Twelve Hours (7 page)

Soroush was last to exit the elevator onto the dark, dusty Track 61, under the Waldorf Astoria. Floodlights by the elevator illuminated the immediate vicinity, but his men already had flashlights at the ready to traverse the tunnel. The air was cool and stale, with a rich smell of dirt along with a whiff of rotting trash. A few yards into the tunnel, Masud wheeled the oversize black roadie case that contained an unconscious Navid Ramadani. Hossein, Paiman, and the others had already gone ahead to make sure the path forward was clear. They had heard the gunfire on the way down, and there was only one thing to do.

“Disable the elevator,” he told Sanjar.

“What about Sadegh?” Sanjar asked as he screwed open the elevator-button panel.

“He won’t make it,” said Soroush, setting down a briefcase on the floor of the elevator. “He will give his life for the cause.”

Pandemonium broke out as police drew their weapons and took cover behind the line of cars in response to the shooting. Frieze pressed her back flat against a dark SUV and found that Pearson was right next to her. Her adrenaline pounded and she felt the creeping numbness that preceded a panic attack. She closed her eyes and focused on her breathing.

“Herc teams, move out!” Pearson yelled beside her. “Park and Forty-ninth Street entrances! Clear the lobby! Bomb teams, follow!”

Her panic receded. She opened her eyes with a renewed sense of confidence and security. Frieze ran as the Herc team breached the door. Glass cracked and shattered and they filed in, fanning out onto the open lobby.

A chorus of “Clear!” “Clear!” echoed from inside. Pearson took the lead through the door, and Frieze went in after him.

The elegance of the lobby of the Waldorf Astoria was transformed into a scene of terror and chaos. What seemed to be the entire staff of the hotel plus a number of guests were kneeling on the carpet. Most were crying, and a few had dropped to the fetal position. One woman wailed and a middle-aged, balding businessman rambled incoherently. A couple of the Herc team members were asking them to keep calm, reassuring them that help had arrived.

“The trigger’s over here,” yelled out a man wearing a white button-down half-red with blood, leaning against a pillar and panting. Frieze heard Pearson calling in an ambulance on his radio. “There are no hostiles in the building, but these bombs are live,” said the man. “In the briefcases.” He staggered, and Conley rushed forward to help ease him onto a couch.

“Who are you?” asked Pearson as the man lay back.

“Rosso,” he said. “Head of security.”

“I’m looking for Morgan,” said Conley. “On the short side, dark hair. Bit of a Boston accent. You know who I’m talking about?”

“Yeah,” said Rosso, “You just missed him.”

Morgan reached the art deco elevator door that Rosso had said led to Track 61. In his right hand was the Secret Service agent’s handgun, which he stuffed in the waist of his pants after activating the safety. In his left was the fire axe.

He pressed the button for the elevator, and was not surprised by the lack of movement. He would have to do this the hard way.

Morgan took two steps back and swung the axe, wedging its cutting edge between the steel elevator doors. He grunted as he pulled the handle, working it as a lever. The doors groaned open a crack, then a few inches. He then dropped the axe and pulled one door open with all his might until he had opened it just enough to get through.

He looked into the ominous blackness of the elevator shaft. He always hated this part.

Frieze looked at the wire running from the briefcases affixed with zip ties to the hostages’ arms. Those who weren’t tied down were escorted outside.

“I want to stay,” said a woman, pointing at a child of about ten whose wrist held a zip tie. “My son.”

“We’ll get him out,” Conley told her in his deep reassuring voice. “Please, come with me.”

One woman who was also outfitted with the morbid bracelet, a sixty-something blonde in housekeeping uniform, was convulsing with sobs. Something welled up inside Frieze—the old familiar anxiety, rising up toward panic. She had contained it, but this particular woman’s fear, her distorted, plaintive face, touched something deep in Frieze.

She closed her eyes, ignoring all noise, and walked over to the crying woman. Crouching down so that they were at eye level, she put her hand on the woman’s shoulder.

“We’re going to get you out of here,” Frieze said. “It’s going to be okay.”

The woman, whose small eyes were almost lost in wrinkles, drew a ragged breath.

Frieze stood up and turned to the emergency responders who were now flooding into the lobby. “We need wire cutters to get these people free,” she called out. “If you’re not engaged in bomb defusal, help me here!”

“Get alligator clips to redirect this wire,” she heard Pearson telling one of the bomb squad.

Someone put a wire cutter in her hand and she began to snip. “Conley!”

“I’ll start escorting them out,” he said, intuiting what she was going to say. She cut loose the woman she’d comforted first, directing her in Conley’s direction. Frieze then went on to release others one by one, from the mostly young men in kitchen uniforms to attractive men and women in dress shirts who worked reception to the guests, in business and leisure attire alike, who’d been caught in the lobby when the terrorists hit. She continued to send them toward the officers who Conley had enlisted to direct people to the outside. Conley had now turned his attention to the explosives.

“The bombs have got to be synchronized, which means there’s going to be a single receiver,” he said when Frieze approached.

“They’re locked,” said one of two bomb technicians kneeling by the suitcase. “It’ll be a few minutes before we can get them open.”

“Allow me.” The speaker was Rosso, wobbling up off the couch. He held up his hand and knelt down next to the nearest briefcase. He fiddled with the lock, and had it open within a few seconds.

“Zero zero zero,” said Rosso, with a smirk. “They never know how to change the codes on their damn briefcases.”

The bomb technician opened the briefcase carefully, exposing the five pipe bombs laid out and fixed to the bottom of the case, along with an electronic detonation mechanism.

“Leave this to us,” said the bomb tech. “Just get everyone out.”

In the dark of the elevator shaft, Morgan held on to the steel cable, making slow progress down. The cable bit into his hands and thighs, but inch by inch, he moved down until his feet touched the elevator. He felt around for the trapdoor into the elevator car. On finding it, he undid the latch and swung the door open.

Light shone from the tunnel beyond the elevator and an updraft blew dust in his face. He coughed and rubbed his eyes, then peered into the trapdoor, listening for any sign of the Iranians. There were none—they had come this way and gone already. Morgan slipped onto the floor of the car, hanging from the edge of the trapdoor, and then dropped another foot into the elevator.

It was only then that his attention was drawn to a black briefcase on the elevator floor.

Without a second thought, Morgan dashed out into the dark tunnel, down a dirt path between thin steel supports illuminated only by the floodlights at the elevator door.

Frieze jogged along Park Avenue with the last group of hostages leaving the hotel, accompanied by firefighters and policemen. She caught sight of Peter Conley closing the doors to one of at least fifteen ambulances at the scene and banging on it twice to alert the driver. He turned and saw Frieze.

“That was the security guy, Rosso,” he said. “He says Morgan went after the attackers into Track Sixty-one.”

“Is there any way down there?” asked Frieze. “We need to cut the Iranians off before they reach Grand Central.”

“I need to find—Pearson!”

The sergeant was coming out of the hotel. He searched for the source of the voice.

“What’s the status on the bombs?” asked Frieze.

“Squad says they’re clear,” said Pearson. “We’re evacuating guests now.”

“We need to get down to the track,” said Frieze. “Follow the Iranians into Grand Central.”

“The elevator’s out of commission,” said Pearson. “But the tunnel has street access. It’s right—”

The pavement rumbled beneath their feet. The door he had just pointed out blew off its hinges and flew ten feet to cave in the side of a police car. A plume of gray dust shot out halfway across Park Avenue.

“—there,” said Pearson.

The blast knocked Dan Morgan off his feet, sending him sprawling on the dirt. Engulfed in darkness, he heard the dull crash of falling masonry. He rolled onto his back, dazed.

He tried to get up and lost his footing.

He noticed something—a pattering sound, or many, thousands. He made out a squeaking noise. And then they were on him.

He just felt the scratches, at first. It took him a few seconds to figure out what it was.

Rats. Thousands of them, running from the blast.

Morgan picked himself up and ran, the rodents scratching his legs as they tried to use him as a ladder. He needed to get off the ground or he’d be overrun.

As his eyes adjusted, ahead he saw a rusting black train car, which he recognized as Roosevelt’s own train—today, a tourist attraction. It would do. He made a running jump, grabbing the ladder and pulling himself up. He reached the top and flopped onto his back, against the rough, dirty metal. He allowed himself to lie there as he caught his breath, waiting for the deluge of rats below to pass him by.

Outside the Waldorf, Frieze tried to contain the chaos, directing the people coming out of the hotel north on Park, where a group of NYPD officers were gathering the hostages to sort out who needed medical attention and to get their names and personal information. She glanced at the hotel front doors, half expecting to see a ball of flame emerge. Instead, she saw Sergeant Pearson.

“Pearson!” she called out, running toward him. “What’s the status?”

“The guests who were locked into their rooms are coming down,” said Pearson. On cue, people started streaming out of the lobby doors.

“Have you contacted your agents at Grand Central?” she asked.

“I’m not getting through,” he said. “Communications are down. I’ve sent some guys over there to warn them.”

“What about the passage to the tunnel?”

“Blocked,” he said. Something caught his eye and he yelled out, “No,
this way
! Direct them
this way
!” He jogged off toward the hotel doors.

Exasperated, she looked around the scene. She found Peter Conley talking to a gorgeous blonde who had been among those coming out of the hotel. She felt an unaccountable pang of jealousy as she walked towards him. He handed the woman a black box about the size of a book, and she put something small into the palm of his hand.

“Adele, your services are, as usual, much appreciated,” Frieze heard him say.

The woman noticed Frieze, and looking her up and down, turned with a “Ta-ta!” Conley turned to face Frieze. She shot him a quizzical look and shot a glance at the woman as she swayed up Park Avenue. Then she shook her head. Nothing mattered at that moment except the crisis.

“We need to warn my people. Whatever these guys’ plan is, we need to be waiting for them.”

“Tell me who to call,” he said.

“Chambers,” she said, and gave him the number. He handed her the phone. Straight to voicemail.

She looked down the length of Park Avenue in the direction of Grand Central Terminal. The whole street had been sectioned off by police and was nearly deserted between there and the Met Life building. “I can’t wait and hope the call gets through,” she said. “It’s only half a mile or so. You keep trying.”

She took off running, glad that she had chosen to wear flats that day.

Soroush checked his watch in the dim light as Hossein and Paiman carried the case containing President Ramadani up the rusting steel steps from the subbasement, the metallic clanking of their footfalls echoing in the tight quarters. Three of his men had already reached the upper landing, and Zubin was at his side. Now that they were not as deep underground, Soroush tried to hail his man on the radio communicator.

“Touraj,” said Soroush. “Come in.”

“This is Touraj.” The voice came faint and distorted. “I hear you.”

“Status.”

“You have a clear path to the control room. Enemy communications are jammed.”

“We are coming to you,” he said. He checked his watch again. “Ten minutes. Have the others stand by for my signal.”

The box containing Ramadani hit the steel steps with a clatter. Soroush saw that Hossein had let it slip, and the box had fallen on Paiman’s hand, pinning it against the step. Wincing in pain, Paiman managed to keep it from tumbling down.

Zubin walked down three steps to Hossein and backhanded him across the face.

“Idiot.” He turned without another word. Soroush looked down on him. “We have come too far to be done in by incompetence.” He turned forward once more and resumed walking. “Zubin, run ahead and take the lead,” he said. “Remember, we wish to avoid firing before we are ready to take the terminal. Sanjar?” This last he called to the man below Hossein and Paiman. “Get ready. You know what to do.”