They Disappeared Page 26

  “If you’d worked with us we could’ve set up on this place,” Brewer said.

  “None of that matters now!” Jeff said. “They’ve got my wife and son. You heard their message. They want a lot of people to suffer. We have to find them before it’s too late!”

  CHAPTER 62

  Manhattan, New York City

  After crossing the Robert F. Kennedy Bridge, the white EMS ambulance moved southbound on FDR Drive.

  A marked NYPD patrol car and a marked NYPD van followed a few car lengths away but close by.

  All three vehicles maintained the posted limit. None were using sirens, or emergency lights. There was nothing out of the ordinary as they traveled deeper into Manhattan along the parkway that paralleled the East River.

  Traffic was moderate to medium.

  Inside the ambulance, the radio’s volume had been turned low as it chattered with dispatches. The two paramedics were clean shaven. Their uniforms were new, crisp blue with the six-pointed Star of Life patches. The coiled cord of the medical radio’s microphone knocked gently against its base. The shelf of trauma supplies holding the IV bags, gloves and defibrillator rattled softly as the vehicle swayed. The stretcher was secured to the antiskid floor and emitted low squeak-creaks from time to time.

  The “patient,” Sarah Griffin, had been strapped firmly to the stretcher.

  An oxygen mask, covering her face and mouth, was affixed tightly to her head. Tears rolled from her eyes, leaving tracks.

  Sensing a terrible end was upon her, she prayed for Cole and Jeff.

  If any authority needed to check the ambulance, something highly unlikely, they’d find nothing unusual with this patient transfer, unless they looked closely.

  Unable to move, Sarah stared at the ceiling.

  Expertly taped at strategic points, she saw rivers of braided colored wiring that flowed throughout the interior of the entire ambulance.

  CHAPTER 63

  New York City

  Across Manhattan at the NYPD’s Real Time Crime Center, Renee Abbott typed with incredible speed as she processed Jeff Griffin’s eavesdropped call.

  He’d captured the suspect’s manifesto, which was clearly meant to be delivered after an attack. Renee alerted the Joint Terrorism Task Force, then sent them the message, which was shared instantly with national security agencies.

  The Secret Service, Homeland, the CIA, NSA, Defense, FBI and other security experts moved quickly to study it. Taken with the known facts of the abductions, murders and microdetonator, deeper examination of the information was needed to reveal the target and the people behind the plot. The full message stated:

  “Greetings from God’s slave to the United Nations. You did not start this tragic war but if you are people with courage, determination and humanity, you will acknowledge our action today as the final call to peacefully end our struggle for a free nation.

  “To date, twenty thousand of our children have been murdered by the occupational forces, and the UN does nothing. You force us to avenge the atrocities committed by these criminals—everyone must be made to understand our pain.

  “We offer a solution for peace. Withdraw the troops, dissolve the puppet regime and acknowledge a free and truly independent Mykrekistan. We will end our armed struggle and any further nation-liberating acts of self-protection. We offer peace. The choice to accept it is yours.”

  In Washington, FBI counterintelligence examined the statement’s text, as did the Secret Service’s domestic and foreign intelligence branches.

  In Langley, the CIA saw a link to the message and the most recent chatter captured by the NSA’s listening station in Darmstadt, Germany. “The game is going ahead as scheduled. Our team is favored to win.”

  According to CIA intelligence, there were six different insurgent groups in the Caucasuses confirmed to have committed various acts of terrorism in support of the violent nationalist movement in Mykrekistan. The agency needed to do more analysis to determine which terror group had the money and ability to carry out an attack in the U.S.

  Investigators had less than two hours before the president touched down in New York for his event with the British prime minister later in the day. Other world leaders continued to proceed with their scheduled engagements related to the United Nations General Assembly.

  In Brooklyn, Iron Shield, the Secret Service’s security command center for the UN gathering of world leaders, issued a top-secret threat alert. The center then double-checked the real-time whereabouts of every dignitary through encrypted radio contact with protective details.

  Within minutes of the preliminary analysis, security chiefs ordered immediate protective action.

  “Start evacuating the Security Council and General Assembly, the entire UN complex. We have a credible and potentially active threat,” said Adam James, a senior agent with the Secret Service. He then called in to Iron Shield for a status report on the Russian delegation.

  “Right now the Russian president and the president of Mykrekistan are at Ground Zero for a memorial ceremony,” said Tate Eason.

  “Get the detail on the line. We need to postpone, or delay.”

  “Sir, it’s already started.”

  CHAPTER 64

  Battery Park, New York City

  As the president of Russia stepped to the podium, security agent Nikolai Vlasik adjusted his earpiece while standing watch near the dignitaries’ platform in Battery Park near the World Trade Center.

  Vlasik was counting the hours until he was back in Moscow and finished dealing with Sergei Serov, the arrogant prick.

  Vlasik headed the Russian Presidential Security Service team protecting the Russian delegation during its official visit to the United States. Serov was the intelligence boss whose anti-American posturing was a throwback to the Cold War. It blinded him to the point of making him a liability.

  “The Americans have just issued a threat alert,” Vlasik said into his radio. “We should cut this event short.”

  “No. Don’t be concerned,” Serov responded. “Things are in control.”

  Serov outranked him, had powerful friends and was untouchable.

  Vlasik gritted his teeth and shook his head slightly to his American counterpart, Hank Young, a senior agent with the U.S. Secret Service, standing post at the far end of the platform.

  Vlasik’s gesture signaled that he’d been overruled by Serov.

  Young acknowledged Vlasik. Then the American’s chiseled face tightened as he received more information from another U.S. agent.

  For his part, Vlasik used his anger to concentrate on his job. From behind his dark glasses he scanned the faces of the crowd of several thousand that had gathered for the ceremony.

  The Russian government was presenting a gift to New York City, the sculpture of a rising angel by an artist from Mykrekistan. The president of Mykrekistan, New York’s mayor, New York’s governor and several local officials were participating in the unveiling of the memorial artwork dedicated to the “triumph over terrorism.”

  In scrutinizing the crowd, Vlasik looked at faces and hands for telltale signs of anything sinister—for someone who was not smiling, or was “off,” or someone fidgety, or who was reaching for something. The chance that an explosive or weapon was overlooked during the security check was real, despite the heavy emergency presence of patrol cars, fire trucks and ambulances.

  Helicopters passed overhead and the thud gave way to the screams of protestors who the NYPD had contained to one side behind interlocking metal barricades. When the Russian president reached the podium there was the sudden blossom of signs denouncing Russia, alleging human rights abuses, atrocities against those struggling for an independent Mykrekistan.

  Sensing a potential eruption, the cameras and news crews turned their attention to the protestors
. Such demonstrations were common whenever the Russian president visited other countries. But today Vlasik’s unease had been deepened by the increasingly disturbing U.S. intelligence on threats. His preference was to heed the U.S. Secret Service, cut this event short and go to the backup plan, which was to move the presidential delegation to Bryant Park where, in a short time, the Russian first lady and the Mykrekistan president’s wife would take part in the presentation of literary works to the New York Public Library.

  Hank Young approached Vlasik and spoke directly into his ear.

  “The threat is credible, Nick. Prepare to pull your guys out of here, fast.”

  “I’ll inform Serov.”

  Vlasik went to the intelligence chief and relayed the latest update from the Secret Service.

  “Tell him we are aware of the threat and not concerned,” Serov sneered. He’d been in contact with top Russian agents with military and foreign intelligence. “Nikolai, we’ve already removed this threat right here in New York, right under the noses of our American friends. They’re just catching up with us.”

  Vlasik returned to Young and informed him.

  “Your boss could soon be overruled,” Young said. “We expect an update any second now.”

  Above them, on the platform, the president began speaking, triggering an instant reaction from the protestors who yelled and howled in an attempt to drown out his words.

  “The great city of New York and the great people of America have prevailed…” the president began.

  A loud metal clanking rose as the protestors began rattling the barricades and blowing whistles.

  “You’re a murderer!” a woman shouted. “A war criminal!”

  CHAPTER 65

  Langley, Virginia

  “Greetings from God’s slave to the United Nations…”

  Several miles south of downtown Washington, D.C., in a section of CIA headquarters that overlooked the Potomac River, Lilly Fong, one of the agency’s leading experts in behavioral biometrics, worked fast, analyzing the statement.

  Who is this guy?

  The sound wizards down the hall had already enhanced the recording’s quality. Lilly played it repeatedly, noting the speaker’s style, voice pitch and other aspects before she processed the recording using several advanced speech recognition programs.

  She then ran the sample through a CIA database of recordings and voiceprints of known terrorists and suspects until she found a match for the voice.

  Bulat Tatayev.

  “Good job,” Lilly’s deputy director said.

  The CIA immediately set out to track and hunt Tatayev.

  The deputy began digesting the agency’s file on Tatayev, his nerves straining as he read. Bulat Tatayev was a warlord based in Mykrekistan, an ex-soldier, an engineer expert in explosives who became a leader of Mykrekistan’s violent struggle against Russia for independence. After his parents, wife, daughter and son were killed in the bloodshed arising from years of unrest, he became one of the world’s most dangerous men.

  Bulat Tatayev or his followers were tied to or claimed responsibility for killing more than three hundred people.

  The deputy director flipped through the summary:

  one hundred and twenty-one people died in an attack on a resort hotel on the Black Sea after a four-day siege; forty-six people were killed in the Christmas bombing of a shopping center in Saint Petersburg; twenty-two people died in an attack of a restaurant in Mykrekistan’s capital; thirty-one people were killed in the seizure and gassing of a Moscow theater; forty people died in an attack of a subway station in Moscow; twenty-nine people died in the bombing of a Moscow airport; eighteen killed in an attack of a Russian consulate in Turkey; sixty-two people killed on an attack of a train to Moscow from Grozny.

  The deputy scanned the section outlining how the insurgents regarded the president of Mykrekistan as a puppet traitor and the Russian president as a war criminal. Tatayev was known to have financial backing from wealthy corporate interests in the Caucasuses and the support of a global network of highly skilled militant cells.

  Tatayev’s dark eyes burned from a photo, his hatred intensified by his full unkempt beard.

  Tatayev had vowed to take his cause to a world stage by sending a “martyr brigade” to carry out a “historic” attack at an international event.

  The deputy pressed a speed dial number on his encrypted phone for security chiefs in New York.

  “Alert the detail for the Russian delegation. We have a credible and active threat. The suspect is Bulat Tatayev, leader of a Mykrekistani terror faction. We’re sending his photo and file now. The delegation is the target. Evacuate them now!”

  CHAPTER 66

  Manhattan, New York City

  In Manhattan, the white EMS ambulance and police vehicles stopped in a narrow alley somewhere off of Broadway.

  The rear doors opened to several uniformed NYPD officers.

  Two of them stepped into the ambulance and approached Sarah, who was still strapped to the stretcher. The one who sat on the bench next to her was the leader. He was clean shaven and unrecognizable from the way he’d looked at the warehouse.

  He would bear no resemblance to the photograph the CIA would provide for circulation to national security and NYPD officials within the next twenty-five minutes.

  He was a different man.

  His face was a study of resolve as he removed her oxygen mask.

  “Pay attention,” he said.

  She was trembling under her bindings.

  “It’s very important. Do I have your attention?”

  Sarah swallowed and nodded.

  The officer standing over them turned his cell phone to Sarah, showing her a small video of Cole. She saw his head and shoulders. His face was a mask of fear while offscreen an adult said something inaudible, prompting Cole to look at the camera.

  “I’m so scared, Mom. Just listen to them.”

  Sarah cried out in agony for Cole.

  The phone was taken away.

  “Listen to me,” the leader said. “Are you listening?”

  Sarah nodded.

  “If you want to see your son again, you will do as we say. If you try to escape or attract attention, your son will die. You will do what we tell you when we tell you. Is that understood?”

  Sarah nodded.

  The men removed her restraints, gave her a new ID that had been made using her driver’s license photo. It said Press and a forgery of the correct media credential for the event. It looked completely authentic. They gave her a ball cap, dark glasses, a notebook.

  They led her out of the ambulance through the front passenger door.

  The leader and one of the other officers started escorting Sarah through the streets of New York. Behind her she saw the emergency vehicles ease from the alley.

  Sarah could not believe what was happening.

  “Today is a day of glory,” the leader said as he looked to the crowd in the near-distance.

  CHAPTER 67

  Purgatory Point, the Bronx, New York City

  The old factory was filling with investigators and controlled chaos.

  Cordelli and Brewer had huddled at one of the unused worktables with the brass from the task force, Homeland, FBI, NYPD and Secret Service.

  Jeff was left straining to make sense of what was unfolding as the rapid radio dispatches and cell phone conversations exchanged among the investigators grew ominous. He moved closer to hear and determine what he needed to do next when suddenly Cordelli and Brewer broke from the huddle and started to leave.

  “You need to stay here, Jeff,” Cordelli said. “Ortiz and Klaver are on their way to this building. We have to go.”

  “Go where? Where’re you going, Cordelli?”


  The detective shot a glance toward Brewer, who had his cell phone to his ear and was several paces ahead, then back to Jeff.

  “I deserve to know what’s going on, Cordelli!”

  “Jeff, it’s better for you to stay here. Let us handle things.”

  Jeff grabbed the detective.

  “I deserve to know, Vic.”

  Cordelli scratched his chin, glanced around and lowered his voice.

  “They think the target is the Russian delegation in Battery Park, the Russian president and the president of Mykrekistan. They’re trying to evacuate them now.”

  “What about Sarah and Cole? Is there any trace of them?”

  Cordelli shook his head.

  “We’re looking. Everyone’s looking. Stay here with Ortiz, Jeff.”

  At that moment, a Secret Service agent arrived and passed them while talking on his radio. “The wives? No, no, the target is the Russian president at Battery Park. The Russian first lady and the Mykrekistani president’s wife are at Bryant Park for an event with the library. We’re beefing up things there now…preparing to evacuate right…sending more people…”

  Jeff turned back.

  Cordelli was gone.

  As Jeff walked toward the factory’s large open door he fought to absorb what he’d just heard, tried to figure it all out. It could’ve been instinct based upon what he’d experienced, he wasn’t certain where it came from, but a powerful gut feeling gnawed at him.

  Jeff’s focus went back to his battle with the killers in the van, back to the words: “Very soon we will show the world what it is to suffer—to lose what you love.”

  Jeff walked to the door and yard, which was guarded by several uniformed officers from the Fortieth Precinct keeping unauthorized people out. Every investigator and emergency officer at the scene was doing their job. No one noticed as Jeff pulled on his ball cap and dark glasses and walked out of the building. In the factory yard he saw the tangle of emergency vehicles and the plastic tape of a police line at the fence gate keeping news crews and rubberneckers back.