“That’s some beautiful work, David,” Riley said. “You get two out of two. Now all we need are descript—”
“We’ve got one,” Cheng said. “He was caught on a lobby security camera. Medium complexion, male. Medium height and build with long brown hair. He’s young. The image is a little blurry, but enough for a bulletin. He fits the description from the American Legion witnesses in Milwaukee. One more thing: there is no Michael Waleu registered in Marquette’s Dental School. Jack, I think we’re dealing with the same person in all three cities.”
“We’ve got him,” Riley whispered to himself. He pumped his fist once and made a kissing sound. Then his eyes narrowed and his face grew stern. “That’s for you, mister.”
“Do you want a nationwide alert?” Cheng asked.
“No,” Riley said smugly. “I think I know exactly where he is.”
Riley clicked off and headed for the door. He turned. “No offense, Mr. Baltis, but you can unplug your programs. We’ve got the names.”
“Mr. Riley?” Baltis stood. “I’m paid to use my head and to give opinions, so here goes: this was too easy. I mean, just flipping an address around? It doesn’t make sense. These people are either really careless or they’ve worked things out so perfectly that they’re leading us down this path.”
“Too easy for you may mean too hard for someone else,” Riley countered. “Why do you feel this way?”
“I won’t get into details, but I am experienced in ‘sinister.’ You should trust me on that. Call it a gut feeling.”
“Point taken, pal,” Riley said. “And thanks for your… sinister service.”
“Sir? My cousin lived in Queens just two blocks from that address. She died on 9/11. She never made it out of the first tower. I hope the guy you’re looking for is there, and I hope you nail him.”
The twenty-third floor was buzzing with staff agents and members of New York’s Joint Terror Task Force. Riley took a seat in a large conference room next to the man in charge of the New York field office. Special Agent Robert Farino bore the striking, albeit hairier, resemblance to his second cousin, ex-Mayor Rudy Giuliani. He also shared a family trait for tenaciously prosecuting of evil.
Farino began the briefing with introductions.
“You all know Jack Riley from DHS. The gentleman in the back is Tom Ross from NTSB, and next to him is Ms. Griffin from Fox News.”
Heads turned.
“She’s with me and has complete authorization,” Riley added matter-of-factly. “It’s about time we got some positive press for a change.”
Farino continued. “Okay. We have information that our suspect is at an address in Queens, holed up in a flat in the middle of an upscale residential neighborhood — quiet, connected older homes. People keep to themselves. We, along with NYPD, have had the area and the flat under close surveillance since we got the notification. No one goes in or out without us seeing. There are seventy-five officers and an armored personnel control carrier staged and waiting three blocks from the premises. We’re receiving radio updates from two tactical officers who are inside the adjoining houses.”
Riley winced. “I thought we agreed not to do that. I don’t want to spook him. Why’d you have to get that close?”
“I gambled, Jack,” Farino admitted. “Both of those officers are carrying handheld G-rays. I figured we’d want to know how many perpetrators we’re dealing with.”
“Excuse me,” Griffin interrupted from the back of the room. “What’s a G-ray?”
Farino looked at Riley. He nodded.
“Gigahertz radiation, or G-ray, is an experimental radar flashlight that shoots a pulse of radiation at a target location and receives a digital image in return. It’s like an x-ray that can see through fog, smoke, and even solids. It can detect drugs or explosives through walls up to ten inches thick. But it’s currently limited to just seventy feet.”
“How long have you had the ability to…”
An agent entered the room and bent next to Farino’s ear.
“Okay, people, listen up. We’ve confirmed not one, I repeat, not one but two suspects inside that flat. One appears to be inactive, possibly asleep, and one is active. He’s been in a sitting position for the past twenty minutes.”
“Doing what?” Riley asked.
“Unknown. The frames only show that the subject’s hands and arms are repeatedly moving to and from different positions. He could be sitting at the kitchen table reading a newspaper, petting a cat, or simply eating.”
“Or arming more drones.”
Farino nodded. “Or arming more drones.”
Chapter 45
The order was for quiet transport — flashing lights, no sirens — during the NYPD escort from downtown Manhattan to LaGuardia. Twenty-two minutes later, Farino’s Ford Expedition and fifteen other assorted Terror Task Force vehicles pulled off Grand Central Parkway and into the staging area.
Technically, Riley was in charge of the assault plan, but he deferred operational authority to Farino, provided everyone understood that intelligence gleaned from live terror suspects was far more valuable than any physical evidence. All personnel were to do everything possible to capture them alive. The use of lethal force was discouraged.
Ross cracked the SUV’s door. “What should we do?”
Riley slid into a Kevlar vest and handed Ross a pair of binoculars.
“Stay inside, out of harm’s way, and guard my fish,” Riley ordered, nodding toward Shaitan, which was propped up in the front seat. “It’s the brick two-story next to the corner. Both suspects are upstairs. We don’t know who they are, we don’t know their firepower, and we don’t know what’s going to happen. That said, I want both of you to stay here where it’s safe. Neela, still photos only. No video. I’m already second-guessing my decision to bring you two out here. These people don’t care about human life. This could get public and loud real quick.”
“We’re in position,” Farino announced.
“Do we have an interpreter?”
“He’s standing by,” Farino confirmed. “His name is Rooze — Agent Firooz Ghanbarz. He’s fluent in thirteen Arabic dialects. We need to move. Is there anything else, Jack?”
Riley took Farino by the arm and gently walked him behind the SUV. Riley sat on the vehicle’s bumper.
“I’m not a very sensitive man, and I’m not prone to drama,” Riley said. “But I’ll never forget September 20, 2001, when president George W. Bush gave a speech to a joint session of Congress. 9/11 was nine days old. This city was still in shock, and the world was gripped with fear. And he stood in that Chamber and talked about Todd Beamer and the rest of those American heroes who died on Flight 93 over Shanksville, Pennsylvania. They bull-rushed those hijackers to save lives on the ground. Todd’s wife, Lisa, was in that audience. She was five months pregnant. Man, I wanted to hug her so bad. Before he said good-bye, Todd said the Lord’s Prayer and two other words that I’ll never forget. Bravery like that shouldn’t be so rare, especially when it’s about freedom.” Riley gazed heavenward. “Todd, this is for you, pal. ‘Let’s roll.’ ”
Vehicles, agents, and officers in full tactical gear converged from three directions, forming a skirmish line across 81st Street. Two helicopters with thermal imaging capabilities focused spotlights onto the suspect’s roof and upper windows.
The interpreter, Ghanbarz, lifted a bullhorn. “Attention, you are surrounded. Show yourselves with your hands in the air. We are authorized by the United States government to use deadly force if you do not comply.”