The Last Trade (32 page)

12

New York City, 9:59
A.M.

S
he hears the gunshot but doesn't bother to turn and see where it came from, or what it hit.

Instead she continues toward the stage and the pale and dumbstruck man she saw standing alongside Rick Salvado on TV this morning: the CEO of Transmediant!, Benjamin Krupp. She climbs the short flight of stairs two at a time and comes up on him from behind. He almost collapses under her touch.

“I'm a federal agent,” she tells him. “Where's Salvado?”

Krupp stares at her, stunned, paralyzed with an array of fears. Personal. Professional. Universal. Plus, the realization, the confirmation of what he's always known, that he's a coward, not a leader. Sobieski almost smacks him, but she shakes him instead.

“Where?”

He turns to her. “Outside, in his limo, at the loading dock.” He points toward the left rear exit. “That way.”

As she turns to leave, she notices the teleprompter screen raised up out of the floor. The text, which will never be spoken, reads, “On behalf of Transmediant!, welcome to this great day in the history and the future of the new global economy.”

Outside, most of those who have already left the building linger on the sidewalks. A SWAT team scrambles out the back doors of a truck, and dozens of agents from seemingly every law enforcement organization operating in the city are massing around the building's perimeter. Michaud got them to listen, she thinks, as she moves along the length of the concrete loading dock, looking for Salvado. She stops a building security guard. “You see a limo here?”

“What car ain't one this morning?”

“When did the last one pull out?”

“Oh, shit. A minute, two minutes ago.”

“Which way?”

He jerks his thumb to the east. “Only way a car's allowed to go on this street.”

She's off the edge of the dock and running before he finishes. Eastbound toward Fifth, in and out of the pedestrian scrum, skirting the edge of slow-moving traffic. Just before the corner she sees a limo stopped at a light with its right blinker flashing. She bears down on it and jerks open the rear passenger side door as the car begins to roll. Jogging to keep up, she looks inside. Rick Salvado is not there. Two stunned Japanese businessmen are. Without a word she slams the door and looks to the east and south. One limo is moving toward Madison on the other side of the intersection, and another, heading downtown, is stopped at a light a block away. She's about to head south, but one last glance at the eastbound vehicle reveals a vanity license plate that reads:

 

THE RI$ING

13

New York City, 10:01
A.M.

D
eborah nudges Miranda with her foot and Miranda nods. Together they watch the bearded man passionately talking, gesturing with the phone. He's taking short steps now, but not venturing into the hall and not beyond the edges of the doorjamb. Suddenly he kicks at the door, furious. When he momentarily disappears from view, Deborah rises and rushes toward the near exit.

At the same moment Miranda and the bearded man hear the door swing open on the other side of the room. The bearded man bursts back into the room. His mobile drops to the floor as he reaches to steady the gun. He runs right past Miranda, brushing against her leg and briefly looking at her before continuing past and through the far door.

As soon as he passes, Miranda is up and running out the near door toward an exit she's never seen but prays is close at hand. She pauses when she hears the first short burst of gunfire, back in Deborah's vicinity.

14

New York City, 10:03
A.M.

W
ith one hand on Laslow's backpack, Havens looks up at the barrel of a policeman's gun. He lowers Laslow's gun and holds up his hands.

“All yours,” he says, gesturing toward the gun. The cop bends and grabs it while keeping his gun fixed on Havens. Havens says, “Help me get this off him. It's some kind of bomb.” When the cop, a tall, brawny redhead who looks about sixteen, hesitates, Havens unzips the top of the backpack, revealing a series of wires and the top of many blocks of C-4 explosive. The cop takes a step back as Havens peels off one shoulder strap, then swiftly but carefully shifts Laslow's weight to unsnap the other. He stands, holding the pack.

“What are you gonna do with it?” asks the cop.

“Get it away from those,” Havens answers, pointing at the boxes.

“Follow me.” The cop begins barreling through what's left of the crowd, holding his gun in the air. Havens tails him like a running back behind a pulling guard, holding the bag at arm's length, while the cop speaks into his radio, inquiring about the whereabouts of the bomb squad.

They burst out onto the street through a revolving door on the north side of the building and are greeted by two figures in full protective bomb gear. When they see the backpack in Havens's hand, they back off and point them toward the rear of an armored police vehicle parked half a block away. After Havens places the pack inside the truck, one of the bomb squad cops slams closed the hatch while another grabs him by the arm and rushes him out of range.

“In the theater . . . ,” Havens explains as they near a makeshift NYPD command post, “there's a shitload of boxes in the back that are supposed to be filled with books but are filled with explosives.”

A lieutenant tells him to sit tight and then rushes down the block with the bomb squad guys. Havens bends at the waist and puts his hands on his knees. He's wired and exhausted. His hands are shaking, and his entire body is spent. The past few days have been fueled by fear and adrenaline, and when the adrenaline ebbs it's all he can do to stay on his feet. He wonders what Sobieski is up to, and where Salvado has gone, but mostly he thinks of Miranda.

Hundreds of civilians from the upper floors continue to stream out of the building. The networks are setting up satellite trucks down the block, near Sixth, and he counts no fewer than four helicopters hovering over the tower. The redheaded cop stands ten feet away, talking to two members of a SWAT team. Havens reaches for his phone to try Miranda once again, but he's distracted by a familiar face, not heading out of the Transmediant! Building, but jogging back in. It's Tommy Rourke. Havens lowers the phone and watches. He's tempted to call out to Rourke, but Rourke is talking on his phone and gesturing frantically with his right hand. Over his left shoulder is a backpack not unlike the bag that Havens just stripped off Laslow.

In an instant it all becomes clear. The human narrative, the financial models, and the previously hidden truth. Rourke, who had been there since The Rising began, who delivered clients when no one wanted to touch Rick Salvado. Rourke, the Harvard Crimson grad and self-proclaimed humble classical literature major. The blog that's publishing the quotes that link back to Berlin, Hong Kong, Dubai, Rio, Dublin, Toronto, and the whiteboard in Danny Weiss's apartment. The blog that runs the passages that activate it all:

 

Crimson Classics: A Harvard Dude's Take on Greek Lit

Rick Salvado may be a greedy, deceitful thief, but Tommy Rourke is a bona fide terrorist.

15

New York City, 10:08
A.M.

A
fter the second burst of automatic gunfire, silence.

Miranda bounds up a flight of fire stairs but can't gain access to the lobby. As she starts up the next flight, she hears the door to the room below slam open, then the footsteps of the bearded man. The door to the next floor opens not on the lobby or office space she's hoping for, but another subterranean storage room. She steps inside, closes the door, and looks for a lock, but there is none. The room is filled with massive computer servers and HVAC apparatus. She runs along a row of servers, zigzagging in and out between gaps in the racks, looking for another exit, or anyplace to hide.

She drops to her knees when the stair door crashes open. Then she holds her breath and waits for the footsteps.

16

New York City, 10:14
A.M.

S
alvado, it turns out, isn't in this limo, either.

“Where'd he go?” Sobieski asks the driver through the open rear door.

“Too much traffic. He got out and headed east. Asked for my MetroCard.”

She straightens, looks over the hood of the car, then leans back in. “Where's the nearest subway?”

“Probably . . . Lex. Lex and 53rd, near Citicorp Center.”

She runs. Across Madison. Through four lanes of moving traffic on both sides of Park. Scanning the sidewalks as she moves, but she doesn't see him. At 53rd and Lex, on a hunch, assuming he's headed toward lower Manhattan or toward a connection out to the airport, she goes down the downtown stairs. She skips through the turnstile and bounds out onto the almost empty mid-morning platform. A quick walk up and down. No Salvado. Then she looks across the tracks, at the uptown side. It's him.

Since Salvado has no idea who she is, she figures she'll be able to surprise him. But she realizes that by the time she goes back upstairs and then down, he'll likely be gone. She stares at him for a moment, coolly checking his BlackBerry while, for all he knows, thousands may be dying at this second, at his hand. She thinks of Patrick Lau and Sawa Luhabe and Heinrich and all of the others. And as she wells up with rage, she thinks of her father. The life he lived and the lie she can't live down.

She jumps.

Cara Sobieski's first journey on a New York City Subway track is across it. There's a collective gasp, first from the small group of travelers on her side, then from the group on the other, as she lands flat-footed on the gravel. She steps over the inside rail, the outside rail and then, carefully, over the third rail, before crossing over to the uptown track. She's watching the tracks, the tunnel, and Salvado at the same time. He notices her as the ground begins to shake and the glow of an approaching train's headlamp appears in the distance.

Perhaps he doesn't comprehend that she's following him, that she's after him, or perhaps he feels that she isn't going to make it. But he pauses for a moment and simply watches her as her eyes widen with urgency. She bounds over the uptown third rail and hoists her elbows onto the platform's edge. A young woman screams. A man in a suit, too far away to make a difference, starts to jog her way. She begins to muscle herself up as the train roars and takes shape at the end of the platform. But now Salvado steps forward, leans down as if to help her, then kicks at her face. She sees it coming and snaps her head back, rolls to the left with the force of the kick. Her left hand slips off the edge, and her right foot drops back onto the ground. As he rears back to kick her again, she pushes off the right leg and springs up with both hands, both arms.

This time she's ready for the kick, same foot and motion. She deflects it with her left arm as she rolls to her right. She rolls another full revolution on top of the platform deck and pops to her feet. Salvado lunges toward her, and realizing she has one chance to surprise him with her skills, she launches a vicious right spin kick. Her heel crushes against his right ear and rocks him back. While he regroups and readies to make another bull rush, she again surprises him by taking the offensive. She strikes his face with two straight left jabs and a right cross to his left temple. More stunned than injured, he staggers back. She kicks him hard in the balls and he flinches, but he still comes at her, pushing her to the lip of the platform. He lunges again. She sidesteps it, twists, and shoves him. The shove sends him to the edge but not quite over it. He teeters, trying to regain his balance.

There's a moment when she has an opportunity to deliver the deathblow, kicking him onto the track in front of the train, or to reach out a hand. She looks at the train as he begins to straighten, seemingly recovering his feet. But then the train whistle blows, startling him and sending him reeling all over again. Rick Salvado is in midair, looking directly at Sobieski, when she surprises herself and extends her hand.

She pulls him toward her, enough to keep him from falling, but not enough to prevent him from being clipped by the lead car. The force spins him away from her with a brute violence and drops him as if from a funnel cloud onto the concrete ten feet down the platform.

She watches him writhe, wounded but not fatally, and feels neither horrified nor ashamed nor satisfied. Not regretful or relieved. As the cars roll past, she looks at the faces pressed against doors, the heads bent over books, pushed together in a space filled with working people who will never see the inside of a limousine. People unaware of the fact that the blood of a billionaire almost ran beneath them. A billionaire about to be captured by a flawed and compromised and debauched individual. She watches and she doesn't know what to feel.

17

New York City, 10:08
A.M.

H
e sprints down the sidewalk and cuts sharply toward the entrance of the Transmediant! Tower.

Rourke is through the main entrance, moving against the seemingly endless stream of people filing out of the building from the upper floors. Havens follows. He pushes through the door and into the lobby. He can't see Tommy Rourke. He's lost somewhere in the chaos. Rourke, the only man to sit with him the night Erin died, the one who understood his moral qualms about the job and his growing distrust of Rick Salvado. Rourke was the only man on Wall Street he ever trusted, besides Danny Weiss.

He stops and looks for the entrance to the theater. Halfway across the lobby, some fifty feet away, he recognizes the top of Rourke's head and the pin-striped shoulders of his suit, heading toward the theater. Havens bolts toward him, trying to run, but every few steps he collides with an exiting person. One man shoves him out of the way, almost knocking him down before shouting, “Watch out, asshole!”

The stranger's shouts prompts Rourke to turn. When his eyes lock on Havens's, there is no uncertainty. He knows that Havens knows, and Havens has no doubt that Rourke is the one responsible for this. Not Salvado. Rourke spins and begins to run toward the theater, shoving and stiff-arming people out of his way. Havens pursues, rushing for the hall outside the theater, the boxes of “books,” the spot on the ground where Laslow lies dead beneath a sheet of black plastic, ten feet from more than a thousand pounds of explosives.

The backpack slows Rourke enough for Havens to close on him. Rourke turns as Havens leaves his feet and tackles him. They roll on the ground. Rourke thrashes and punches, more intent on escaping than doing battle. Havens reaches for the strap of the backpack, but Rourke gouges a thumb into his right eye, twists away, and scrambles to his hands and knees. Havens lunges and grabs his leg, hanging on to Rourke's left shin as tightly as he can, as Rourke struggles to break away. The cops don't notice them. Dozens of others do, but stream past without stopping, valuing their own lives more than the lives of these two.

Rourke kicks at Havens's hands with the heel of his wingtip. Havens hangs on for two strikes but loses his grip on the third. Rourke breaks free and starts for the boxes of explosives, but a nearby cop sees him and starts toward him with his gun drawn. Rourke turns and runs up the main stairs toward the concourse, against traffic but not as much as in the lobby. Havens pursues, bounding up two stairs at a time. Rourke stops at the balcony, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a phone. He's leaning over the railing, aiming the phone and jerking it toward the boxes below like a remote control for a set-top box, when Havens lowers his shoulder into him and drives him to the ground.

Havens dives on the larger man and they begin to wrestle again. With his free right hand Rourke punches his way back to his feet and again attempts to detonate the boxes with the phone. When Havens rises, Rourke grabs him and shoves him against the balcony rail. He's bent backward thirty feet in the air, grabbing at Rourke's throat with his right hand and clinging to the rail and his life with his left. He's squeezing Rourke's throat as hard as he can, but he's slipping. His feet are sliding out from under him and he's bent dangerously backward, close to toppling over the rail. “After I'm done killing you,” Rourke says, “I'm going after your wife.”

When Miranda comes out of the stairwell and into the lobby, she sees the chaos and knows that she is in the targeted building. Immediately she forgets about the man she managed to elude, still searching for her in the guts of the building, and she begins looking for Drew, first in the main theater, then in the lobby. Finally she sees Rourke trying to throw him off the balcony. She sprints upstairs and across the foyer. Two steps away she leaps and wraps her hands around Rourke's head and starts to gouge his eyes. He takes his hand off Havens and backhands Miranda in the face, knocking her to the ground.

This is enough of a break for Havens to regain his footing, but now Rourke is surging at him, intent on driving him off the balcony. Out of the corner of his eye Havens sees Rourke's phone rising up, and without hesitating he releases his left hand off the railing. With no hands on the rail to stabilize him he clenches his fist and throws a wild roundhouse not at Rourke, but his phone.

For a moment the phone seems to hang suspended in the air above the chaos of the lobby. Havens twists away from the rail. Rourke lunges for the phone instead of the stability of the railing. Without Havens's body to buttress him, his weight and the weight of the backpack begin to carry him over the edge. Rourke desperately reaches out and manages to catch the phone, but it's too late to save himself. He claws and thrashes as he plummets some fifty feet through the air of the building he aimed to topple, landing with a sickening wet thud on the cold marble floor.

Havens sprints back down the stairs. Bone shards stick out of a fracture on Rourke's left forearm, but in his left hand he still clutches the phone. Broken and on the verge of death, Rourke continues to pump the keypad. Havens steps on Rourke's wrist with one foot and kicks the phone out of his hand with the other. Rourke groans as Havens strips the backpack off him and slides it away. To the first cop, Havens says, pointing at the backpack, “Explosives”; to the second, pointing at the phone, “Detonator.” Then he stoops and pats Rourke's jacket and trouser pockets. Before standing, he looks into Rourke's eyes.

“Why, Tommy?”

Rourke can't speak.

“The whole time. All these years you waited, to bring it down.”

Before he dies, Rourke manages the weakest of nods.