Targets of Revenge (47 page)

Finishing his main course, Adina had a look down at the paper bag Lasco left with him. It contained the loaded revolver and additional ammunition he requested. Ironically, Adina was not personally violent. He actually found physical altercations repugnant. Nevertheless, he felt an unmistakable sense of relief knowing that he had a weapon available—just in case he needed it.

When his cell phone vibrated, Adina pulled it from his pocket and had a look. It was Alejandro, leaving the signal that confirmed he and Jorge were in their hotel room, all six cases in hand.

Adina nodded to himself, certain that all the pieces were in place. He called the waitress over and ordered dessert.

————

Before tonight Lasco knew Adina only by reputation. Now that he had met the man he was certain one part of his legend was true—Rafael Cabello was a very dangerous man. It was in his face, the way he moved, his cool reserve. And in those narrow, green, snakelike eyes.

Lasco was driving south on I-684, his only companion the attaché case Adina had given him, which contained more money than he had ever seen in his life. He did not dare open it in the restaurant, not with Adina watching. Outside, as soon as he got in the car, he had a quick look at the carefully prepared stacks of one-hundred-dollar bills.

Yet regardless of the money, he was not happy with news of detonators being supplied by those lunatics from the Bronx. Truth being told, he was never pleased about their involvement. When he was first approached by Adina’s emissary he was assured of having the preeminent position in coordinating and executing this attack. It was not until weeks later that he was informed of the
jihadists
and how they would be playing a secondary role. He never trusted them—who in his right mind would trust a religious extremist?—but for so long as he felt he was in charge he assumed he could handle them. Contact with their leader was limited, which was both a matter of caution and consistent with the intended level of their participation.

Now, in the face of what he had learned, he knew that if the source of these funds had been anyone else he might consider a last-minute change in plans. But it was Adina, and so that was impossible.

Early this morning his men were going to drive cars and vans and trucks to their appointed spots on every bridge and tunnel into and out of Manhattan. Once there they would slow down and then arrange a series of intentional collisions across every lane, three cars deep, bringing all traffic in both directions to a complete standstill.

The drivers of those vehicles would then leave their wrecks and jump into the lead cars that would stay ahead of these crashes, providing their means of escape. Before heading off, they would ignite strips leading to the trunks and cargo bays of their smashed vehicles, all of which were filled with gasoline and other explosive materials. The fuses were primitive, no high-tech items required. It would reduce the risks of detection or something going wrong. They would be set off, leaving behind them a fiery wall of destruction.

News of the detonators was a game-changer. Why were they needed? Was this some sort of double-cross?

His people saw themselves as freedom fighters, adversaries of the
American capitalist machine, enemies of the privileged elite. They were most definitely not suicide bombers. That insanity was left to deranged zealots who believed their greater reward would come in heaven.

Lasco had no specifics on these devices. Were they timers, radio activated, IFR? What were they really going to be used for? Lasco did not believe for a moment the story about explosions in the financial district. Adina had a plan he was not sharing. Did he intend to remotely ignite the vehicles his men were driving before they could make it safely away?

That possibility turned his stomach inside out. He knew Adina had lied to him, or was at least withholding the truth. Which left him with an agonizing choice. Defying the man seemed absolutely out of the question, but sending all these young men to their deaths seemed equally impossible. Should he share his fears with the other men who had organized this with him? Or should he just move forward, warning them all to remain alert?

Lasco drove on through the night, not sure of what he would do when he returned to the garage in Washington Heights, but certain that he now understood what it meant to shake hands with the devil.

F
ERRIELLO CONTINUED TO
weave in and out of the uptown traffic on his way to Times Square. His cell phone was turned to the speaker mode as he and Sandor listened to news of Vaknin’s capture.

“We brought him back to the precinct,” the SWAT team leader explained, “but the feds want him at Federal Plaza. And fast.”

“Where is he now?” Sandor asked.

“He’s sitting in the captain’s office. Won’t say a thing, already demanding to see a lawyer.”

“Naturally. I assume you explained that he’s not going to be allowed to talk with anyone but us as long as we’re facing a credible terrorist threat.”

“We certainly did. By the way, we took his driver too, or whoever he is. Tossed him in a holding cell.”

“Not anywhere near his pal Ivan I hope.”

“Hey Sandor, we may not be federal agents, but we didn’t just fall off the back of a potato truck.”

“Sorry, no offense intended.”

“Yeah.”

“Just a lot of intel coming at us all at once.”

“Always the way, right?”

“Unfortunately,” Sandor said. “How would you guys feel about my speaking with Vaknin?”

The SWAT team leader chuckled. “Ferriello told me about you and Vaknin. Fast friends?”

“Something like that.”

“Hang on, I’ll clear it with the captain. And Sandor.”

“Yes?”

“FYI, we’ll have to tape the call.”

“Got it.”

A couple of minutes later they were connected to Vaknin, who was told that Sandor and Ferriello were on the line and that the conversation was being recorded. The first thing the Russian said was “I still have a headache from where you hit me.”

“Hey pal, my wrists and ankles are still bleeding from your plastic handcuffs. Just in case I decide to have you prosecuted for kidnapping a federal agent I’ve taken some nice photos of the cuts.”

Vaknin grunted into the phone.

“We’ll have plenty of time to compare bruises later. Right now I want you to tell me everything you know about what’s going down tonight.”

“You mean, other than the raid on my club and the police illegally arresting me and my employees.”

“Yes, other than that.”

“I don’t know a thing,” Vaknin said without hesitation.

“Look, whatever happens, your situation is going to turn from bad to really horrible if you withhold information. Don’t be an idiot Vaknin, you’re in the business of narcotics, not terrorism.”

“I want to speak to my lawyer.”

“You’re not listening to me. We’ve got your boy Ivan in lockup. Once he found out this was about a terrorist attack he made a deal.”

“Pizdet
.”

“So you say.”

Vaknin huffed and puffed into the phone. The man definitely needed to stop smoking, Sandor noted yet again.

“We have your computer.”

This time Vaknin answered with a loud snort. “So what? You going to arrest me for cybersex?”

“I’m going to hold you incommunicado until you tell me what you know about Adina’s plans.”

“You’re not listening to me, Sandor. I know nothing about Rafael
Cabello or his plans, it has nothing to do with me. How much clearer can I be than that?”

“You reached out to Ronny Sudakov again. What did he tell you this time?”

“You tapped my phones?”

“Let’s just say a little birdie told me.”

“Rubbish. If you listened to the conversation you already know what that moron said.”

“Indulge me.”

There was silence, then Vaknin spoke up again. “He admits he became involved with Adina, but insists it was only business.”

“The business of narcotics.”

Vaknin did not respond.

“So, he was dealing with a known terrorist, but he claims terrorism was never on the agenda.”

“So he claims.”

“And you’re also just a businessman, is that it?”

“I am not a terrorist.”

“So
you
claim.” Sandor looked to Ferriello, then said to Vaknin, “In the interest of saving your own hide, you don’t have a thing to tell me about what’s been planned?”

“If I knew I would make the deal, wouldn’t I?”

Ferriello shot Sandor a look that said he didn’t like the man but he believed him.

“All right,” Sandor said with a nod, “enjoy the hospitality of the Brooklyn Narcotics Squad. We’ll get back to you.”

When he punched the
END
button he saw that Craig Raabe had sent him an email with images attached. They were the passport photos of the three men who had flown from Wilmington into Stewart Airport a few hours ago. He opened them, one at a time. The first two meant nothing—he had never seen Adina. But when he got to the third image he said, “Damn! I know this guy.”

“Who is he?”

“A goon I saw in the jungle in Venezuela. He’s one of Adina’s henchmen.”

S
IX YOUNG MEN
from the South Bronx were seated in the suite booked by Alejandro and Jorge. The two Venezuelans remained standing. The hard plastic cases containing anthrax were lying on their sides on the large glass cocktail table. Beside them were the six devices these men had brought with them.

The detonators had been made for attachment to the base of the cases with a strong strip of adhesive that would bind the mechanism to the plastic. The suitcases each had four short, circular supports so, when the cases stood upright, the timers and explosive charges would not be visible.

Jorge was going about the business of securing the detonators in place as Alejandro reviewed their plans.

“The important thing is to switch the timer on only when you are certain no one is watching you. By the time you reach your destinations there will be a lot of activity in the streets, a lot of people running and a lot of police. You must make yourselves appear part of this panic, you understand?”

They all nodded and one of them said, “This has been explained to us in great detail.”

“Good. It is still important to review things one more time.”

Again, the six nodded as one.

“You should arrive at your designated locations before seven thirty this morning,” Alejandro told them. “We are setting all the timers for five minutes. This is not much time, but we cannot afford to have the
bags discovered before they are ignited. Once you switch them on you will probably have to fight through a crowd to get clear.”

“We understand,” another of them said.

“Two of you will be going to Grand Central, two to Penn Plaza, and two into the main Times Square subway station. You all have your assignments?”

They nodded.

“Each of you knows the best place to leave the cases?”

“We have been carefully instructed,” the first man told him.

“Good.” Alejandro thought carefully about the next statement. “You all understand that this is not a suicide mission. There is no reason any of you should stay behind when this poison is exploded into the air.”

This time they did not nod. They began nervously looking from one to the other. The first man, who was apparently the senior member of the group, spoke up again.

“Our responsibility is to make sure that these explosives are ignited and the maximum possible damage done.” He stared at Alejandro, his eyes dark and unblinking.

Jorge glanced up from his work on the cases, but said nothing.

“Is it your plan to stay with the cases until they detonate?” Alejandro asked.

“The devices have a button that allows them to be exploded, bypassing the timer,” the young man said. “We will assess the situation when we arrive at our designated positions, but each of us is prepared to die for Allah if we find it would be best not to risk leaving the bag behind.”

Jorge looked up again. This time he said, “Once you initiate the timing sequence, there doesn’t seem to be a way to stop it. Even if the case is found within the five minutes, the explosives are still going to blow.”

The young Muslim said, “Unless the detonator is detached from the case. Then it will be nothing more than a small blast, not likely to harm anyone but the person disarming the bag.”

Jorge shared a quick look with Alejandro. Neither man responded.

“It won’t matter,” the Muslim assured them. “We will do what we must.”

Alejandro thought it over. “You will make the decision, it is up to you. Just remember, even if someone finds the bag they are not likely to risk trying to remove the detonation device. They would have no way of knowing an attempt to disengage the mechanism wouldn’t cause the whole thing to blow up.”

“Allah will be served,” the young man replied.

This time when Jorge turned to Alejandro the message in his eyes was plain—
let’s get this done and get the hell out of here.

F
ERRIELLO BROUGHT HIS
car to a stop down the street from the hotel, just west of Broadway. It was after eleven at night, but in Times Square there is no such thing as darkness.

He and Sandor got out and walked down the block for a meeting they had arranged in a quick call to the counterterrorism unit on site. They were greeted by two FBI agents and two uniformed members of the NYPD.

After exchanging IDs, Ferriello asked, “What’ve we got?”

The senior federal agent briefed them. “We showed the passport photos at the front desk. The two younger men in those pictures arrived about an hour ago and checked into a suite they have reserved for three nights. They went upstairs, forty-fifth floor. No phone calls out, both of them still in there.”

“Any sign of the third man in the photos?”

“Negative.”

“Bags?”

The agent nodded. “We spoke to the bellman who handled them. Said they had several matching hard-shell cases. All the same size. He said the guests were unusually anxious about how the bags were being handled, never let them out of their sight, forked over a large tip when he placed them in the room.”