Twelve Hours - 04 Page 4

  “Are you at the hotel yet?”

  “I’m right outside.” A woman in a green jogging suit elbowed her, nearly knocking the phone from her hand. Frieze elbowed her back but couldn’t budge the mass of people blocking her way.

  “Get me the report I asked for,” he said. “And stay out of everyone’s way. I can’t spare anyone to hold your hand today.”

  “Sir, I’ve got experience with forensic—” He hung up before she could finish. Adding to her frustration was the solid wall of bystanders that stood before her.

  “FBI!” She yelled out. “Out of my way!”

  The crowd parted, finally, and she pushed through to the police cordon. A young man in aviators wearing the black uniform of the NYPD and holding a Styrofoam cup of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee stepped forward to meet her.

  “Special Agent Lisa Frieze,” she said, flashing her badge. “I need to get inside.”

  “I can let you through, but the hotel’s locked down,” he said, lifting and pulling the steel barrier one-handed with a grunt, opening a crack just wide enough so she could pass. “No one’s going in or out. There was a bomb, you know. At Penn Station.”

  “Yeah, I heard.”

  “Emergency procedures,” he said and sipped his coffee. “To protect the president of Iran. Although if you ask me, I don’t know why we’re trying to protect the bastard, anyway.”

  “I didn’t,” she said.

  “Didn’t what?”

  “Ask you. I just need to get inside.”

  “You can try,” he said, shrugging.

  She walked up to one of the glass double doors to the Waldorf lobby and knocked on the glass, holding up her badge. A man in a suit who was standing guard, blond and bony-faced, either Secret Service or Diplomatic Security, mouthed locked down. She raised her badge higher and raised her eyebrows, but he just shook his head.

  She turned back and looked up and down Park, running her fingers through her drawn-back hair. She pulled out her cell phone and dialed. No signal.

  Great.

  “Looks like you and I are late to the party.”

  She wheeled about to find the man who’d spoken. He was tall and wiry with a strong chin and nose, in khakis and a blue button-down with rolled up sleeves despite the cold. Handsome, in a sort of professorial way. But he was no professor. The faint scars on the back of his hand pegged him as a man of action. And if he was on this side of the police barriers, he was no mere civilian.

  “Peter Conley,” he said, holding up his ID. “State Department.”

  “FBI. Agent Frieze. Lisa.” She held out her hand and they shook. “Can you get me inside?”

  “No can do,” he said, “Secret Service is running point, and they get territorial.”

  She looked back at the hotel and the stolid agent at the door. “Are you the one in charge here at the scene?”

  “I’m way down in the totem pole, sugar,” said Conley. “Plus, no one’s in charge at the moment, as far as I can tell. But one of the cops had radio contact with someone on the inside. Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

  9:05 a.m.

  Dan Morgan walked out into the colonnaded lobby of the Waldorf Astoria. He was glad to see plenty of guests had come down to complain of the lockdown, tripping over each other to scream at a couple of harried hotel employees at the front desk. He counted seven Secret Service agents posted at the doors and corners, solemn and more tense than usual—no guests dared approach any of them. Four others Morgan recognized by their beards as belonging to President Ramadani’s security team. One eyed him with suspicion, and Morgan made for the disgruntled swarm until he spotted what he was looking for—a bald man in a cheap suit whose bearing told Morgan he was not a Fed or used to dealing with guests. He was walking across the lobby, keeping his distance from the crowd.

  Morgan approached him. “Excuse me.”

  “Get back to your room, sir,” he rasped without making eye contact. “The lockdown will be over when it’s over.”

  “You don’t understand.” Morgan flashed his Homeland Security badge—one of many fakes issued him by Zeta Division, whose friends in high places guaranteed the credentials checked out against official records. “Dan Morgan,” he said. “You work security here at the hotel?”

  “Head of,” he said without slowing down. “Shane Rosso.”

  “Spare a word?”

  “You wanna talk to me, you gotta walk with me.” Morgan liked this guy already. “Now, I’ve spoken to your people already.”

  “They’re not my people,” said Morgan. “I’m here as a guest. Just making myself useful.”

  “If you say so.” Rosso pushed open the door into the service hall and held it for Morgan. “Come on.” The hallway was a little small for the two of them to walk abreast, so Morgan let Rosso take the lead. “So what’s your question?” He asked without turning back.

  “Did anything strange happen between yesterday and today?”

  “What, you mean besides a bunch of Bahrainis coming in to take over my hotel? Or the fact that it turns out they were Iranians, and I had their goddamn President arriving right under my nose, making them that much more of a pain in my ass?” Heat wafted out as they passed the door to the kitchen. “Maybe you mean the bomb at Penn Station, and the fact that the Secret Service is shutting up my hotel because of it. Or maybe you mean the fact that the good-for-nothing manager decided not to show up.”

  “Who’s your manager?” asked Morgan. They walked together into a small office with Rosso’s name on the door. In it were steel files and a scratched and bent cheap office desk. Rosso hunched over at a computer station without sitting down and pecked at the keys with his two index fingers, navigating some sort of database.

  “Angelo Acosta,” said Rosso. “He was supposed to come in and help with this crap, but no one can reach him. Fat bastard probably couldn’t drag his ass out of bed in the morning.”

  “Has he missed work like this before?”

  “Nah,” said Rosso. “Now that I think about it. Not without calling in. Probably going to get fired over this, especially today of all days.” The printer on the desk next to the monitor whirred, and then stopped. “Of course, our general manager didn’t manage to come in this morning with all the ruckus.” Rosso slapped the printer twice with an open palm. “These goddamn things, am I right?”

  “Any chance I could take a look at the security tapes between yesterday and today?”

  “I got no problem with it,” said Rosso, fumbling with the mouse. He double clicked, and the printer started going again. This time, it spat out printed sheets, tables with short words and numbers—guest data, Morgan figured. “But between the Iranians and the Secret Service, I don’t even have access to my own hotel’s cameras.”

  “What if I ask them?”

  “I gather the Iranians won’t take too kindly to it,” said Rosso. “Better chance with the Secret Service, if you wave that fancy badge in their faces.”

  “I know how to deal with them. Meanwhile, can you show me the guest and employee manifests? I need to get them out to my people ASAP.”

  Rosso grunted. “It’s the second time in an hour someone’s asked me to do that. You government types really need to learn to share.”

  9:22 a.m.

  Shir Soroush checked his watch one last time, then marched across the Presidential Suite’s living room to the office. Navid Ramadani was conferring with his chief of staff and his secretary, huddled over the desk and away from the windows, as they had been instructed after finding out about the shootings at Grand Central. Masud and Ebrahim, who were standing guard in the room, acknowledged Soroush as he walked in.

  “Come with me, Mr. President,” said Soroush.

  “What is happening?” demanded Ramadani, standing up in alarm. Perspiration showed on his brow.

  “We are under attack,” Soroush said.

  “What? By whom?”

  Soroush exchanged a glance with Masud, then unholstered his suppressed Beretta .4
5 and fired. The bullet burrowed through Ebrahim’s right eye and burst out the back, showering the desk and the white curtains of the suite in blood. With his silenced pistol, Masud plugged two bullets in the back of the heads of Asadi and Taleb, who collapsed on the carpeted floor.

  “Me,” said Soroush.

  “What are you doing?” demanded Ramadani, standing from the table, eyes ablaze with fury.

  Not as weak as I thought.

  “Taking back the Republic,” said Soroush. “Sit.”

  “I will not—”

  Masud made his move, kicking the President’s leg to make him sit on the heavy oak chair. “Sit,” Soroush repeated. Then, “Masud.”

  Masud drew the thin syringe from his suit jacket. In one swift motion he thrust the needle into Ramadani’s neck and pressed the plunger.

  “What—” the President yelped in surprise. His eyes rolled upward and his spine went slack. Masud grabbed him before his head hit the table in front of him.

  “Phase one is complete,” Soroush said into his radio communicator. “Phase two begins now.”

  9:41 a.m.

  Lisa Frieze tried to suppress a shiver as she leaned against the cool stone of the outside of the Waldorf Astoria. She was looking around at the various law enforcement personnel who were milling about within the cordoned zone. The crowd had thinned significantly as news of the attack spread and people hurried to their loved ones or fled the area. She tried her parents again, but it was impossible to get a call through, so she checked the news for updates. Nothing. She looked up again and was startled by Peter Conley, who stood facing her.

  “Couldn’t find him,” he said. “Sorry.”

  “It’s just as well,” she said, biting her lip and looking at a policeman waving the crowd back. “It’s just busywork. With everything that’s going on, this is not really on anyone else’s list of priorities.”

  “You really wish you were somewhere else, don’t you?” He leaned against the wall next to her.

  “Yes. I should be doing something,” she said, exasperated. “The city’s under attack, and I’m here twiddling my goddamn thumbs.”

  “Maybe you should,” he said. “Do something, I mean.”

  She pushed herself off the wall and stood up straight. “I’m not looking to get reprimanded for insubordination on my first day.” She stared down Park Avenue toward the Met Life building and wondered nervously whether being under fire would throw her into a flashback. It’d been over a year since she’d had one, but the thought of testing it gave her a sense of foreboding.

  “I can’t tell you what to do,” said Conley. She looked at him. He had light brown eyes brimming with openness and sincerity. Something about him was disarming, some quality that inspired instant trust.

  “No,” she said. “You can’t. Listen, I can’t stay out of this fight. I’m going—”

  She was interrupted by a muffled pop pop coming from inside the hotel.

  Her eyes widened. “Is that—”

  “Gunfire.”

  9:47 a.m.

  Morgan hung up the phone in Rosso’s office after his third busy signal and tried his radio communicator again. “Conley? Conley?” No response. The signal was probably being jammed by the Secret Service. Gunshots still echoed down the hallway. “I can’t raise my guy on the outside,” he said to Rosso. “Do you have any weapons?”

  “The feds locked away everyone’s guns,” he said. “Only they and the President’s security had them.”

  Goddamn it. So the hotel security team would be helpless. “We have to do something,” said Morgan, turning to go. “I’m going to the lobby to see what’s going on.”

  “Wait!” said Rosso. “You don’t have to. The surveillance room’s next door. We can see what’s happening anywhere in the hotel.”

  Morgan let Rosso lead the way a few yards down the service hall. Rosso pulled out an oversized key ring from under his jacket and unlocked a plain gray door. He turned the knob and pushed it open to reveal two dead Secret Service agents and an Iranian guard, already raising his silenced SIG Sauer semiautomatic to shoot.

  Morgan pushed Rosso out of the way of the threshold as the bullet ripped, hearing it pierce flesh, using the impulse to impel himself in the opposite direction. Rosso fell forward on the far side of the door, rolling on his back and exposing a flower of blood blooming on his shirt. Morgan checked himself, but apart from a little splatter from Rosso, he was clean. Adrenaline pumped, and a heightened awareness kicked in. He caught a flash of red in his peripheral vision to his left. He turned to catch sight of a fire extinguisher and axe. The plan formed in his mind faster than he could even think. He lifted the extinguisher off its hinge and, holding it by its base, swung it hard against the wall. The blow broke off the entire discharge mechanism, and white powder gushed out in a constant stream. Morgan then tossed the device into the surveillance room, where the powder spouted into the room, flooding its cramped confines.

  Morgan grabbed the axe off the wall as the Iranian inside coughed and loosed a hail of bullets that embedded themselves into the wall opposite the door. Morgan counted six shots, plus, probably, two in each Secret Service agent. The SIG Sauer could hold up to twenty rounds.

  Two more bullets sailed out of the room. This told Morgan that the man was desperate and blind, but had enough rounds of ammo to hold them off for minutes that Morgan couldn’t spare.

  9:48 a.m.

  Soroush smiled as he looked out the window at the officers below, running around like cockroaches. Hearing heavy footsteps coming toward the door to the Presidential Suite, he raised his Beretta and saw Zubin appear at the threshold.

  “Status,” said Soroush.

  “The American agents have been taken care of,” said Zubin, in a voice breathy from climbing the stairs. “As well as those not loyal to our cause. The doors to the guest rooms have been electronically locked, and all keycards de-authorized.”

  “Good,” said Soroush. “I have word from Aram. Grand Central has been shut down. Thousands of people are still inside. The devices are in place for phase three. We proceed as planned.”

  “Just one thing,” said Zubin. “We lost Shahin. He took a bullet from the Secret Service.”

  “Have Hossein take his role in the plan.” He laid his hand on Zubin’s shoulder. “This is our day,” he said. “We cannot fail.”

  “For Allah,” said Zubin, breathless, with the wide eyes of the true believer.

  “For the Islamic Republic of Iran.”

  9:49 a.m.

  Out in the hallway, standing flush against the wall next to the door to the surveillance office, Morgan clutched the axe and considered his options. The best plan would be goading the man inside to spend his remaining bullets. But that would take time. He glanced at Rosso, propped against the wall across the door from him, blood pooling on the floor. Time was something he did not have. The moment settled into an eerie quiet except for the hiss of the extinguisher still gushing white inside the room. The white powder wafted out into the hallway. Morgan rearranged the weapon in his hands, clammy palms against polished wood. This was going to be a gamble.

  He stood by until he heard coughing once more. At that, he pivoted into the room and, engulfed in the white powder of the fire extinguisher, swung the axe in a wide upward diagonal arc. It hit home at Morgan’s one o’clock, and he heard the man drop onto the table and then the floor.

  Morgan picked up the extinguisher, still spurting gas, and rolled it down the hall. He then crouched next to Rosso. Large beads of sweat peppered his forehead and he wheezed on inhaling. Blood oozed down from his shoulder where the Iranian’s bullet had hit.

  “You all right?” asked Morgan.

  “Can’t say much for my left arm,” he said, pressing a handkerchief against the wound. The fabric quickly became saturated with red. Morgan helped him to his feet. “Good thing I shoot with my right. Let’s take a look at those cameras.”

  They went back inside the surveillance room and wiped
the suspended powder out of the way until they could just make out what was happening in the array of monitors that covered nearly half of one wall, each broken up into a grid of video feeds. It was worse than Morgan had imagined.

  He looked at the lobby camera feeds first. People—by the way they were dressed, mostly hotel staff—were being herded by men with guns into the middle and made to kneel. He counted the seven Secret Service agents, fallen where they had stood minutes before—none of those had even managed to draw their guns, which betrayed the deadly coordination of this attack. Another two lay dying behind a couch in the lobby, where they had taken cover. He counted five more dead from the hallway feeds.

  “Jesus Christ,” said Rosso.

  “I’ve got nine hostiles in the lobby,” said Morgan. He tried his radio again, but the signal wasn’t going through.

  “Two more in the hallways,” said Rosso. “And one coming down the stairs here.”

  “Do you have a visual on Ramadani?”

  “Negative,” said Rosso. He motioned to a row of feeds that were completely dark. “Those are for the floor of his suite. His people disabled the cameras. You think Ramadani’s men turned?”

  “Yeah, they did,” said Morgan. “The question is, turned on whom?”

  9:50 a.m.

  Soroush emerged from the stairwell into the lobby, where about one hundred people—staff and the guests who had been downstairs when they struck—were seated on the floor, hands on their heads. Three of Soroush’s men were moving among them, unspooling the wire and securing it to each with a zip tie. Soroush reveled in the hostages’ terrified incomprehension, in the tears of the women.

  Zubin rushed forward to meet him. “The doors are secured. The bombs will be armed within five minutes.”

  “Good,” said Soroush. “We need precision. The blasts must be timed exactly to our departure. Masud is getting the President ready to be transported. Ten minutes.”