“And seven point four miles from the blast, at one PSI, if you make it that far before dying, you’ll notice that while most of the buildings are only moderately damaged, one quarter of the population is lying in bloody heaps at your feet, the victims of flying glass and stone and concrete. Others are screaming in agony, burnt and blackened by the thermal radiation generated by the blast.
“And this, all of this, is only the beginning — just the pressure damage. Another effect will be the radioactive fallout. Immediately following the detonation, hundreds of tons of earth and debris, made radioactive by the blast, will be carried high into the atmosphere within the mushroom cloud. The material will drift downwind, and eventually fall back to earth, contaminating thousands of square miles.”
The map expanded to encompass the entire eastern seaboard.
“Assuming a fifteen mile-per-hour westerly wind over a seven-day period, everyone who either lives or works within thirty miles of ground zero will be bombarded with three thousand rem. You’ll be dead within a few hours. And it will be years, perhaps a decade before the levels of radioactivity in Manhattan drop low enough for the city to be considered safe for human habitation.
“If you’re within ninety miles, at nine hundred rem, you’ll die within two to fourteen days. At one hundred and sixty miles, or three hundred rem, you’ll still suffer extensive internal injuries, including damage to nerve cells and the cells that line your digestive tract. Your white blood cell count will plummet, and your hair will fall out.
“Even if you live two hundred and fifty miles away, as far away as Boston, Massachusetts — where my mother lives — you’ll still suffer a decrease in white blood cells and increase your chances of acquiring cancer. It will be two to three years before the northeastern seaboard is considered safe again by U.S. peacetime standards.”
Gallagher took a deep breath. The map behind him was replaced with the photo of Baqrah and El Aqrab once more. Baqrah’s smile took on a new and far more ominous intent. El Aqrab’s distant stare became bone-chillingly sinister. It was as if he were looking off into the distance, through his mind’s eye, at the shattered smoking shell of New York City.
Gallagher remained silent for a few more seconds. He had added that bit about his mother extemporaneously, and he felt flushed with pride. It had been a stroke of genius. Anyone looking at this rather ugly, red-haired leprechaun of a reporter would be shocked to learn that even he — as strident and gnomish as he was — had a mother. What bathos! All were vulnerable to fallout. All, no matter how beautiful or ugly, no matter how rich or poor, smart or dumb, would die.
“Of course, it would be irresponsible for me to say that New York is definitely the target. The message this reporter received indicates the bomb’s destination is ‘somewhere on the soil of our enemies.’ But the fact that it was delivered to me, a New York-based reporter, makes you wonder. Are we next… again? And can we afford to think that we are not? Seamus Gallagher reporting for WKXY-TV, New York. Back to you, Sue.”
Chapter 16
Decker walked around The Cloisters, nestled high above the Hudson River, on a rocky promontory at the north end of Manhattan. Originally funded by John D. Rockefeller, The Cloisters had been constructed in a neo-medieval style, specifically designed to house the Metropolitan’s collection of artwork from the Middle Ages. Decker’s footsteps echoed through the portico. As he circled the Cuxa Cloister, with its herb and flower garden deep in winter sleep, he came upon another hall whose stone walls were festooned with tapestries.
Although he’d never seen them in person before, Decker recognized them instantly — the Unicorn Tapestries, woven in the Netherlands during the early sixteenth century, so named because they depicted the hunt for a snow-white unicorn against a backdrop of wildflowers. How strange that these wall hangings — or were they bed clothes? — had gradually mutated, over the centuries, into totems of another age. They were medieval icons now, the Mona Lisas of the 1500s. And yet, according to the plaque, the weavers were unknown. So were the owners and the reason for their use. Only a set of mysterious initials — an A and E — at the bottom of each tapestry remained to baffle scholars. He looked down at his watch. It was 3:00 PM. Time for his rendezvous.
Decker walked back to the Cuxa. Professor Hassan was sitting at the south end of the cloister, on a long black wooden bench. Decker ambled over and sat down beside him. There was no one else in the cloister, save for a guard at the far end of the portico. Although it was Saturday, the museum was practically deserted.
“I got your message,” Decker said. He stared at the fallow garden at the center of the cloister, hemmed in by pilasters and walls of glass.
“Obviously. Did you bring the wallpapers?”
Decker studied Hassan. He was wearing a long black cashmere overcoat over a double-breasted midnight blue suit. His royal blue and golden tie was perfectly knotted at the neck. A pair of gold cufflinks — set with some kind of light blue stone, aquamarine or emerald — glimmered at his wrists. With a nod, Decker reached into his coat and removed the drawings. He placed them on the bench between them.
“I don’t want you to misunderstand me,” the Professor said. He was clearly uncomfortable. He fidgeted and said, “I’m obviously no friend of this administration, nor do I condone what the President has done in the name of Homeland Security. If there were any other way… ” His voice trailed off. He turned and looked at Decker. His large brown eyes were red and moist, as if he had been up all night. “But after seeing that special report on WKXY-TV this morning, I really have no choice, do I? No matter what my feelings.”
Decker didn’t reply. Time and silence were his friends. They were all that was required to turn Hassan around. The Professor leaned over and removed a pair of books from a black briefcase at his feet. One was obviously the Qur’an. “I assume you got my message yesterday,” he said.
“I did, yes. Thank you,” Decker said. “Although, I must admit, I haven’t had much luck in interpreting the quotation. I’m no Qur’anic scholar.”
“Don’t overdo it, Agent Decker. You’ll only make this whole thing more distasteful for me.” He opened the Muslim holy text. He lay the volume gently inbetween them. “Here, in Sura eighty-one of Al Takwir.” The professor began to read. “‘When the sun is veiled, and the stars are dimmed, and the mountains are made to move, and ten-months pregnant she-camels are discarded as a means of transportation and the wild ones are gathered together, and the rivers are diverted, and people are brought together, and when the female infant buried alive is questioned about: For what crime was she killed? And when books are spread abroad, and when heaven is laid bare, and when hell is stoked up, and when the Garden is brought nigh, then everyone will know that which He has wrought.’”
“I can read what it says, Professor. What does it mean?”
“It’s a prophecy. Some believe it refers to the present age. Today, the sun is veiled, and pollution and city lights dim the stars. Mountains are made to move, through monumental mining practices, although some scholars think this refers to the toppling of kings — like Saddam Hussein. Real trains and other high-speed means of transportation have supplanted camel trains. I’ve no idea who the wild ones are. Gangs, perhaps. Terrorist groups. Your guess is as good as mine. Rivers are constantly diverted, and some believe the reference to people being ‘brought together’ speaks to the Internet. As far as the ‘infant buried alive’ is concerned, clerics speculate it refers to the practice of abortion. Even Christians are asking, ‘For what crime was she killed?’”