When Davidson stirred again, she didn’t raise her hand to quiet him. “Commissioner,” he said, “we can help you.”
If Silas Nasar flinched at all, if he had any kind of reaction, Gina Carbone didn’t see it. “You’re not a very smart man, Mr. Nasar.”
Roger Davidson nodded politely at her as she left the cell. Terrible things, she knew, were about to happen here.
The Olympic Tower, at 51st Street and Fifth Avenue, was all black. It was built in the late 1970s directly across from St. Patrick’s Cathedral. The construction was financed by Greek shipping magnates, rivals of Aristotle Onassis, hence the name Olympic Tower. Greeks, in fact, had lived on its top floors until the early 1990s when the rich from Saudi Arabia, Bahrain, and Kuwait began to supplant them, but the building still retained the Olympic name.
Within minutes after Roger Davidson reported to the commissioner, and that was only half an hour after she had left Pier 37, that nine men in black combat uniforms, body armor, and weapons entered the towering granite lobby. Ambient sound filled the lobby from the waterfall that shimmered perpetually down the surface of a three-story wall.
There were two elevator banks. One was for the commercial tenants on the first ten floors, which were law firms, public relations companies, a charitable foundation. The other elevator bank was for the private apartments on the upper forty-one floors, each of them larger and more opulent as they ascended: the two apartments on the two highest floors had Olympic-size swimming pools.
One of the armed men shouted at the doormen: “On the ground, on the ground.” The nine men moving rapidly through the lobby all wore jackets on which the words NYPD Counterterrorism Unit were stitched in big letters. Like most of the people who lived in the building, the two doormen were Saudis. They were stunned by what they saw and fell first to their knees and then to the floor, as if praying.
The team divided into two squads. Roger Davidson, who was steeped in the rare ability to command with the absolute certainty that his orders would be obeyed, signaled the first squad into one of the elevators. When that elevator reached the eleventh floor, Davidson led his squad, three large men and Cynthia Chambliss, a slender and gorgeous black woman with a knowledge of weapons almost as skillful as his own, into the elevator. They rose in total silence to the fifty-first floor.
As soon as Davidson emerged from the elevator, he knew the information he had was accurate. Despite what all the politicians and television experts said, torture, especially extreme torture of men like Silas Nasar, in his experience, was a fast and efficient way of extracting very reliable information.
The wide church-like double doors to the top-floor apartment, once owned by Adnan Khashoggi, the arms dealer who in the 1980s had helped to manage the Iran-Contra exchange of weapons for cash, were already blasted open. Just as he had been told by the now broken-armed Silas Nasar in the total privacy of the Supermax cell, an orderly row of six RPG launchers stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the world famous cathedral. The RPGs were locked and loaded, that expression Davidson had first heard at the transformative moment when, at the Marine base at Quantico, he had for the first time pushed a full magazine into an M-16 and disengaged the safety switch. The RPGs were, as he had known for the last forty-five minutes, smuggled into the apartment piece by piece over the last three weeks by men posing as guests of the current owner, Ahmed Khalife, and as electricians, a pool cleaner, cooks. The doormen now kneeling in the lobby had played to perfection the roles of the “hear-no-evil-see-no-evil-speak-no-evil” cartoon characters.
Precisely cut holes had been excised from the row of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the immense roof of the cathedral. On the floor three black-haired men in business suits were already bound up in plastic sheathing from their upper chests to their feet. One moaned just as Davidson had been told to expect. The others were quiet.
“How close were we?” he asked Jorge Ortega, the squad leader.
“Close, sir. Motherfuckers had just engaged the rocket grenades.”
“Any resistance?”
“They’re pussies. Nothing. They were all crying, ‘Please don’t hurt me, please.’ One of them is still crying like a baby.”
Davidson raised his hand to silence the room. In that hand was his secure cell phone. Almost instantly he heard Gina Carbone’s strong voice: “What’s the story?” she asked
Roger Davidson respected her. She was steady, calm, no nonsense. She wanted the scene described in the way it happened.
“The story is good, Commissioner. We stopped them in their tracks. The RPGs were fully engaged and set to go. They would have blown St. Patrick’s to kingdom come. The room is secure. Three arrests here. The two doormen are under arrest, too. They must have known who was bringing the elements of the weapons up here.”
“What fucking condition are the three of them in? Don’t tell me they’re wasted. I have enough dead Arabs on my hands already.”
“They’re all alive. Not a scratch on them. One of them seems to be suffering a damn emotional issue. He’s crying like a baby and wants his mama. I’m going to give him a hug soon and tell him everything will be just fine.”
“Don’t,” Gina said, “let anything happen to them. I want them clean, presentable, and charming. The Kingston Trio. Don’t bring them to the river. I want them at Central Booking downtown just like anybody else who’s been arrested. I’m making arrangements with a judge to get them charged and with cameras in the courtroom. I also want the weapons down here so that I can show them to the press. Get pictures of the RPGs pointed at the cathedral. The mayor will have a press conference. I’ll be there. Nobody sees your face anywhere.”
“What face?” Davidson asked. “I’m not even sure what my name is any more.”
Gina spoke evenly. “You did a great job getting this stuff out of Mr. Nasar. He had a reputation for stamina.”
“Really? I didn’t see that once I got to know him a little better. He found his voice, so to speak.”
“And one other thing.”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“That Indian reporter.”
“Is he bothering you?”
“I don’t think his presence is very helpful.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
GABRIEL HAUSER WAS immediately overwhelmed by the utter silence in the apartment. Over the last several years there’d always been movement and excitement. The familiar, welcoming sounds as Oliver ran to him, his toenails clicking on the floorboards. Cam-whom Gabriel always called from the hospital as his shift was ending-making sandwiches or soup in the kitchen with the radio on NPR regardless of the time.
Calling Cam’s name softly, Gabriel walked through the apartment they loved. He even opened closet doors. For what he realized was a moment of lunacy, he was afraid Cam was dead.
In the small kitchen, the only room in which the lights were on, everything was as usual, clean and orderly. The only objects on the counter around the sink were a gleaming toaster, a blender, and a coffee grinder, all in brushed, burnished metal. On the kitchen table was a slender vase with new flowers.
And then Gabriel noticed in a corner on the floor a neat stack of white paper. Gabriel instinctively knew what the papers were: they were printed copies of the e-mails he had exchanged with Mohammad Hussein. Gabriel carefully, and nervously, raised the neatly compiled papers and carried them to the living room. He sat on the sofa in front of the coffee table.
The e-mails were in chronological order, for the most part in chains of one e-mail responding to the preceding on consecutive pages. For Gabriel it was like reading a diary he had cowritten with Mohammad. It was Mohammad who sent the first. It read: “Doctor, what happened to the soldier with the burns on his chest? You were wonderful with him.”