First Strike (41 page)

“Are you recording this?”

“No, I'm not recording it, asshole,” said Dewey. “Trust me, if I ever want to get you, I won't do it with a fucking cell phone. The dormitory is wired with bombs. The only way in is through the basement. There's an old water main that runs beneath the dorm. From that water main we can climb up a utility tunnel that leads to the basement. The problem is getting to the old water main. We need to follow it in. It's so old it's not on any of the maps and surveys.”

Malnikov laughed.

“Forgive me for being so paranoid,” said Malnikov. “I do know someone. He grew up with my father. He came to New York when he was sixteen. He worked for the city in the water department. They fired him because he was too old. Now he helps us move certain … items into the city. He knows every fucking sewage pipe, air tunnel, and water main in New York City better than I know my own ass.”

“Lovely image,” said Dewey. “What's his name?”

“He's called
Vodoprovodchik,
” said Malnikov. “The Plumber.”

*   *   *

Ten minutes later, Igor whistled loudly, calling them all back into the library.

“What is it?” asked Dewey.

Igor was seated at his desk, typing into a computer. Without looking up, he reached to his right and grabbed a small wooden box. He threw it back over his shoulder, saying “Don't drop it” as it sailed through the air. Tacoma caught it. He opened it and removed four individual plastic cases containing small roundish objects the size of Tic Tacs. These were earbuds for communications.

“The battle link platform is done,” said Igor. “We now have ubiquitous voice and data interconnectivity for a safer and better world. By the way, I had to borrow a few things from the Rockwell Corporation.”

“Including their advertising copy?” said Dewey.

“Yes, well, that was by far the least of what I borrowed. I'm assuming they won't mind and that if they do, someone will be able to explain to them why we needed it.”

“What does ‘borrow' mean, Igor?” asked Katie.

“I had to hack into one of their systems and appropriate some functionality,” he said, waving his hand through the air, then continuing to type. “The problem, of course, was that we don't need most of their various bells and whistles, just certain algorithms from their TruNet system having to do with signals latency as well as multi-hop technology, which, as you know, we can't achieve without advanced IP waveforms.”

“Totally agree,” said Tacoma.

“Thank you, Rob.” Igor continued, “I had to hack through several Janus crypto engines. I'm glad someone can appreciate how hard this was. Those Rockwell guys,” he added, shaking his head, “talk about eating your own dog food, huh?”

Dewey, Tacoma, and Katie were staring at Igor as if he was insane.

“I'm not sure what you just said,” said Dewey, “but if you keep talking I'm going to stick a crypto engine up your ass.”

“Sorry,” said Igor, looking around at their faces. “Basically, our frequencies can't get jammed. We'll be able to communicate and I'll be able to manage your positioning in real time, with no confusion as to location vis-à-vis the terrorists. In addition, if needed, I'll be able to easily integrate into relevant systems, such as Langley or Quantico.”

Dewey moved to the plasma screen that showed Carman in a three-dimensional digital form. He stared for several moments at the screen, studying the blue lights that enabled Igor to track the terrorists and differentiate them from the students and parents. There was now one terrorist on the twelfth floor, three on ten, one on eight, one on seven, and one on the first floor. Other than the men on ten, they all moved around constantly.

“Can you tell how they're communicating?”

“Walkie-talkies. They also, obviously, have cell phones.”

“Why doesn't the FBI set up a jamming device?”

“How? My guess is, anything the FBI has wouldn't be effective unless they somehow got it to a high floor.”

“Can you jam them remotely?” asked Dewey.

“No, but you could bring something in.”

“It'll need to be there before we get there.”

“They could climb up,” said Tacoma. “Won't be easy.”

“If a jammer was in place, our stuff would still work, is that what you said?” asked Dewey.

“Yes.”

“What about your ability to track them? If we're using some military frequency you stole, we'll be able to circumvent a jamming device, but it'll knock out their cells. We'll be blind. It's a Catch-22.”

“Very perceptive, Dewey,” said Igor, grinning. “Basically, if I'm tracking their cells and suddenly their cell signals get scrambled, how can I track them? Alternatively, if they don't get jammed and can still communicate, they have tactical strength that could result in your death.”

“Exactly.”

“And because I don't want anything stuck up my ass, I'm not going to explain what I did. But suffice it to say, I anticipated this conundrum. Get the FBI to put a jammer somewhere high up in or around that building. I won't lose them.”

Dewey nodded. He looked at Tacoma.

“Rucks packed?” asked Dewey.

“No. What do we need? Guns, ammo, suppressors?”

“Yeah, climbing equipment too,” added Dewey.

Katie studied the digital screen. She looked at Dewey with a slightly concerned look.

“They have seven guys. We have three.”

“So?”

“So, we need one more gun.”

“We'll be fine,” said Dewey.

“We're doing a single-stage, multilevel move,” she said. “We need another gun.”

“We'll kill the guy on one,” said Dewey, “then move in a single wave on different floors. Right now they're on three floors: twelve, ten, eight—”

“And seven,” said Katie. “Putting aside the possibility of one of us getting hurt
before
we get there, just look at the schematic. Two of us need to hit ten at the same time. Even if one of us can take three guys, that still leaves a nonacquired target.”

“We'll need to move quick,” said Dewey.

“Dewey, the building is wired with enough Semtex to take it all down,” she said. “This is a suicide bomb. As soon as they know we're there, the one guy who's not targeted is going to set it off. One extra guy gives us tremendous flexibility.”

Dewey stared at the screen, nodding, then glanced at his watch, wondering when the next student would be thrown from the building.

“We don't have time,” said Dewey calmly. “I'm not going to take some guy off the street we haven't worked with. There are too many things that can go wrong. Now let's finish packing the rucks and get down there.”

 

55

CARMAN HALL

COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY

Sirhan, Tariq, and Ali gathered on the twelfth floor while the other three men kept guard on ten.

In one of the bathrooms, they took turns washing their hands and splashing water on their faces. They dried themselves with paper towels.

In the hallway, they stood, looking in the direction of Mecca, and shut their eyes.

It was time for
Salah,
their daily prayers. Like most Muslims, they prayed five times a day, at specific times. Now it was time for the midday prayer, called the
zuhr.

The other three had just finished the
zuhr.

“
Allāhu ‘akbar,
” Sirhan said, closing his eyes, raising his hands, then bowing. Tariq and Ali repeated the incantation, then all three began a low prayer, the
rakāt,
as they bowed in subjugation.

Ten minutes later, Sirhan walked the entire length of the tenth floor hallway, saying nothing and constantly checking his watch. At precisely 12:25, he entered one of the bedrooms facing campus. Omar was in the room, looking out at the campus with binoculars. Four students stood at the window, shielding Omar from snipers.

Sirhan studied each of the students from behind. A dark-skinned female was closest to the wall. He stepped closer and looked at her face from the side. She was Middle Eastern.

“
Ma hu aismak, fatat latifa?
” asked Sirhan.

What is your name, kind girl?

The girl pretended to not understand.

“What is your name?” he repeated, an edge in his voice.

She started to cry.

“Aimal,” she whispered.

“
Hal ‘ant Sunni ‘aw Shayei?
”

Are you Sunni or Shia?

She was sobbing now.

“Sunni or Shia?” he screamed.

The student next to her on the windowsill grabbed her hand, holding it.

Sirhan looked at his watch: 12:29.

He aimed the rifle at the window and fired. The glass shattered and fell into the open air, a moment later hitting the concrete ten floors below.

He looked at his wrist: 12:30.

“Just so you know, it wouldn't have mattered,” whispered Sirhan. He placed his hand against the girl's back, then he pushed her out the window. The soft, high pitch of her sobs was the only noise for several moments until she hit the ground.

 

56

THE PIERRE HOTEL

FIFTH AVENUE

NEW YORK CITY

Dewey and Tacoma were in a room off the kitchen that had been turned into a weapons room. They were packing rifles, submachine guns, pistols, ammo, and knives.

Katie suddenly screamed from a room down the hall.

Dewey jogged past the library and into the den, followed by Tacoma, then Igor.

A large flat-screen television showed live news coverage of the dormitory. The CNN logo was in the upper left-hand corner. Scrolled across the bottom was a news ticker:
CRISIS AT COLUMBIA.

The screen showed a grainy, distant view of the dormitory, focused in on a tenth-floor window.

Katie was alone, watching the TV with a hand across her mouth in silent horror. She had tears in her eyes.

 … I repeat, the glass was just apparently shot or kicked out of the window you are looking at right now. This is on the tenth floor where the hostages are being held. Please, if there are children in the house …

Standing in the window was a female student. It was hard to see the details of her face, but she had long black hair, brown skin, and glasses. She looked Middle Eastern. Her hands were raised and out to the side.

 … What you're seeing right now is live aerial footage from the CNN news helicopter of what appears to be a Columbia student standing on the tenth floor of the dormitory—Carman Hall—taken over by terrorists less than six hours ago. This is the first sighting of anyone in the building since about an hour ago, when another female student was pushed to her death … Oh, my God!

The girl fell from the window, kicking her legs in the air, wrenching her body in a desperate spasm, as if she might somehow fly away. She dropped quickly in a straight line as, offscreen, the voice of a CNN producer could be heard: “Cut the shot!”

She struck the concrete just before the screen went black.

A few moments later, a different view appeared on the screen. It was live footage of the reporter, standing a few blocks away, holding his earpiece to his ear and a microphone to his mouth. He was surrounded by mayhem, as crowds of onlookers tried to push their way into the media area and get a look at live feeds on display. Muted screams and yelling erupted nearby as the footage of the fallen student, and the knowledge of what had happened, spread through the media area and beyond to the crowds of friends, families, and other onlookers.

The reporter's face was red. His eyes revealed panic and emotion; he struggled to cough out words to fill the silence.

 … I … I don't know what to say. Terror has come to our shores … My God …

Dewey glanced at Katie. She didn't move. Tacoma and Igor were standing just inside the door, both silent.

“We can't wait any longer,” said Dewey, looking at all three of them. “We go in now.”

 

57

DAMASCUS, SYRIA

Nazir clutched the remote as he watched, for the third time, footage on Al Jazeera of the girl falling to her death.

He looked at his watch. It was 7:30 in the evening, exactly one hour after the first body Sirhan pushed from the dormitory. It meant Sirhan was now on a specific schedule.

He picked up his cell phone and dialed. After nearly a minute of clicks and beeps, the phone started ringing.

“Good afternoon,” came a female voice, “the White House. How may I direct your call?”

“The president's office, please.”

“Is he expecting your call?”

“I don't think so.”

“I'm afraid the president doesn't accept unsolicited or non-prearranged calls,” she said politely. “Is it something I can help you with?”

“Perhaps,” said Nazir. “My name is Tristan Nazir. I am the leader of ISIS.”

The phone was quiet for several seconds.

“Please hold.”

A half minute later, a male voice came on the line.

“I am running your voice through a program to determine if you're who you say you are. Please repeat your name.”

“Tristan Nazir.”

“What is today's date and time?”

“September fourteen, seven thirty
P.M
.”

“Hold.”

A minute later, the phone clicked.

“This is Josh Brubaker. I'm the president's national security advisor. What do you want?”

“You know what I want.”

“The weapons shipment. So let's talk about that.”

“What is there to talk about?” asked Nazir. “You stopped the boat. Until those weapons are delivered to Syria, one student dies every hour.”

“Mr. Nazir,” said Brubaker, “if we were going to allow that shipment to go through, we would need guarantees on those students and family members. In other words, we're not going to deliver anything until we understand precisely how the ones you haven't murdered yet get out alive.”