fresh and perishable. The way I see it, the people who were going to occupy those beds are due in today or tomorrow. I don’t see them hanging around to visit the Statue of Liberty. Not with all that gear hidden in the house. They’re professionals. That clock starts ticking once they hit U.S. soil.”
“If they’re still coming,” said Barnes.
“Why wouldn’t they be? Think of the planning required to smuggle those weapons into the country. This isn’t some mom-and-pop job. This is top-drawer. They’ve got an entire network set up. Our killing one of their team and uncovering a cache of weapons isn’t going to stop them. If anything, it’s going to light a fire under their butts. Wake up. This is happening now.”
“What exactly do you think ‘this’ is?” asked McVeigh.
“They’re taking a building, a plane, a school-hell, I don’t know. Give me your worst-case scenario and multiply it times ten. What do twenty-four trained terrorists armed to the teeth with everything from AK-47s to antitank weapons go after?”
“Worse than storming a building or a hostage situation?” asked Barnes. “Stop being such an alarmist.”
Alex looked at McVeigh. “What if they’re taking Manhattan?”
“You mean a Mumbai scenario?”
Alex nodded. “That’s exactly what I mean. Mumbai.”
24
At nine o’clock at night on November 26, 2008, twelve relatively untrained terrorists landed at the port of Mumbai, India, in rigid rubber-hulled motorboats. The men broke into four teams. Every man carried a machine gun, two hundred rounds of ammunition, hand grenades, and a store-bought cell phone with which to speak to the others. No one had a Kevlar vest. No one had state-of-the-art communications gear, and no one carried an antitank weapon. By any measure, it was a rudimentary martyrdom operation.
One team attacked the famed Taj Mahal Palace Hotel; another, the nearby Oberoi Trident; another, Mumbai’s central railway station; and yet another, Nariman House, a Jewish Chabad-Lubavitch center. For the next thirty-six hours, the entire city of Mumbai, population 16 million, was effectively paralyzed. Business ground to a halt as the city shut down and all economic activity ceased. The only people more poorly trained than the terrorists were the police. Their ineptness peaked when the police chief and his motorcade drove directly into a terrorist ambush and he was shot dead in the back seat of his car.
In the end, nearly two hundred people were dead, including more than thirty Western tourists and Jewish émigrés. The Taj Mahal Palace suffered a major fire. Worse was the economic cost to India, in both the short and the long term. Twelve young men armed only with machine guns and grenades and the will to give their lives caused over $5 billion in economic damage and brought one of the world’s most important financial capitals to its knees. The attack coined a new phrase, shoot and scoot, and brought a startling new tactic to the world of international terrorism.
“Twenty-four people…take Manhattan?” Barnes shook his head. “Come on. Not going to happen.”
“Look what twelve did to Mumbai,” said McVeigh.
“That what you think this is?” asked Barnes. “A shoot and scoot?”
“Too soon to say. Whatever it is, lots of people are going to die.”
“I’m not fighting you on this,” said Barnes, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Just trying to be prudent. We don’t want to run off half-cocked.”
“Half-cocked? That sounds like your problem, Bill.”
Barnes colored and rose in his chair.
“Hold on, Alex. We’re with you,” said McVeigh. “This is a chance to stop something before it happens. In the past, we’ve arrived late to the ball every time. We’re not going to mess this one up. But Bill’s correct in saying that we’re going to do things the right way. Calmly, efficiently, and professionally.”
Consensus building. Mediation. All that diplomatic crap. Alex rubbed her eyes, thinking she’d been foolish ever to dream of getting to D.C. That was for people like McVeigh. “Okay, then,” she said. “We’re clear.”
McVeigh smiled at her like a kindly aunt. “You can’t operate at the level we need going on no sleep for thirty-six hours. I want you to take a couple of days and rest up. We’ll talk Wednesday afternoon, see how you’re doing.”
“Jan-”
“That’s it, Alex. Two days on the bricks. No discussion. Give Bill everything you’ve got. If we need anything, we know where to find you. I’ll make sure Barry Mintz keeps you in the loop.”
“And what about the shooter’s fingerprints?”
“We’re putting them through the system. If we get anything, we’ll let you know.”
“But-”
Jan McVeigh stood. “We’re done here. Go home. Get some rest.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Alex left the room. She’d be damned if she’d take two days off.
Didn’t they understand?
This was happening now.
25
It was past four when Astor reached Greenwich.
The Audi Q7 drove rapidly along the two-lane road, climbing rolling hills, accelerating through forest so dense the sun threatened to disappear. Astor rolled down the window and a blast of warm air, thick with the scent of cut grass, invaded the car. The town of Greenwich, Connecticut, was a forty-minute drive north of Manhattan and a hundred light-years away.
Penelope Evans lived at 1133 Elm, a two-story Colonial set well back from the road. A circular drive led down a slope to the house. A Range Rover was parked near the front door. A flagpole stood in the center of a broad lawn. On this fine day, no flags were hoisted.
“Looks like she’s home,” said Astor.
“Give her another call,” said Sullivan.
For the past ten minutes, Astor had been calling to alert Evans of their impending arrival. She had not answered. He was worried. Sullivan drew the Audi up behind the parked car and killed the engine. Astor opened the door. “Wait here.”
“Sorry, boss, you got no say in this one.” Sullivan climbed out of the car, moving like a man twenty years younger. The two men walked to the front door. A welcome mat said “Keep Calm and Drink Scotch.” Astor had been right about the sense of humor. He knocked and met Sullivan’s gaze as they listened for a response inside the home. He knocked again. No one came to the door.
“What do you think?”
“Nothing good,” said Sullivan.
Astor retreated down the walk and approached the Range Rover. He noted a parking sticker for 12 Broad on the windshield. “It’s her car,” he said. He looked back at the house. The silence he’d remarked upon earlier no longer pleased him. To his ear, it wasn’t quiet. It was deadly still. “I think the case could be made for us to assume that Miss Evans is in danger. Isn’t there some law allowing us to…”