Rahim instantly dropped to the floor, taking cover.
But now Firouz was on his feet. He pointed the weapon in his hands out the shattered window and tried to aim at the door of the Waldorf. Everything was obscured by leaping flames and thick, black, acrid smoke, which the wind was blowing his way. His eyes began to sting and water even behind his goggles, causing him to hesitate for a moment. But only for a moment. Then, aiming into the center of the chaos, he pulled the trigger and fired anyway.
The nine-pound rocket-propelled grenade exploded from its launcher, and time almost stood still. Everything seemed to go in slow motion. Firouz watched the contrail. He saw the rocket arc over Park Avenue on a trajectory higher than he’d planned. But he wasn’t worried. The impact still had its deadly effect. He saw the grenade slam into the hotel’s exterior wall just above the press corps and erupt into another ghastly ball of fire and death. He could see part of the facade of the historic building beginning to crumble. Better yet, he could hear the screams of the dying intensifying, mounting to a grisly crescendo that sent shivers of ecstasy down his spine.
For a moment, he found himself completely mesmerized by the scene of death and destruction below. But then he heard Rahim screaming at him to get down, and he snapped back to his senses and hit the deck.
Rahim had already reloaded and was back on his feet. Firouz watched as his comrade in arms scanned the scene, pivoted to the right, and pulled the trigger. He desperately wanted to see where the rocket was headed. He wished he could see the results. But at least he heard the explosion. He heard the wrenching sound of burning, twisted, crashing metal and the secondary detonation of a gas tank. He knew immediately that Rahim had fired at one of the Secret Service SUVs. The limousines, after all, were impervious to RPG fire. So Rahim had clearly done the next-best thing. He was faithful. He was fearless. He was striking a blow against the Great Satan in the heart of Manhattan. Soon the Twelfth Imam would know, as would the entire world.
Bruner could hear automatic gunfire outside.
He could also hear the squealing tires of Stagecoach and Halfback racing away from the scene. He had no idea what the status of President Ramzy or Prime Minister Naphtali might be. Had they died in the attacks? Had someone gotten them to safety? Given all that had just happened, he couldn’t imagine how either man could have survived.
The smoke inside the hotel’s entrance was thick and low. Above him, the sprinkler system had immediately activated. Water sprayed everywhere, but the entire lobby was still engulfed in flames. A fellow agent sprayed him and the president with a fire extinguisher. The pain on Bruner’s back, legs, and arms was unlike anything he had ever experienced, far worse than the time his Humvee had been nearly blown to smithereens by an IED just outside of Baghdad. But Bruner refused to think of himself.
“Mr. President, are you all right?” he shouted above the commotion as he carefully turned Jackson over and quickly checked him for injuries.
The president didn’t answer. He was coughing up blood.
The corner office erupted with gunfire.
Secret Service sharpshooters had found them. They laid down a withering blanket of suppressive fire, and Firouz felt a wave of fear ripple through him for the first time. He pressed himself to the floor, against the front wall — out of sight, or so he hoped — pleading with Allah for mercy.
But Rahim was not so lucky. Firouz looked on in horror as his best friend’s body was ripped to shreds by dozens of the 7.26mm rounds that came crashing through the windows. He watched as Rahim collapsed to the ground, blood spraying everywhere, his eyes rolled back in his head. His first instinct was to crawl to Rahim’s side to see if he was still alive, but the fire kept coming, and from a high angle — most likely from the roof of the Waldorf.
When the shooting paused — just for a moment — Firouz made his move. He scrambled across the floor and dove into the hall. Almost immediately the gunfire erupted again. But Firouz rolled around a corner unscathed. Breathing hard, his shirt soaked with sweat, he pulled a silencer-equipped pistol from his jacket, jumped to his feet, and raced for the stairwell.
“We’re going to get you out of here, Mr. President.”
Gritting his teeth, Bruner forced himself back to his feet. With the help of three other agents, he hauled Jackson to his feet as well. That was when he first saw the blood trickling down the side of the president’s face. But this was no place to do a proper assessment. Parts of the ceiling were already starting to collapse. They had to move. Nearly choking on the smoke, Bruner considered their options. The flames were the thickest to their left and right. The only way forward was to head deeper inside the hotel. He had no idea who or what lay ahead, and he couldn’t rule out the possibility of a multiple-front ambush. But at the moment, he didn’t have a choice.
With their guns drawn, agents were racing toward them from all over the building. Bruner shouted orders to his men to surround and cover them and then began moving the president down the hall and around the corner to an unmarked freight elevator as quickly as they could. Inside, he hit the button for the basement level and cursed until the doors shut and they started descending.
“Six-One, Six-One, I have Renegade,” Bruner shouted into his radio. “I repeat, I have Renegade. We are Code Red and inbound. Hold all radio traffic and prepare to evacuate immediately.”
When the elevator door opened, they were met by four more agents brandishing Uzis. Together, they raced Jackson through the narrow passageway deep underneath the Waldorf until they reached Track 61. There, waiting for them, was an idling Metro-North train. It was already running and loaded with more heavily armed agents and a medical crew. Bruner got the president on board and directed his men to put him on the floor, out of sight. Two physicians began treating him immediately. But Bruner refused to be a sitting duck. He ordered the train to pull out.
The doors closed. The agents around them took up their preassigned positions. Engine One began to move. They had practiced this for years, beginning in 2002 when the Secret Service had run an extensive exercise using this escape route in the lead-up to President Bush’s stay at the Waldorf during the opening session of the UN General Assembly.
But Bruner had never really imagined having to get the president of the United States to a secure, undisclosed location underneath Manhattan via the tracks leading to and from Grand Central Station. Now it was happening, and everything was moving so fast. People lay dead and dying above them. Friends of his. World leaders, perhaps.
Bruner realized his hands were covered in blood, and he could taste more blood in his mouth. Then he heard one of the doctors shouting for silence.
“The president’s blood pressure is dropping fast.”
6
David Shirazi had been born for this moment.
With a photographic memory, a 3.9 GPA, and advanced degrees in computer science, the Syracuse native could have been recruited by the CIA’s Technical Services Division or the Agency’s information-management team and would have been exceptional working for either. Instead, fluent in Arabic, German, and Farsi — the language of his parents’ native Iran — David had been recruited and trained to serve in the Agency’s National Clandestine Service, formerly known as the directorate of operations.
For his first two and a half years in the field, he had served faithfully in a variety of posts inside Iraq, Egypt, and Bahrain. Each assignment had been fairly mundane, but they had proven good training grounds. They’d allowed him to make mistakes and learn from them, allowed him to learn from more-seasoned operatives in the region, and allowed him to understand the dynamics of Mideast politics and the rhythms of the “Arab street.”