“My Service will not approve of this operation,” Justin spoke softly, carefully selecting his words. “Even if they do, which is highly unlikely, it will take time to put together a team and execute a well-planned mission. Yemen is a hellhole.”
“Time is a luxury we don’t have. Take my proposal to McClain and explain its urgency. I have the exact location of the cargo, and I’ll know if and when it’s on the move. If your boss wants me to sweeten the deal, that’s open for negotiation.”
Romanov did not openly pull the favor string again, and Justin appreciated his subtlety. He wanted to stop Houthis insurgents and other militant groups in Yemen from using those powerful missiles in terrorist attacks. But the more pressing matter of finding the traitor within his own Service was going to take priority.
“I’ll run this by McClain and give you an answer. But as I said, his approval is unlikely.”
Romanov nodded. “Fair enough,” he said. He pushed a button on his console. “Sergei, take us back to the theater,” he ordered the driver.
Justin felt the stretch Mercedes-Benz make a wide turn. His BlackBerry chirped with a familiar tune. It was Anna. “I’ve got to take this.”
Romanov nodded, then dropped his eyes to his own BlackBerry.
“Hi, where are you?” Justin said on the phone. He listened for a few seconds. “Yeah, OK, OK. I’m just around the block. I’ll be there right away. Yes, yes, I heard the show was delayed. Great. See you in a bit.”
“Unfortunately, I will not be able to watch the show tonight.” Romanov pointed at his BlackBerry. “But I hope you’ll enjoy it.”
“I’ll try,” Justin replied, but he knew there was too much going on. He would not be able to sit back and shut down his mind, even if for just a few hours.
The Mercedes-Benz slowed down, then eased into a smooth stop. “We’re here, sir,” the driver said.
Justin looked at the closed partition separating the driver’s seat from the passengers’ compartment. The driver’s voice was clear even though it came over the limousine’s communication system.
“Take good care of yourself,” Romanov said.
“Yeah, you too,” Justin replied. “I’ll let you know.”
Romanov nodded.
They shook hands, then the back door opened. Justin stepped out and faced the front passenger, the mountain of muscle that had summoned him to this meeting. He closed the door gently, ignored Justin, and strutted back to the front of a car. The driver forced his way into the other lane, amid screeching brakes and honking horns protesting his unsafe moves. Seconds later, the Mercedes-Benz disappeared into traffic, heading toward 8th Avenue.
Justin looked up at the theater’s blinking lights and the flashing screens of advertisement boards covering almost every inch of available space around him. They gave everything a yellow and red glow, blurry and ever-changing as people rushed by on the sidewalk and cars zoomed passed on the street. He saw Anna waving at him. She was standing near the theater’s main entrance, wearing a knee-length V-neck black dress and a Cashmere coat, and a matching purse hanging around her left shoulder. She was saying something to him, but the surrounding street noise was drowning out her words. Justin waved back and hurried his steps.
A silver Escalade SUV parked in front of Da Marino — an Italian restaurant across from the Ambassador Theatre — caught Justin’s eye. Two black men dressed in orange leather jackets — which Justin noticed were two sizes too big for their thin bodies — and blue baggy jeans were arguing with a third man, who was in brown khaki pants, a white shirt, and a brown cap. He looked like a parking attendant. The back of the SUV stretched over the entrance to the Crowne Plaza Hotel parking garage. The parking attendant was shouting and pointing at the Escalade, but the two men were largely ignoring him, throwing furtive glances down the street and toward the theater.
Justin was now a few steps away from Anna. He moved out of the way of a man running in the opposite direction, then walked around a young woman carrying large shopping bags. A second later, he noticed flashing lights coming from behind him. He turned his head and saw a white-and-blue NYPD police cruiser driving toward the theater. Justin glanced across the street. The arguing by the Escalade stopped at the sight of the police. One of the black men broke into a fast sprint through the parking garage. The other man just stood there, frozen in place, his hands deep into his jacket pockets.
Justin’s eyes caught his look — a blank, distant look — and he recognized the man’s face. He was a known member of al-Shabaab believed to be hiding in New York. Justin realized what the man was holding in his pocket. He also realized the purpose of the illegally parked Escalade.
“Anna, get down, get down! Everybody down, down!” Justin shouted, darting forward toward Anna.
“Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar!” the man screamed his battle cry.
The noise from the ensuing explosion covered his cries and all other sounds. An orange glow and black smoke appeared as the SUV turned into a firebomb. A city bus — which happened to drive by at the unlucky moment of the explosion — was torn to pieces. Other cars next to the SUV bomb were thrown around like toys. The bus saved Justin’s life, but he was still tossed through the glass windows of the Colony Records store close to the theater as the blast wave washed over him. Glass slivers and debris covered his face and his body. Dead bodies littered the sidewalk, while severely wounded people struggled to get back to their feet and move away from the explosion.
Justin felt a pair of hands lifting up his head. A soft voice said, “Justin, Justin. Can you hear me?”
He recognized the voice, even though it sounded worried, weak, and distant. “Justin, can you… can you hear me?”
“Yes, yes, Anna, I can…” He stopped to clean his mouth with his hand. It was covered with white powder. “I just can’t move.”
“Oh, thank God.” She sighed. “I thought you were…” Her voice trailed off, and she didn’t finish her words.
“No, I’m not dead. I’m not that easy to kill.”
Anna frowned. “Not funny. Stay still. A couple of shelves have fallen over your legs. Let me see if I can move them. How’re you feeling?”
“OK, I guess. I’m finding it hard to breathe.”
He coughed and spat out dirt and blood. He raised his head and saw dust and smoke. Sharp sirens echoed in the distance.
“There’s smoke and dust everywhere. The ambulances will be here shortly,” Anna said.
She grunted as she lifted and pushed away two plastic shelves and a few boxes.
Justin lifted his back slowly, his bruised hands seeking purchase against the debris next to him. He moved his right leg, then his left. “Nothing seems to be broken.”
“Your face is full of cuts and bruises,” Anna said, sitting next to him. She leaned over him in a tight embrace.
“What about you?”
“I’m fine. Your shouting saved my life. I slipped in just inside the theater. Its walls and the bus took most of the blast.”
Justin looked at Anna’s face. Her eyes were watery, and her hair was covered in dirt and grime. A few black and brown stains covered her neck and arms.
“What happened here, Justin? Why?”
He studied her eyes for a moment. “People who have no regard for innocents, determined to destroy our lives. There were two of them. One, the suicide bomber. The other is gone. But I know who he is. And I know where to find him and his friends who planned this massacre.”
Chapter Eight