Cramer gave him a funny look. But Gallagher was too busy to notice. He was frantically pressing the delete function for each of the pictures on the screen as he viewed and then rejected them.
“None of these people are even close to being Zimler,” Gallagher growled.
Then he saw one that piqued his attention.
He hit the zoom.
On the screen was an Amtrak officer with tinted glasses and a beard, sitting in a corner, hunched over a tiny laptop. Gallagher zoomed in closer. Then even closer.
“Good disguise,” Gallagher said, pointing to the image.
“That him?”
“I bet it is,” Gallagher said.
“Let’s go in, then, right?”
“Wrong. My guess is he’s got Cal Jordan wearing that Semtex necklace at a position in the terminal very close by. We’ve got to find out where.”
“Close by? How’d you know that?”
“Zimler employs multiple backup plans. Having Cal close to the action as a hostage gives him leverage if things go wrong.”
Then Gallagher picked up his Allfone again. “Okay,” he said to Pack McHenry, “the Amtrak guy with the computer, on photo marked jpg14b, is our guy.”
McHenry said, “Fine. The next voice you hear is our cyber-intelligence chief.”
“Agent Gallagher,” the voice said. “I am positioned right outside the terminal in an ice-cream truck. I’ve dispatched a contact to get in close to Zimler to make a nonintrusive surveillance of Mr. Zimler’s computer. As I understand it, you have reason to believe he may have data on it revealing the location of the hostage?”
“Yeah. The guy’s a cyber-nut. Probably has it in his computer. But he’s going to have it all encrypted. Don’t know how you can break through. We’ve only got minutes here…”
“We don’t invade the digital signal,” the voice said. “We go asymmetrical. If it’s on his computer screen, we’ll get it.”
“You’ve got to be sure of this,” Gallagher shot back.
“Agent Gallagher,” the voice said. “Mr. Zimler’s laptop screen, like any monitor, emits digital signals. It refreshes itself almost a hundred times a second. We scan those signals, run them through our own computer, and decipher them; if you exclude the standard monitor emissions, what’s left are the pixels that form the image on his screen. Very soon we’ll be seeing exactly what he’s seeing.” Then the voice said, “Wait…okay, we’re inputting now. We just need his laptop to stay open and the screen loaded with his images for just another minute or two to produce the image. We’ve got to keep his laptop live.”
Inside the terminal, one Patriot operative, now standing twenty feet away from Zimler, appeared to be absorbed in watching a sports event on a small handheld TV. Inside the device, the electromagnetic sensor was picking up and reading the digital signals from Zimler’s laptop monitor.
For Zimler, the last scene of the last act was ready to be played out. He had already received a confirming email from an Iranian weapons contact, verifying that the introductory RTS documents emailed from Joshua Jordan were authentic. Now he was studying the location of Cal Jordan on the screen one more time. He clicked on the location of the storage room. Then he zoomed in closer to read the clock on the bomb around Cal’s neck. It read 19:28…19:27…
Zimler suddenly looked up and began glancing around the room, as if sensing something. He checked his watch. Looked around again. He noticed a man watching a little remote TV. The man was standing a little too close. Hurriedly, Zimler started to reach down to log off his laptop, but something happened.
“Excuse me,” a woman said, tugging behind her a small roller suitcase. She was trying to address Atta Zimler. “For the life of me I can’t find the listing for the departure time for the train to Dover. Can you help me?”
“No, I’m sorry. Go to the information desk,” Zimler said as he again began to reach down to his laptop.
“I already did,” she insisted. “But they couldn’t help me at all.”
“Please, I’m not the right person…,” he blurted out.
“But you’re an Amtrak official, right?”
For a moment, Zimler was blank-faced as he stared at the woman. Then he quickly caught himself and smiled. “Of course, yes. But train schedules are not part of my job.”
“Well, I’m so disappointed,” the woman said in a huff and walked away. As she passed the man watching the little TV, their eyes connected, just for a millisecond, in a side-glance of camaraderie. She kept walking until she was out of sight.
“Okay, so where are we on this?” Gallagher shouted into his Allfone.
“Just a second. Not sure.” It was the voice of the cyber-intelligence expert. “We’ve got some kind of image, but…”
Inside the terminal Atta Zimler had turned off his laptop, folded it up, snapped it shut, and stood up. He was holding the little laptop with his left hand. He reached down with his right hand, and snatched up a titanium briefcase that had been on the floor next to him. There was a hefty weight to it.
Then he started walking toward the west end, to the grand staircase.
Joshua Jordan was already there, shifting from foot to foot, waiting, with his briefcase in his hand. He was scanning the room for his contact person.
Then John Gallagher heard the voice of the computer expert. He had his Allfone on speaker, so Detective Cramer heard it too.
“Okay, we’ve got the image off of Zimler’s laptop. He was looking at a diagram of the terminal. There was a blinking cursor over a small room…maybe a storage room of some kind…”
“Where?”
“Runs north to south, just off of the grand hall…”
“Got it,” detective Cramer exclaimed. He radioed his bomb squad to break into every storage room along that part of the terminal.
“But tell them to keep it quiet,” Gallagher shouted to Cramer, even though he was only two feet away from him. “If Zimler sees a bunch of NYPD guys wearing padded bomb suits running amok in the station, so help me, he’ll detonate…”
SIXTY-SIX
“I’m here at the staircase.” Joshua was reporting as he stood at the bottom of the marble spiral staircases. A few people brushed past him, but all of them kept on going. “I haven’t been approached yet. Don’t know where he is…what’s happening with Cal?”
“We think we’ve got him located in the terminal.”
“Thank God…”
“We’re sending in some bomb experts.”
“What if our bad guy sees them?”
“They’re going to be as discreet as possible. We think your kidnapper’s dressed like an Amtrak official. Probably carrying either one or two briefcases or laptops. Something like that.”
“Okay…wait…I think that’s…”
Just then Joshua caught sight of Zimler, dressed in his Amtrak uniform, quickly descending the staircase toward him, carrying two briefcases, one small and one large.
Once again Joshua turned his eyes down to the Allfone that Zimler had furnished him with the video-feed of the ticking bomb.
It read: 09:36…09:35…
“He’s here,” Joshua whispered.
Inside the unmarked police van on the street, Gallagher was saying, “What did you say? Hey, Jordan say it again.” The ambient noise inside the terminal was making it difficult to pick up Joshua’s audio.
“Mr. Jordan,” Zimler said, “what a pleasure.” He was now standing next to Joshua Jordan. Joshua was sizing him up. The other guy was about an inch shorter. Maybe twenty pounds lighter. He looked like he might be in good shape. But that was it. Joshua was considering his options. If I have to take this guy down myself I may be able to do it.
Inside the van, Gallagher was trying to figure out what was going on. He wished that these Patriot guys had more remote cameras to sweep into the area and take videos of the action. But they had already used up four of their agents, two on video surveillance, one holding a little TV while picking up the emissions from Zimler?
??s computer, and a woman posing as a passenger late for the train to Dover. No one wanted to spook Zimler by having a familiar face hanging around him.
But then the FBI agent had a fleeting thought. He pictured Joshua Jordan, military hero meeting up with the guy who was holding his son hostage. He knew Zimler’s unassuming appearance. He also knew he was as deadly as a coral snake.
Gallagher clicked on the microphone.
“Joshua, this is Gallagher. One last warning. Do not underestimate this guy physically. He’s a very dangerous dude.”
Zimler stood next to Jordan and scanned the room, moving in a three-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn.
“I think you’ve brought some friends with you today,” Zimler said, testing him. “I warned you what I would do if that happened.”
“You think I’d be that foolish? Now, give me my son.”
Zimler and Joshua stared at each other.
Joshua looked down at the video picture on the Allfone. The bomb now said: 07:19…07:18…He desperately needed to move the negotiations.
“Turn off the bomb.”
“All in good time.”
“I said deactivate the bomb.” He moved a half step closer to Zimler.
“You haven’t given me the RTS documents. You’re the one wasting time here.”
Joshua handed him the metal briefcase he was carrying.
But Zimler wouldn’t take it.
Instead he said, “Not here. Not now. Follow me. And remember, I have the power to stop that bomb. Or to detonate it. You try anything out of the ordinary, and I will reduce your son to a pile of bloody, charred gristle.”
Then Zimler turned and started walking through the terminal.
“Where are we going?” Joshua asked.
“You want to see your son? You can see your son. Right now. I’ll take you to him. The two of you can be together.”
Panic struck. Joshua realized that the bomb squad might be there by now. Zimler could blunder right into that. That would spell disaster.
“You mean where Cal is…with the bomb around his neck?”
“Of course,” Zimler said coolly as they walked.
“Negative on that!” Joshua said and stopped in his tracks.
Zimler stopped. He switched his laptop to his other hand, the one already holding the big titanium briefcase.
The two men stared at each other. Zimler pulled his remote detonator out of his pocket. When he spoke he moved up to Joshua’s face and hissed with a demonic intensity. “Look at this, Mr. Jordan. This is your son’s life I’m holding in my hand. One push of the button, and he’s nothing but red smoke.”
“I’m not going in the same room as the bomb,” Joshua stammered.
Suddenly Zimler stepped back. A smile flickered over his face and he chuckled.
“America’s hero,” Zimler spat out, “is a coward! You don’t want to be near the bomb. Is that it?” He laughed again. Then he said, “Fine, follow me.”
Zimler led Joshua down to a corridor. He stopped at the door to a utility closet. He pulled out some keys, tried one, it failed, tried another, and then it opened. He pushed Joshua inside and flicked on the light and closed the door. Inside the four-by-four-foot room, filled with mops and a cleaning cart, he turned to Joshua and said, “Open the briefcase.”
Joshua glanced down at the Allfone: 04:03…04:02…
“Stop the bomb!” he cried out.
“Show me the RTS documents!”
Now was the moment of decision. Joshua knew that he had no choice but to entrust himself into the hands of the God that his wife prayed to. The Lord of all history that Pastor Campbell preached about.
He silently prayed for what would happen next.
At that moment, Joshua took a deep breath and released everything he held dear.
He crouched down to his metal briefcase. He whirled the combination on the locking mechanism, and it clicked open. Then he lifted the briefcase chest high and, facing its contents toward himself, he popped it open. He was taking his time. Hoping the bomb squad had reached Cal by now. That they were disarming the bomb even as he was cloistered in a utility closet face-to-face with the kidnapper.
“Show it to me,” Zimler said.
Joshua turned the opened briefcase to Zimler to show him the contents.
Zimler looked inside.
And he smiled for a second.
But in the next second his smile vanished and his face took on a look of merciless hate that was almost otherworldly.
“What is this?” Zimler spit out.
Atta Zimler was looking inside the briefcase. He was staring at the yellow cover of a New York City telephone book. Then he raised his eyes, filled with fury, toward Joshua.
“Who do you think you are? Who do you think you are?”
Joshua replied quietly. With the voice of total resignation.
“I’m the ram in the thicket.”
SIXTY-SEVEN
Atta Zimler was still holding the detonator in his left hand. With his right he set his little laptop and the titanium briefcase on the ground, robotlike, emotionless.
Then with the speed of a coiled snake his right hand struck out at Joshua’s neck and grasped it, squeezing with the strength of a vise grip until Joshua couldn’t breathe.
Joshua dropped his briefcase to the floor and took both of his hands and tried to pry Zimler’s grasp off his larynx. He struggled but wasn’t able to loosen Zimler’s grip. Joshua was astonished at his opponent’s strength and was gasping for air.
Then Zimler let him go and stepped back. He raised the detonator high enough so that Joshua could see it.
“Say good-bye to your son—”
“No, you’ll have to get the data directly from me. I can give it to you…”
“How? You fool…”
“I will give you my password…you’ve got your own laptop there,” he said pointing. “You can access the documents directly from my computer remotely…”
“I told you I wanted the documents…”
“This is better. You will have electronic access. To all of it…”
Joshua looked down at the video image on the Allfone. The timing clock on the bomb read: 00:49…00:48…
Zimler was staring at Joshua with the look of a killing machine considering its options.
Then Joshua looked at the LCD screen on the Allfone again. It still read: 00:48. Joshua looked a third time. The clock had stopped. He realized what had just happened. The bomb squad made it to Cal.
He glanced down at the image on the screen of the Allfone again. Now he saw hands reaching over the timing device this time and pulling wires out.
Joshua looked up at Zimler. The assassin saw something in Joshua’s face. Not the look of a victim. But of someone who now was thinking himself to be the victor.
Zimler gave a crooked smile and held the detonator in the air. He was now no longer concerned about the RTS documents. He was going to make a point.
“My reputation is priceless,” Zimler said. “Can’t have dolts like you thinking you’ve won the game…”
He pushed the trigger of the black detonator remote. And waited.
No sound.
Zimler grabbed the Allfone out of Joshua’s grasp and looked at the screen. He saw the hands of bomb-squad officers untying Cal Jordan.
Zimler stared him in the eye with the look of dark fury. Joshua stared back. In his face was the iron resolve of a father.
“You don’t get my son,” Joshua said. “Not now. Not ever…”
“Joshua. Joshua.” It was Gallagher yelling to him through his earpiece. “We’ve got Cal. He’s safe. Did you hear that? He’s safe.”
Joshua whispered a single word. It was barely audible. Only he knew what that meant.
“Isaac.”
Zimler heard it and looked Joshua in the eye, stone cold.
Gallagher announced, “Now we’re coming after you. We’ve been tracking the ear bug we gave you. They have a fix on your location…”
<
br /> There was something in the tilt of Joshua’s head as he listened to that. Something that gave himself away.
Zimler saw it. He yanked a 9mm pistol out of his pocket and stuck it against Joshua’s cheek.
Then he stuck his finger in Joshua’s left ear. Finding nothing, he did it to his right ear. He fished out the earpiece. Zimler threw it to the ground and stomped on it.
“I may not have your son,” he said to Joshua. “But I still have you.”
Still pointing the handgun at Joshua, he took his titanium briefcase and pulled out a pair of handcuffs and clicked one end through the hand grip opening in the molded titanium case. Then he clicked the other handcuff onto Joshua’s left wrist.
Zimler pulled a second little remote, this one stainless steel, out of his pocket. He pushed the Start button on the countdown clock of the bomb he had inside the titanium briefcase now locked to Joshua’s wrist.
The LCD screen on the edge of the briefcase read: 03:00…02:59…02:58…
“Hey, Joshua, we lost your signal. What happened? Where are you?” Gallagher was yelling into the microphone, but no one was listening. Then he turned to Detective Cramer and cried out, “Okay, this is it. You gotta get Joshua out of there now!”
Standing next to Joshua, Zimler demanded, “Give me the password for your email system.”
“No, my son’s safe now. The rules of the game have just changed…you lose…”
“Are you insane? I’ve got this briefcase rigged to blow in a few minutes. Give it to me, and I’ll stop it…”
“You’re not getting my RTS documents.”
“Then you’ll die.”
That was something that Joshua had prepared for down in his gut, all along. But he was anguished. His world was collapsing. He wanted to say good-bye to Abby. To say something to Cal and Deb. But no time…
Joshua looked down at the briefcase and ran his hand along the surface. He recognized the material.
“Yes, titanium,” Zimler said. “Nearly impossible to break into from the outside. But at the temperature of eight hundred degrees Fahrenheit—when a bomb explodes in it—it breaks apart into shards rather well. So if you’re going to be a hero, you may want to avoid crowds. Difficult, though, in a place like this. Good-bye.”