The area was empty, all the guests and staff concentrated on decks above with better views of the harbor. Avram removed his jacket and tie, kicking off his shoes and socks as well. He dropped his phone and Rolex on the deck beside a railing at the stern of the Nebula, the engines below softly churning the dark waters.
He gazed back at the boat. He had never been in love. He appreciated women, their beauty, enjoyed sex. But love? He hadn’t been raised on love. But the Nebula — that was a beauty to be loved. His design, his testament to everything he had accomplished and would do. He stared at it as a man would a lover on her death bed.
Then he climbed the railing, standing unbalanced at the corner of the stern, as far from the engines as possible. The lights of New Jersey and Manhattan formed a dizzying panorama of radiance around him. Placing his hands out to the sides, he leapt forcefully into the darkness.
The harbor was frigid, and he gasped for air as he struggled to tread water. Fortunately he had been a talented swimmer at Harvard, and despite the numbness creeping over his limbs, he was able to orient himself onto his back, his feet pointed back toward the Nebula, its music and soft lights fading as it sped away from him. A minute passed. Then two, and he worked to keep his arms and legs moving, the circulation flowing, retarding the hypothermia that had begun to freeze his muscles.
What sounded like a series of humming hornets’ nests streaked over his head and toward the boat. He spied small shadows cross over the lights of lower Manhattan, but he could not be sure it was anything more than his imagination.
But then the Nebula erupted in flame. A series of fireballs ignited around the boat, consuming his lady in a hideous light. The sound rushed over him, one-two-three punches of compressed air and ear-splitting detonations. Burning debris flew into the sky, then rained back down on the dimming skeleton of the boat.
Robert Avram wept. He knew in that explosion he had lost not only the symbol of his greatness, but everything. Confirmation arrived with little delay as he felt hands grasp his shoulders and lift him out of the water, dumping him harshly onto the deck of a small motorboat. Burly shadows manhandled him like livestock, binding his arms and legs, toting him to one end of the vessel, and casting him painfully into a corner. His captors revved the engine, and turned the boat southward toward Staten Island, racing into the darkness.
10
Savas watched the faint light of the morning grow over the East River. He sped down the FDR en route from La Guardia airport in an FBI vehicle, retracing part of the path Goldman CEO Craig had taken right before he died. The lights of the Queensboro Bridge were still bright enough to be easily seen in the creeping dawn, the tram lifting sleepy commuters into Manhattan from Roosevelt Island like a floating cabin in the sky. To his right, the concrete redwoods of the city flew by him with trails of light.
He was hardly awake himself. Last night an explosion had occurred in New York Harbor, before the eyes of Lady Liberty herself. Another CEO of a powerful multinational financial company was dead, his luxury liner blown to pieces where the fresh water of the Hudson mixed with the sea. The agency branches in Washington could work on their disappearing governmental employee problem themselves. New York, his city, was under siege again.
He had spent the better part of a night arranging his travel and for Frank Miller to stay in DC to coordinate between the coupled investigations. An early plane landed him in New York with the first businessmen. His driver flew down the East Side highway, traffic still minimal at this hour, their destination lower Manhattan. Cohen was waiting for him there.
The thin tower of the UN building darted past on the right, the reddening sky casting an infernal hue across its glass facade. For Savas, it seemed prescient, foreboding. His instincts told him that something subterranean and evil was brewing. He only hoped that they could find a break in their endless game of catchup with these dark forces and find a way to prevent further attacks.
The car passed NYU Medical Center, and soon entered lower Manhattan. Lost in his own ruminations, he failed to notice as they darted into the Battery Park Underpass and emerged on the western tip of the island. He was surprised to sense the car slowing as it pulled into North Cove Marina.
Cohen was immediately at his side as he stepped out of the vehicle.
“God, John, you look like crap.”
He laughed and fingered the lapel of her coat. “Always good to be home.” They walked toward the dock and the Coast Guard boat waiting there. “We’ve lost three CEOs in a week.”
“There’s still no claim for the attacks or abductions. The JP Morgan CEO, Robert Avram, is presumed dead, although his body hasn’t been found. Most of the bodies on the ship manifest haven’t been found.”
“But Senator McDougal?” He asked. “I heard that he was found.”
“Confirmed an hour ago at the morgue.”
“Jesus. I’ve heard talk of the National Guard, although I can’t imagine what good it would do outside of giving the public and news shows some sense that we aren’t sitting here helpless.”
“But we are, John.”
They neared the boat and several members of the Coast Guard approached them. He gritted his teeth. “Let’s see if we can change that. Gentlemen!” They walked forward and shook hands. “Agents Savas and Cohen.”
“You’re the man who took down Gunn,” said one of the sailors. “Honored to meet you, sir. I know about your son. I was here on 9/11, evacuating folks trapped on the south end after the towers fell.”
Savas swallowed. “Then I’m honored. You guys moved more than half a million, if I remember right.”
“Maybe more. Papers said it was bigger than Dunkirk in WWII. Somehow feels like we’re always at war.”
Savas understood completely. “Let’s get out there and see what we can see.”
They stepped onto the boat, the sailor gave instructions, and they pushed off from shore. “We towed it to Governors Island. Used to be a Coast Guard base. Boat was sinking, even with all the technology built into it to prevent that. I read up on it. The owner was a paranoid son-of-a-bitch.”
Within minutes they had arrived on the small island. The wreckage of what had once been a luxury yacht was awkwardly tethered to the dock, wisps of smoke still trailing upwards from her, the smell of melted plastic overpowering. It was obvious why no one had survived.
Police and fire crews worked with investigators combing the remainder of the vessel. A sharply dressed man, attired in a suit, with black hair and a French nose walked up to the FBI agents.
“JP,” said Savas. “What do we have?”
Rideout squinted in the light of the rising sun. “Well, this is big league forensics. Half the evidence is at the bottom of the harbor. But from what we’ve found and working with witnesses on shore and in other boats who saw the explosion, we’re talking about multiple detonations spaced a few seconds apart. Odd for a bomb planted on the boat, but there you go. The fireball was hot enough that we can assume synthetics, and a big payload. But it will take some time to analyze the residue and debris.” He indicated a small boat pulling out nearby. “We’re still relocating the bodies, the remains. It will take some time to identify them all. In some cases DNA matching might be the only way — there isn’t much left to go on. NYPD and several university labs with the required equipment are pitching in. Avram threw a big party.”
Savas shook his head. “Grim work.”
Cohen shuddered and rubbed her hands together in the morning chill. “You said multiple blasts. Could it have been explosives delivered externally?”