“Exactly as instructed.” The driver merged into traffic then drove five blocks and pulled into an alley behind an abandoned West Side Manhattan building.
The sedan stopped at the rear entrance, a service door opened, the sedan drove in, and the door closed behind them.
The open expanse on the ground floor was lit only with suspension lights dangling from the ceiling and what little sunlight found its way inside. Parked to one side was a box truck disguised as catering truck. As instructed, Khan’s contact had the three men load the truck prior to his arrival then leave. Time was running out, he still had several tasks to complete before he brought death to the infidels. At the top of his list, go to the bank to pick up his documents. He needed to be ready to disappear as Esteban Menendez and Hashim Khan at the same moment the museum came crashing down on top of four thousand infidel children.
In four hours those names would become history. One an alias for the other, which would become the most infamous of all. Forever the name Khan would hold a new connotation; it would rank with the likes of bin Laden, Hussein, and Hitler. The modern world would cringe at the sound of the name.
Hashim Khan.
He would get to watch history unfold from the quiet little Midwest town of Cottleville, Missouri just outside St. Louis. He would live a sedentary life of leisure as a retired computer programmer made wealthy from a buyout of his software company. The life he would live as a man known as Paul Scot Rayburn, which was a play on his true identity from years ago. Raymond Paul Scott from Bozeman, Montana.
He’d already purchased the 4300 square foot home nestled on a thirty-five acre spread. Using photos sent by a real estate agent, he’d had the entire estate furnished, ready for his arrival. Everything purchased under his new identity. Title to the property, paid for in cash by his legal representative, along with two new vehicles, a Ford F-250 pickup and a black BMW 750 Li sedan.
Khan planned to remain in New York City for two days, blending into obscurity, before flying to St. Louis where a limo would deliver him to his new life in Cottleville. He’d taken great measures to ensure he would be untraceable to his former life. He’d spent a lot of time and money to find the right broker for the job, a broker who made his living by discretion, and was rich from it. He was Khan's only loose end, he’d eventually eliminate.
He didn’t know which would be worse, if Americans discovered he was still alive and captured him or Al Qaeda. The Americans would detain him, probably take him to Guantanamo Bay, subject him to grueling interrogation but in the end he was still an American. He’d be given his civil rights, injected into the judicial system where he’d be locked away in solitary confinement for decades while his lawyers battled his fate in the courts with appeal after appeal. In the end, he’d get the needle.
If Al Qaeda found him first, he would have to endure agonizing torture, as his skin was slowly peeled, layer-by-layer. They’d keep him alive as long as possible to maximize the pain. Days. Perhaps as long as a week. Then he would die the worst death imaginable. Anything the Americans did would pale in comparison to the sadistic manner he’d die at the hands of Al Qaeda.
Khan spent over an hour inspecting and verifying the supplies in the catering truck. Along with the catering order placed by the museum, Khan’s special equipment was packaged as he requested.
He summoned his driver, “Take me to the bank.”
Fifteen minutes later Khan slid out of the sedan and walked into the elaborate bank lobby. Marbled floors and mahogany furnishings adorned the exclusive global bank. Khan stood in line at a desk waiting for his turn while he scanned the lobby. Most people weren’t paying attention to their surroundings; they were focused on concluding their banking business and getting on with their lives. Two women and one man sat in a waiting area; one woman fiddling with her iPhone, the other woman reading a magazine, and the man reading the New York Times. Nothing looked out of place to Khan.
Khan stepped up to the woman behind the desk and presented the key. She smiled and pressed a button on her phone, spoke softly to someone, and within twenty seconds Khan found himself being escorted to the safety deposit box vault. The man inserted a bank master key after Khan inserted his key. The man turned both keys simultaneously and the door to the box popped open. The man pulled out a long metal box, locked at one end. The man removed Khan’s key, handed it to him, and pointed to a small room with a heavy red velvet curtain used for privacy.
“Please let me know if you need anything,” the clerk said.
“Thank you.” Khan took the key and the box into the small room, placed the box on the table and pulled the curtain closed. He opened the box. Inside the metal box was another box, locked with a five-digit combination, Khan’s box. He dialed in the combination and opened the box. Everything was as he’d expected. Inside the smaller box, a sealed package. Khan broke the seal and removed the contents, exchanging it with the documentation and credentials of Esteban Menendez. When he walked out of the bank, he walked out as Paul Scot Rayburn. What was left of Esteban Menendez would remain in the vault for another twenty years until the lease ran out. By then, the world would have changed and the long-dead astronomer’s credentials would be meaningless.
When Khan reentered the lobby, he noticed the two women were gone but the man was still there — still reading the Times. Khan exited the bank to his waiting black sedan.
Jake noticed the man when he walked in the bank’s lobby and how different he looked from the man from Paris and the man that had shot at him on the Cantabrian Sea. Yet still, there was something familiar about him. His mannerism, his hunched shoulders. But when he saw the man’s eyes he knew.
Khan.
Thanks to Isabella Hunt’s knowledge of Hilal Shipping Company’s banking practices, Wiley’s information was correct, as usual, and now Jake had him. Khan was getting ready for a one-way trip to hell. Jake knew the most dangerous part was to ensure the threat against the museum and the children had been neutralized before he took Khan down. Had Khan already planted the device…or devices? And how did Khan plan to detonate? So many hanging questions made Jake realize the volatility of the situation.
He debated calling Bentley for reinforcements, but finally ruled it out. Time was not his ally. It was too late. Bentley would have assets close by but he could not risk them tipping off Khan. What if he failed? He couldn’t live with that either. He formulated a plan to stop Khan. The terrorist had eluded him twice before, but not this time. Not again. Jake knew he had to stop the bombing then kill Khan…in that order.
If Khan recognized him, Jake knew it would be over before he could do anything about it. He had to remain undetected until he’d ascertained how Khan planned to blow up the museum. He’d been staking out the bank since the doors opened for business, studying every man that entered. He couldn’t afford to let Khan get away. Khan wasn’t the only master of disguise; Jake created his own illusion for the terrorist. The Yankees ball cap, glasses, oversized bowling shirt and cane didn’t warrant a second glance.
He hadn’t had to wait long before the man entered. After he tagged his target and was certain it was Khan, he waited. His plan was already in place. Jake had a taxi waiting outside, meter running.
Khan walked back through the lobby, glanced his way but failed to recognize him. The terrorist continued out of the bank where the black sedan was waiting.
While he waited in the lobby, Jake pretended to read the New York Times. After Khan left, he folded the paper, tucked it under his arm, and followed Khan onto the street.
Two vehicles back, Jake’s taxi was waiting, meter running. He crawled into the back seat, and gave the cabbie instructions. The driver nodded and followed the black sedan for the next twenty blocks until it pulled into an alley and stopped. Jake jumped out and sent the taxi on its way. He had studied a map in the back seat of the taxi, following along as they drove. Khan stopped five blocks from the museum. His heart raced with anticipation. This had to be it.