First Strike (40 page)

“How many snipers do you have?”

“Nine.”

“What are the rules of engagement?”

“At will. The snipers can shoot what they want. I trust them all.”

Dewey glanced at Tacoma, then back to Smith.

“What do you think?” asked Smith.

Dewey shrugged. “I think it's a clusterfuck. They designed it well. They have leverage. What are you thinking?”

“I'm thinking, why are you here?” said Smith.

“I want to help,” said Dewey. “I don't like these guys. I don't want all those people to die. Plus, I know someone in there.”

Smith took a step back. He looked at Francisco, then the others, nodding subtly, telling them to vacate. When they were gone and the doors were shut, he looked at Dewey.

“If I had to pull up and shoot right this second, I'd wait until dark and then go in through lower-floor windows,” said Smith. “Cover fire from everywhere so the team gets inside the building without getting killed, but I expect we'd take some casualties. Once we're inside, assess the architecture of the stairs, the wires, the bombs, then build work-arounds or defuse. The fact that they're trigger buttons might help us. It gives us parameters. Move up and start hunting.”

“That sounds like a heavy casualty count.”

“In the hundreds. If we're lucky, maybe half survive. That's if we manage to not set off an IED. In that case, almost everyone dies. But it's the only scenario I can think of. Whether the president gives them the weapons or not, they're going to kill everybody. As ugly as it seems, I think we're going to have to go in real hard, with a lot of men, and a plan to seize control up through the bombs on the stairs.”

Tacoma cleared his throat. “Who goes in?” he asked.

“There's a brigade of SEALs two floors above me,” said Smith, “along with as many SWAT commandos as we need. But I'll be honest, I'm not happy about it. Losing half the people in that building is not an option. I need an alternative.”

Dewey nodded to Tacoma, telling him to take a seat on the other side of the room.

Dewey looked at Smith. “I have an idea.”

“I'm all ears.”

“I think there might be a way to enter the building without them knowing.” Dewey reached for a pencil and circled the lowest part of the building, even below the ground floor, where the basement ended. “Tight kill team, high risk, but potentially a big payoff.”

Smith looked at the drawing, then at Dewey.

“What do you think?” asked Dewey.

“You were sent here by the president,” said Smith. “I'm not sure it matters what I think.”

“It matters to me.”

*   *   *

Sirhan reached forward with his right hand as with his left he held the back of the Korean girl's shirt. Then he gave her a slight push, watching as she fell from the open window, screaming hysterically as she dropped.

Sirhan turned, sweeping the carbine across the room. There was silence, except for the girl's father's deep, guttural sobs.

Sirhan walked to the hall. He motioned for his men to join him at the end of the hallway.

“I want students in the windows on each side of the building,” he ordered. “Have them stand in the windows. Use them as shields. Shoot anything you can. We'll push one student out every hour.”

*   *   *

Dewey and Smith both jerked their heads at the sound. A high-pitched alarm pealed through the big conference room. A moment later, a muffled scream echoed from outside the window.

The plasmas behind Smith homed in on Carman—a window on the tenth floor of the dormitory. A young woman with black hair was standing in the window. Then, suddenly, she fell.

The camera followed her somersault down through the air. In the same second she landed, the screams abruptly stopped and a loud thump rattled the windows.

Smith charged toward the window, looking out for several stunned moments. He turned and looked at Dewey.

Dewey stared back, a blank expression on his face.

“Do it,” said Smith.

 

53

SITUATION ROOM

THE WHITE HOUSE

WASHINGTON, D.C.

President Dellenbaugh's cell phone was ringing. Only five people had the number, and three of them—his wife and daughters—knew that he couldn't be disturbed at the moment. One of them, Calibrisi, was in a coma at Bethesda.

“Dewey,” he said.

“Mr. President.”

“What do you think?”

“It's unwinnable,” said Dewey. “I think the man you have running it is fine, maybe even better than fine, but the terrorists have overwhelming strategic advantage.”

“Do you have any ideas?” asked Dellenbaugh.

“There might be a way in from below, underground. Old city infrastructure, water mains, utility tunnels. If there's a way in, this is it. I don't think there's a way to assault the building without total loss, I'm talking everyone. I think these guys are planning on blowing the whole thing up, whether you give them the weapons or not.”

“You don't believe Nazir would let them live if the weapons were delivered?”

“No. It's about image. If he let them live, it would be construed as soft. Nazir's image is his strength. It's more important than any weapons.”

“Would you lead it?” asked the president.

“Yeah.”

“What about the FBI? The last thing we need is two operations going on at the same time.”

“The man running the FBI's on-the-ground operation is aware of it. He supports it. To the extent we're able to get in there, they could be very helpful at creating some distraction.”

“And you trust the FBI to not leak it?”

“I trust this guy.”

“I had a feeling you'd be going in no matter what.”

Dewey was silent.

“If you didn't, I'd be disappointed. It's what you should be doing. Of course you have my support. Good luck in there.”

 

54

THE PIERRE HOTEL

FIFTH AVENUE

NEW YORK CITY

Dewey and Tacoma walked through the elegant art deco lobby of the Pierre to the tower elevators. At the thirty-eighth floor, they stepped along the patterned maroon carpet to a door that was already ajar.

The apartment was sprawling and modern and, above all, lavish.

Dewey cut through the entrance foyer to a library, which looked as if it belonged in a British country house. Books filled the shelves—though not in a uniform manner; some were vertical, others horizontal—surrounding the paned windows that showed Fifth Avenue and Central Park. The lights were dim.

In the middle of the room sat three long sofas, two made of leather, one corduroy, the kind of deep-backed couches a person could spend a day or two on, reading. Katie was seated on one of the leather ones, reading her iPhone.

A pair of leather club chairs, beat-up and inviting, stood at the side of a large fireplace. A glass table in the middle of the room was stacked with more books. In the corner, out of the way, was a desk. On it were two large, brightly lit computer screens. A man was seated in a chair, facing the screens. He had long dirty-blond hair. The faint din of music—coming from earbuds in the man's ears—permeated the quiet room. The Grateful Dead.

Dewey stood and waited. After a few moments, the man turned. A large smile creased his lips. He removed his earbuds.

“Dewey,” Igor said in a thick Russian accent, “it's good to see you.”

“Have you had time to break down the dorm?”

“I have learned a little in the thirty-four minutes since being told I was needed.”

“What do you got?”

They took seats on the sofas, facing each other. Igor and Tacoma sat on one of the leather couches, Dewey and Katie across from them.

Igor pressed a button on a remote. A ceiling vent opened and a large screen descended. He pressed another button; a live video feed of the front of Carman Hall appeared on the screen.

He clicked again and the screen went black. Then the building appeared in brightly lit lime-green digital lines, viewed from the side. Each floor was demarcated in bright green lines. Several floors were completely black, but small red lights stood out high in the building. Two lights were visible on the third floor. Four lights were visible in the basement. The tenth floor was a blurry wall of red lights.

“This is the situation,” Igor said. “Each of these lights is a person in the building. The terrorists have almost everyone on the tenth floor.”

“If they jump, they die,” said Katie.

“Precisely,” said Igor.

Dewey stood to move closer to the screen. He pointed at the third floor.

“These two are on our side. One's a grandparent, the other's the father of a student. Apparently he killed one of the terrorists.” Dewey pointed to the basement. “These four are students. They're chained to the only door in, along with a big bomb.”

“So who's the guy on the first floor?” asked Katie. “Are you able to do anything more advanced?”

“Like what?” asked Igor.

“Like determine who's a terrorist and who's not? Other than the ones Dewey pointed out, we're going to be flying blind.”

“That would be pretty sophisticated stuff,” said Igor, giving Katie a sly grin. “Then again, I'm a pretty sophisticated guy.”

Igor clicked the remote. A handful of red lights turned blue. He clicked again and the blue lights flashed into a tile of photos. All were young, some bald, others with dark hair—terrorists. A few said
UNKNOWN
. Others had names and biographical data.

“How did you…?” Katie asked, dumbfounded.

“Don't ask.”

“I'm asking.”

“I hacked into the university system. I got the security tape. I waited until there were only a few cell phones, after they confiscated them from the students. I pushed the facial data into certain databases containing the identities of certain individuals. Then I tracked the numbers and matched them. After that I was able to map out thermal indicators. By cross-referencing the heat being emitted by the various bodies with the other data, I was able to complete a fairly robust tool for constant visualization. We can see what everyone is doing, at all times.”

“We need to understand the structure of the building,” said Dewey.

“Well, it's architecturally a piece of shit. What the fuck? I thought Columbia was Ivy League?”

Dewey, Katie, and Tacoma looked at Igor.

“Sorry,” he said. “I hate bad architecture.”

He clicked the remote. The digital outline of the dormitory moved to the basement and then below, to a series of orange and yellow lines that were illuminated in bright white. The screen displayed a chaotic crosshatch of lines in varying directions, sizes, and colors.

“What is it?” asked Dewey.

“It's the underground below the dormitory. Way below. Various sewer and plumbing lines are in white. Water mains are the large orange ones. Electricity and other utility tunnels are green. The big purple lines are subway tunnels. The city belowground is in many ways more highly constructed than aboveground. It's a spiderweb down there.”

Dewey studied the screen.

“Interesting.”

Igor clicked the remote several times. Most of the lines faded except for a single line that he lit up in bright red.

“You were right, Dewey,” said Igor. “There might be something here. This is an old water main I found when I started poking around in the city water department archives. As you can see, it leads directly beneath the dormitory to a utility tunnel. The tunnel leads directly to the basement of the dormitory. The water main connects to that tunnel and should be empty. There's only one problem.”

“Only one?”

“We need to get to the water main. I don't know how.”

Dewey reached for his cell.

*   *   *

Out on the terrace, Dewey scrolled through his contacts until he came across a long international number with many digits. Dewey dialed and listened to a series of static clicks. Then he heard a ring. The phone rang a half dozen times, then went to voice mail. Dewey hung up and tried again, again getting voice mail. He dialed a third time. After three rings, someone picked up.

“Who the hell is this?” came a Russian accent.

Loud music pulsated in the background.

“Dewey.”

“Dewey?” said Malnikov. “How are you?”

“I need your help, Alexei.”

*   *   *

Alexei Malnikov was the thirty-four-year-old head of the Russian mob. For three years running, Malnikov had occupied a prime spot on the FBI's Most Wanted list.

Malnikov's criminal enterprise now controlled organized crime in Russia, parts of Europe, and the United Kingdom, and was vying for leadership in Tokyo, Shanghai, and several Asian capitals. In the United States, organized crime in most cities was controlled by Malnikov, who built the tightly disciplined, ruthless network after being sent to the United States by his father at age seventeen.

Dewey liked Malnikov. The Russian had helped prevent a nuclear bomb from being detonated in New York City. He was ruthless and sold more heroin than any other criminal enterprise in the world. But he was also a good person.

And he was resourceful. It was a long shot, but the man who controlled organized crime in New York City might know someone with knowledge of the underground.

“Where are you?” asked Malnikov.

“New York City.”

“Columbia?”

“Yes.”

“Of course. They send you to clean that shit up because they know how incompetent those idiots at the FBI are.”

Dewey ignored him.

“You know New York pretty well.”

“Are you kidding? Yeah, of course. I lived there for ten years.”

“Do you guys ever move product through the underground?”

“I'm hanging up now, Dewey,” said Malnikov.

“Why?”