Twelve Hours - 04 Page 8

  “Up,” said Morgan. He led the way up a flight of stairs into the situation room, which was furnished with expensive office chairs and an sizeable conference table, and had a broad window overlooking the entire operation of the control room. At the back was a brown wooden door. Morgan opened it to reveal a low passage under an X-shaped structural support that led to a tunnel of bare concrete.

  “Is this what I—” Alex was interrupted by a muffled yell. Morgan turned his attention to a large wheeled black case, the kind used by musicians to haul equipment. Morgan’s first thought was that it was big enough to fit a man inside, and his second was that a man was exactly what was inside it.

  “Help me out here,” he said to Alex. Together, they laid the box on its side and undid the latches. Morgan pulled open the lid.

  “Shit!” he said. “Is that—”

  “President Ramadani,” said Alex.

  The Iranian president, rolled up into the fetal position in the confining box, groaned and blinked glazed-over eyes.

  “Mr. President, my name is Dan Morgan. I guess I’m here to rescue you.”

  12:32 p.m.

  Shir Soroush surveyed the main concourse from the western balcony with satisfaction. The police presence had dwindled, with the few surviving officers stripped of their guns and sent to join the other hostages. The sun, filtering in through the enormous windows, projected rays on the captives seated within the central rectangle of the main concourse, while Soroush’s men patrolled the perimeter. It would not take long now to prepare their escape, as soon as—

  Soroush’s thoughts were interrupted as Touraj huffed up the balcony stairs.

  “Sir,” he said, “Mansoor is dead. There is a man with a gun. He came into the control room. It was so fast, I—”

  “Where is Ramadani?” Soroush demanded, full of righteous anger.

  “I—the man with the gun—”

  “You left him there?”

  Soroush swore under his breath as Touraj explained himself. “He came out of nowhere. I barely made it out of there alive.”

  “Inshallah. Zubin. Stay. Take care of the hostages. Hossein, Paiman, with me.”

  Soroush led the way, Beretta in hand, down from the balcony. The hostages recoiled in fear as he passed. He walked with purpose to the control room, and then down its length and up the stairs to the situation room. The box was on its side, open and empty.

  With a cry of rage, Soroush overturned the case. “Where is he?” Hossein and Paiman gave him blank stares. “I want you to comb the place. I want Ramadani found!”

  12:34 p.m.

  Morgan brought up the rear behind the Iranian president, going up the ladder past exposed pipes and ducts and concrete. Alex took the lead. Ramadani, still groggy from the drugs, climbed slowly. More than once, Morgan had to hold him up so that he wouldn’t fall.

  Morgan heard the deep, loud clicking of the Tiffany clock before he saw it. Still, it dazzled him when he caught sight of it. The stained-glass sun radiated from the center of the clock face, glowing bright gold against the sunlight. He helped the President onto a corrugated steel platform with a final push, and then sat down next to him. Ramadani rubbed his eyes and studied Morgan.

  “I owe you my life,” he said.

  “Don’t speak too soon,” said Morgan, checking the cell phone he had taken from Lost and Found. “We’re not out of the woods yet.”

  “Still, you did rescue me,” he said. “I am grateful. What is your name?”

  “Morgan,” he said, dialing Conley’s number. “Dan Morgan.” The phone rang. No answer.

  “Who are you with?” asked Ramadani. “Secret Service? FBI?”

  “I’m just a guy, Mr. President,” said Morgan.

  “Just a guy. Of course.”

  “What can you tell me about the men with the guns down there?” Morgan asked.

  “The ones who took me captive?” said Ramadani. He bent his limbs, working out the aches from his cramped confinement. “Their leader, I believe, is Shir Soroush, my head of security.”

  “Do you have any idea why your own head of security would take you hostage?”

  “I have a good idea,” said Ramadani. “Though I never thought he might actually do it. If you follow the politics of my country, you know that the Supreme Leader is not happy with me. The Ayatollah is losing his influence on the nation. He will be strengthened by renewed conflict with the United States. I don’t know if he is directly involved, but he would certainly be the beneficiary if I were to die.”

  Alex, Morgan noticed, was listening with keen interest. “What’s the angle here, though?” he asked. “What can he gain from this? If he wanted to kill you, why didn’t he just do it at the hotel?”

  “I believe his purpose was not just to kill me,” he said, sitting down against a railing. “See, if it is believed that my assassination was connected to him, the people would take to the streets. The Ayatollah himself might fall. But if I were to disappear, and Soroush and his men were able to vanish as well, the truth could be warped and massaged. A propaganda campaign could well convince the majority of Iranians that I was abducted by the United States government, thus ensuring decades of hatred between our nations.”

  “But the people would find out the truth!” Alex exclaimed. “They couldn’t pull this over the eyes of everyone in Iran like this.”

  “I fear they could convince enough people easily enough,” said Ramadani. “Many are ready to believe the worst of the United States. This could very well lead to war between our nations.”

  “That’s why we’re going to stop them,” Morgan said, and dialed again. This time, Conley picked up.

  “Conley,” came the voice on the line.

  “I’ve got Ramadani,” said Morgan. “I need you to get us out of here.”

  12:38 p.m.

  Lisa Frieze was jogging back from the northeast doors to the Forty-second Street entrance to give Chambers the bad news. The three-man team of workmen who were trying to cut through the steel barrier into the terminal reported that it would take at least another three hours to make a man-sized hole. She turned the corner at Forty-second and ran toward the space under the Park Avenue overpass when she heard her name called out.

  “Frieze!”

  It was Peter Conley. He strode over to her. “I’ve just made contact,” he said. “My guy on the inside. He says he’s got Ramadani.”

  “What?”

  Conley explained that the man had rescued the Iranian president and gotten him to the Tiffany clock, where they were now awaiting rescue.

  “Hell!” said Frieze. “Who is this guy?”

  “Just a helpful citizen,” said Conley with a grin.

  Frieze shot him a withering look. “We need to tell Chambers,” she said. “Come on.”

  Chambers was inside the Pershing Square Café, which had been converted into the nerve center of the operation. Blueprints were spread out among the many tables, and rows of laptops had been set up. People yelled and rushed around. Chambers himself was conferring with a young agent at a laptop when Frieze called out his name.

  “Frieze,” said Chambers as he saw her approach. “Tell me you have good news.”

  “Better than you might expect.” She relayed the information, with Conley, who was standing next to her, breaking in and adding details here and there.

  “Do you have him on the phone now?” asked Chambers. Frieze looked at Conley, who shook his head.

  “Then get him. I want to speak to this Morgan.”

  12:46 a.m.

  Morgan undid the latch and pulled open the window that held the number 6 on the clock face, a white Roman numeral in a red circle against a blue background. Bracing cold fresh air rushed in and he breathed deep. Up above him, the clock’s mechanism ticked away, second by second. As he noticed the time, he was glad that the tower had no bell.

  “This is our exit,” he told Alex and Ramadani.

  “How?” asked Alex.

  Before Morgan could answe
r, the phone rang, and Morgan picked up.

  “Is this Morgan?”

  “Who is this?”

  “Chambers, FBI. I understand you have the president of Iran with you.”

  “You understand right,” Morgan answered.

  “I’d like to speak to him to confirm.”

  “It’s for you,” said Morgan, holding out the phone for Ramadani. They exchanged a few words, then Ramadani handed the phone back to Morgan.

  “We have rescue on the way,” said Chambers. “We’ll have a helicopter drop down a ladder for you at the clock window. Meanwhile, we’re going to need you to tell us whatever you know.”

  “The terrorists belong to Ramadani’s security team,” said Morgan. “Although I think there might be others helping them. The leader is a man called Shir Soroush.” Morgan looked at Ramadani to confirm he’d gotten it right. On the line, he heard Chambers relay the name to someone else.

  “Morgan, I need more from you. Tell me what’s going on inside.”

  “I’m not in a good vantage point to see what’s happening in the main concourse,” said Morgan.

  “We are planning an operation to take out the terrorists,” said Chambers. “We need to know roughly how many there are and their positions.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” said Morgan. “I’ll call you back.” He hung up, then said to Alex and Ramadani, “I need to scope out the place. I’ll be back soon.”

  “Dad,” said Alex. “Let me go.”

  “Alex, there is no way—”

  “I’m smaller and quicker than you,” she said. “And they won’t shoot me if they catch me. Probably.”

  “No,” said Morgan. He checked the CZ pistol and tucked it into his pants waist, against the small of his back. He handed the MP7 to Ramadani. “You know how to use this?”

  “Well enough,” said Ramadani, holding it to get a feel for the weapon.

  “Dad,” said Alex. “The catwalk. From there you can get a clear view of the main concourse. That’s where you should go.”

  12:59 a.m.

  Morgan crept down the ladder from the clock, taking each rung slowly so as to make the least noise possible. It was all too likely there would be men in the control room, and he didn’t want to give them advance warning of his coming.

  He touched on the concrete floor and crouched, listening against the door to the conference room. He heard no sound of voices or footsteps. He waited for a few minutes to be sure. Then he swung the door open.

  The conference room was deserted. Crouching, Morgan made his way forward so that he could just see through the window overlooking the control room. A stroke of luck, for once—no one was there. He stood up straight, clutching the sidearm two-handed as he moved down the stairs and out onto the control room. He walked toward the door, gun raised, then listened for noise out in the hall. Silence. Good.

  Morgan had only a vague memory of the backstage layout of Grand Central, but his sense of direction took him up stairs and down deserted hallways to the catwalk above the main concourse. He had to crouch to see through the semicircular window. He counted seven men, standing guard on the far balcony, and four more on the floor of the main concourse guarding the east passages. He knew more men would be directly below him. He had to find a better vantage point.

  He went farther down the catwalk, where a door opened onto the main concourse, to a narrow passage along the edge of the curved ceiling. Morgan emerged, crouching, stretching his neck to see what was hidden from him on the catwalk. A cluster of men stood against the leader—Soroush, Ramadani had called him—on the near balcony. Morgan whipped out his phone and redialed, counting the hostiles in his head. At least sixteen were out in the concourse—certainly more than had been at the hotel. The others would have been at Grand Central from the beginning.

  “Chambers.”

  “I’ve got the count,” Morgan said into the phone. “There are—”

  Morgan heard the shouting first, and then gunshots. It took looking down for him to notice that they were firing at him.

  Shit.

  He bolted back into the catwalk, running past the window as bullets cracked the glass and sailed by.

  He thought of Alex. The clock was the one place he couldn’t go. Whatever he did, he had to draw the men away from her. He had to give her and Ramadani enough time to get rescued.

  He ran down hallways and stairs, gun drawn, down, down, down toward the Iranians.

  1:14 p.m.

  “Morgan? Morgan?” Chambers swore and hung up the phone. The Pershing Square Café was silent, hanging on his reactions.

  “What is it?” asked Frieze, who was standing beside him.

  “We’ve got gunfire inside!” yelled a freckled, redheaded man wearing a headset.

  “I lost contact,” said Chambers.

  “Do you think he’s dead?” Frieze asked. Conley seemed to be disturbed by this possibility—a look of concern and vulnerability came over his face. Whoever this Morgan guy was, this was personal for Conley.

  “I don’t know,” said Chambers. “Where the hell is that chopper?”

  “Delayed, sir,” said a short curly-haired woman in a black button-down. “Ignition issue. We’ve got a second one preparing for takeoff as we speak.”

  “Not fast enough,” said Chambers. “It’s time to use explosives to breach. Frieze, set it up. I want this ready within the hour. Let’s get those hostages out of there.”

  1:16 p.m.

  The clock ticked on. The passage of each second held unbearable meaning to Alex Morgan, who with clenched fists tried to do what her father had asked of her and stay put. But when she heard the gunfire, she knew it could only have been aimed at him. Her father needed help, and she was the only one who could offer it. She stood up on the catwalk.

  “Mr. President,” she said to Ramadani, who had been lost in thought. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to need the gun.”

  “You’re going to go help your father.” He exuded a deep serenity.

  “The rescue helicopter should be here any minute,” she said. “You don’t need me, or the weapon, anymore.”

  “You’re right,” he said. “I don’t. But I am not about to let a young girl go up against armed men.” He stood up with a quiet groan. “I will go. You stay.”

  Alex laughed. “Save it,” she said. “Chivalry’s one thing, but you’re President of an entire country. It’s more important for you to live than me, any day.”

  “That is very noble,” he said. “But I would be no kind of man if I did not go instead of you.”

  “I’m not saying this just to seem noble,” she said. “It’s true, and you can’t deny it. No, I won’t let you go. And you can’t stop me unless you shoot me. And if you don’t give me that gun, I’m going without one.”

  He chuckled. “There is no way—”

  “I will wrestle you for it,” she said. “With all due respect.”

  Ramadani unslung the MP7 and handed it to her. “You are a brave young woman,” he said. “And persistent. Do you know how this works?”

  “My father taught me,” she lied, checking the safety and feeling its weight in her hand.

  “He’s a good man, your father.”

  “The best,” she said. “So you know why I need to do this. Wish me luck, Mr. Ramadani.”

  1:19 p.m.

  Morgan dashed through Vanderbilt Hall, six of Soroush’s men in hot pursuit. He took the ramp down looking to lose them on the lower concourse, but he heard shouting from below—some of them had gone around to intercept him. Only one place to go now.

  Morgan pushed open the heavy wooden door to the Oyster Bar. He made a running jump over the counter, knocking over a pile of glasses to shatter on the floor. He checked the magazine in his gun. Five rounds.

  Morgan figured he was worth more alive than dead—they needed him to tell them where the President was. He just had to keep them at bay long enough for Alex and Ramadani to be rescued.

  For his own sake, he in
tended to be captured. It was his best chance at survival. But he was damned if he wouldn’t take at least one of them with him.

  He heard the squeak of the door opening. Morgan stood, gun raised, and emptied the magazine, sending four of the bullets into the man in front, with the fifth missing its target. Morgan continued to pull the trigger and feigned surprise when the bullets ran out and the gun clicked again and again. Sure that he was no longer a threat, the two remaining Iranians just trained their weapons on him, stalking in his direction. Morgan dropped his empty piece and raised his hands.

  1:24 p.m.

  Zubin brought up the stairs to the balcony the man who was causing so much trouble—a short, muscled, dark-haired man in a soiled and torn white undershirt whose eyes bore a look of wild defiance. One less man was returning than had gone.

  “What about Hossein?” asked Soroush. Zubin just shook his head.

  “And who are you?” asked Soroush once the American was brought to face him.

  “This is the man, I think, who took the President,” broke in Masud. “He killed Behdad in the Lost and Found, I believe—he had his gun.”

  “That is him,” said Touraj. “He killed Davar as well. That is the man.”

  Soroush walked a few paces forward to face him head-on.

  “Is that true?” Soroush asked, looking the prisoner square in the eye.

  “I didn’t really bother to learn their names.”

  “And what is yours?” asked Soroush.

  “Morgan,” he said.

  “Mr. Morgan,” said Soroush. “You need to tell me where you took Mr. Ramadani.”

  “The only people who tell me what to do are my wife and my doctor,” said Morgan. “And even then—” Soroush backhanded him across the face. Morgan ran his tongue over his split lip.

  “Insolent,” said Soroush. “But we have ways of dealing with insolence. Get him to the control room.”

  1:43 p.m.