the 13th Hour (41 page)

But then fate had finally intervened on his behalf: Up ahead by the entrance gate, the black Mustang pulled into the single-lane driveway of the parking lot, the blue and red lights within its black front grill staccato-flashing. With a loud chirp the siren sounded as the muscle car skidded to a sideways stop, blocking the BMW's exit.

Shannon jumped from his car, holding his hand up, stopping the European man's exit, and pulled the gun from his holster.

"Please step out of the vehicle," Shannon yelled.

But the man was already complying.

"Did you send those photos?" Shannon continued shouting.

The European stared at him in confusion.

"I sent them," Nick said as he ran toward Shannon, coming to a stop beside him. Paul Dreyfus came jogging up, winded, and exchanging angry glances with his blue-shirted associate.

"What kind of sick joke do you think you're playing?" Shannon said through gritted teeth.

"I assure you, Detective," Nick said, "this is no joke."

"Where did you get them?"

"You have to bear with me," Nick said, his hands raised in a pleading fashion. "In the trunk of that car is a stolen mahogany box that belongs to Shamus Hennicot, the owner of Washington House in Byram Hills."

Shannon stared at Nick for a moment before turning his attention to the man standing next to his BMW. "Do you mind opening your trunk?"

Without a word, the man hit the button on his key fob, releasing the hood. Shannon walked around and saw the clean trunk, empty but for a single two-by-two dark wooden box.

"Okay, so he has a box in his trunk," Shannon said. "What the hell is it?"

"My name is Paul Dreyfus," Dreyfus said, approaching Shannon. He held out his wallet, displaying his driver's license. "I work for Shamus Hennicot; my firm handles the security systems for Mr. Hennicot, including Washington House."

Shannon took and read Dreyfus's license, matching the face to the picture on the license. He turned to the other man. "And you are?"

"Zachariah Nash. I am Mr. Hennicot's personal assistant, I oversee his estate."

"And you are who?" Shannon finally asked Nick, his temper rising with the confused situation.

Nick was speechless at the revelation that the European, Nash, the one who had given him the watch, worked for Hennicot.

"Do either of you know this man?" Shannon asked, alluding to Nick.

"No," Dreyfus said.

Nash shook his head.

"My name is Nicholas Quinn." Nick regained his composure and focus and turned to Dreyfus. "An hour from now, your brother steals Shamus Hennicot's collection of weapons, diamonds, and that box."

Dreyfus, Nash, and Shannon stared at Nick, exchanging glances as if they were in a shared dream with a madman.

"Not this box," Dreyfus said softly, taking a step toward Nick as if entertaining his crazy notion.

"That's the box Sam steals from Hennicot's safe," Nick said. "I'm sure of it."

"The box in the safe at Washington House," Dreyfus continued, with an almost bedside manner, "it's a duplicate, an empty prototype."

"What?" Nick's eyes filled with anger.

"My brother will not get his hands on this box or what's inside it, I assure you."

"Why didn't you just tell him you already stole it?" Nick said, his voice straining, his words making no sense in this hour before the robbery had even occurred.

"Excuse me?" Paul Dreyfus said. "I didn't steal this."

"The box in the safe was a decoy, then?" Nick asked, already knowing the answer.

"Who are you?" Dreyfus's face became overwhelmed with confusion.

Nick's mind was teetering on the brink of a nervous breakdown. He had formulated a plan, one that he thought was nearly foolproof, but now, with the revelation that Dreyfus and Nash were working together, that the box in the safe was a fake . . .

Nick stared back, not knowing how far to go, how far to push the issue before his last ounce of credibility was lost.

"Two hundred and twelve people die on Flight 502 later this morning. My wife dies on that flight because of your brother, because he was after whatever is in that box. Why didn't you just tell him it was empty?" Nick could no longer separate the future from the past.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Paul Dreyfus asked.

"I'm sorry," Shannon said to Dreyfus. He looked at Nick as if he was an outpatient from an asylum. "Mr. Quinn, why don't you come with me?"

Shannon took Nick's arm.

"I'm not crazy," Nick erupted, tearing his arm away from Shannon, approaching Dreyfus. "Has anyone seen Hennicot's weapon collection? You did his security, you designed the system to protect everything? Has his weapons collection ever been made public?"

Dreyfus stared at him. "No."

"Up until an hour from now, has the security system you designed ever been compromised?"

"No," Dreyfus said with a shake of his head.

"Spanish swords, Sri Lankan daggers, Ottoman sabers--so no one is aware that Sultan Murad V's custom Colt Peacemaker etched with religious symbols--Catholic, Jewish, Islamic, Buddhist--is in a display case in Hennicot's little basement fortress?"

Dreyfus stared at Nick, his face impossible to read.

"You were just there, Paul," Nick said addressing him as if they were old friends. "Was the case intact?"

Dreyfus nodded. "What are you getting at?"

"The fourteen remaining silver bullets that were custom-made, each personalized before being loaded in the chamber, they had a saying on them in Arabic . . ."

". . . May you be forbidden from Paradise," Dreyfus said slowly.

Nick reached into his pocket, pulled out his closed fist, thrusting it in Dreyfus's face, finally opening it to reveal a handful of the silver bullets.

"What the hell is going on?" Shannon said.

"Look into my eyes, Paul," Nick implored, ignoring Shannon. "I am not crazy. I trust you, I understand you're feeling the betrayal by your brother. But he needs to be stopped now, before the robbery. He screws everyone, he comes here, to you, he steals your plane and causes this."

Nick reached into his pocket and pulled out Marcus's letter. He tore the
Wall Street Journal
page out and shoved it into Dreyfus's face.

Dreyfus took the printout and became lost in the horrific image of the scorched field, the tail section of the smoldering plane prominently displayed. He scanned the other news stories, the stock closing numbers . . . and finally the date and time of the printout: July 28, 4:58. he continued to stare at it as if it would somehow change.

"Do you see it?" Nick said.

"The time?" Paul said slowly, as if trying to comprehend the impossible.

"No," Nick said as he pointed across the tarmac at the North East Air jet sitting just outside the gate being prepped for flight. "The tail section, the N-number."

Dreyfus looked at the AS 300 jet outside the main terminal, at the large red and blue corporate logo on the white tail section. His eyes drifted down to the registration number, the unique identification required to be displayed on all aircraft: N95301.

It took Dreyfus a moment before looking back at the paper in his hand, at the image of the blackened wreckage, at the white tail section prominently displayed, its logo clearly visible, as was its N-number: N95301.

"Your brother steals what he thinks is the real box from Hennicot's safe. He comes here to see you. He steals your plane and causes all of that," Nick said, pointing at the picture of the devastation. "And he dies along with everyone else."

"What is that?" Shannon said, pointing at the printout.

But Dreyfus didn't respond, his eyes ping-ponging between the photo and the plane across the tarmac. He finally looked at Nick and without a word, handed him back the paper.

Nick tucked it into his pocket, knowing he had just won an ally.

"Your brother's flight just got in from Philly," Nick said. "He's being picked up right about now."

Nick turned to Shannon. "Your partner, Ethan Dance, is working with Paul's brother, Sam, along with Brinehart, Randall, and a cop named Arilio to rob Washington House. He kills my wife." Nick paused, bracing himself for revealing Shannon's future. "And he's the one that kills you."

"That's it," Shannon shouted, grabbing Nick and spinning him around. He quickly cuffed him and spun him back to stare into his eyes. "You're talking like a madman."

"I'm not crazy," Nick pleaded.

"Yeah? Where the hell did you get those pictures you sent to my cell phone?"

"The pictures I sent you are date stamped. One hour and fifteen minutes from now. Dance shoots you in the gut and tucks you in the backseat of his car
where you die
."

"Detective?" Dreyfus said, trying to interrupt.

"How the hell would you know that?" Shannon railed at Nick, ignoring Dreyfus.

"The same way I know that Dance is a dirty cop, the same way I know about the St. Christopher medal in your pocket," Nick said. "You and Ethan both graduated from St. Christopher High School in Brooklyn. You're cousins and he got you your job."

"How the hell . . . ?" Shannon glared at Nick.

"Did you look at the time stamp on the pictures?"

"Why the hell would I look at the time stamp?" Shannon erupted. He stood there a moment thinking . . . he reached into his pocket, withdrew his cell phone, and flipped it open. He thumbed through to the first picture.

And finally looked at Nick. "How is this possible?"

Nick turned to Paul, his eyes pleading. "You know what your brother is about to do, that's why you traded boxes. You saw what happens, you saw the tail section. Tell him, dammit!"

Dreyfus looked at Nick, trepidation in his eyes. He looked toward Nash, who nodded in approval.

Dreyfus turned to Shannon. "My brother is arriving at this very moment on a flight from Philly--"

"And your partner," Nick cut in, "is picking him up."

Shannon stared at Nick and Dreyfus, his eyes awash in confusion. He looked off into the distance, though he was focused within his mind. After a long moment he reluctantly reached into his car and thumbed the radio.

"Lena," Shannon said into his walkie-talkie.

"Good morning to you, too, Shannon," Lena's staticky voice came back over the radio.

"Have you seen Dance this morning?"

"He left here a little while ago, right after you."

"Do you know where?"

"Did you lose your partner again, Shannon? Why don't you just call him?"

"I don't want to do that," Shannon said, rushing her. "Can you get a fix on his car?"

She paused a moment.

"You're kidding, right?" she finally said.

"No, I'm serious."

"He's with you at the airport. Isn't that where you are?"

"Where at the airport?

"Jesus, Shannon, you're like a half mile apart. He's at the main terminal. Would you like me to come out there and introduce you?"

D
ANCE SAT IN
his Taurus outside the main terminal of Westchester Airport, primed and ready. He had awakened this morning knowing that he would finally rid himself of the burden of Ghestov Rukaj. But even more than paying off the bounty, he would be pocketing over $15 million once he took care of Brinehart and Arilio. Randall would live--he looked at him as the overweight uncle who knew his deeds but never tattled. He was one of the few people he actually trusted in life, but the others were simply a means to an end.

And then he would disappear. Amsterdam would become his home. He would live out his life as far away from this place as he could, happy, content, with no more worrying about money or his survival.

He had cut it down to the wire. Rukaj and his men were relentless, contacting him, visiting him, reminding him of his pending demise come midnight if he failed to come up with the money.

He and Sam Dreyfus had run the scenario countless times over, planning for contingencies, for mistakes. They ran it on paper, in discussions, Sam had even made a computer model. They planned it down to the second. The job would take less than fifteen minutes.

They were well prepared, well protected, and nothing could stop them.

S
AM
D
REYFUS WALKED
out of the main terminal of Westchester Airport, stepping into the warm morning sun. He was a mix of emotions, knowing that he was heading down a path he could never return from, but he kept his mind focused on the dark wooden box, kept his thoughts fixed on the rewards he would soon be reaping. He headed straight to the green Taurus parked in the arrivals area, his brown, neatly parted hair fluttering in the slight breeze.