The elevator came to a sudden stop at the eightieth floor and Dobson, Decker and Warhaftig got out. “Do you always tell that story when you’re in an elevator?” Warhaftig asked.
Dobson grinned. “Always.”
They made their way across the hall to the Tower Elevator bank. “We’re almost there,” said Dobson. A few minutes later they ascended the last few stories to the Observation Deck.
It was a miserable day, wet and cloudy, yet the platform was crowded with tourists. Some gaped through telescopes, others took photographs. Decker was amazed. What could they see through all this cloud cover? Lovers hugged each other. A troupe of Boys Scouts crowded in one corner of the deck, preparing — the agents soon learned — for an urban sleep-away. Decker pulled Dobson to the side and asked him, “What about the Radiation Detection Units?”
“They’re deployed throughout the building,” he said. “Five teams on the ground floor, two on the second, and another four on various stories throughout the skyscraper.”
“The cars look like toys,” said Warhaftig. He was leaning up against the parapet. “Look, John, you can see them now. Right there. Through the fog.”
“No, that’s okay.”
Decker stepped back. His face was pale and grim. The accident was but a few days distant. He could still see Bartolo wriggling in the air. “I think we’ve seen enough,” he said, and started toward the door.
They headed back inside, into a vacant Tower Elevator and descended to the eightieth floor. As they waited for an Observatory Elevator to take them to street level, Decker noticed some construction going on at the far end of the corridor. “What’s going on over there?” he asked.
Dobson shrugged. “Renovation. One of those Rock ‘n Roll Planet restaurants,” he said. “They snag the traffic on the way upstairs.”
Decker began to wander slowly down the corridor. “When will it be finished?” he said.
“Another two weeks. Maybe more. You know contractors.” Dobson laughed at some private joke. “They’re still remodeling the kitchen.” The elevator arrived. “It’s here,” he said.
“Just a minute,” Decker said. He kept on walking down the hall. Most of the restaurant seemed to have been completed, but Decker noticed a gap in one wall, just inside the door. “What’s that?” he asked.
The foreman, a huge man with a buzz cut and ham-like hands stepped forward. Dobson came over and introduced him. “This here is Sean O’Brien. Sean — Agents Decker and Warhaftig. Homeland Security.” They shook hands.
“What’s this gap here?” repeated Decker, pointing at the wall. He stepped across a plastic sheet laid out on the floor.
O’Brien shrugged. “Dunno,” he said. He looked about and shouted to another man who was standing in the kitchen. “Hey, Keating. What’s this here?” Then he turned toward Decker and said, “Keating’s the restaurant manager. He’ll know.”
Keating said a few words to one of his assistants and eventually drew near. He was a tall man with a hatchet-thin face and wavy blond hair. “Jukebox,” he said. “Should be here today, so they keep telling me. Special order.”
“A jukebox?” Decker said.
“A Sound Leisure Beatles unit?” asked Warhaftig. “From the Yellow Submarine?”
“That’s right. How did you know?”
Decker felt himself grow cold. “Thank you, Mr. Dobson,” he said. He started toward the elevators with Warhaftig right behind. “You’ve been a great help. We enjoyed the tour. We’ll see ourselves to the street.” An elevator car arrived and the two agents stepped inside. The door closed noiselessly behind them.
“Downtown?” Warhaftig said.
The elevator gradually descended. Decker could feel it in his stomach. “East Village Jukebox,” he replied. It was difficult to concentrate. He was trying to imagine what it would be like to plunge one thousand feet to the sub-basement.
Chapter 33
Decker and Warhaftig tore back downtown to Park Avenue and Twelfth, just two blocks north of Grace Church. The owners of East Village Jukebox were surprised to see them again, but polite as ever. They handed over the work orders and pointed to a desk. It took Decker only a few minutes to find what they were looking for. There it was: One Sound Leisure Beatles Jukebox, Yellow Submarine. Warhaftig had been right. And it was coming in that very morning, by freighter, destined for the Rock ‘n Roll Planet restaurant in the Empire State Building — eightieth floor.
Decker flipped open his cell phone and called the Coast Guard. They put him in touch immediately with the Liberian shipping line. The freighter had arrived, they confirmed. “She’s unloading as we speak. The Rêve de Chantal. Just came in this morning from Marseilles.”
Decker hung up and turned to Warhaftig “It’s here,” he said. “The Brooklyn shipyards.” He punched the number for FBI headquarters and they patched him through to Jerry Johnson. Decker told him what they’d learned. The SAC was thrilled. This was the break that they’d been looking for, he said. The balloon was finally going up. He was deploying a Domestic Emergency Support Team (DEST) to the scene immediately. He told them to meet him at the Brooklyn shipyards, on the double. Then he hung up.
Decker and Warhaftig thanked the owners of the jukebox dealership and dashed outside. A meter maid was standing in front of Warhaftig’s black Discovery. She was writing out a ticket. Warhaftig stripped it from her hand, tore it up, and leapt into the driver’s seat. “I’ve always wanted to do that,” he said as he gunned the engine. With almost exuberant joy, he shot down Broadway and skidded left on Tenth. Decker reached down for the cherry. He clipped it to the roof and a moment later the siren began to wail. Cars moved lethargically aside. Warhaftig cursed. “Move out of the fucking way,” he screamed, at one point climbing the curb. Then they were on the West Side Highway, charging downtown toward the Brooklyn Bridge.
It took them over twenty agonizing minutes to make it into Brooklyn. But the traffic eased as soon as they crossed the bridge, and in another ten they were entering the shipyards. Decker could hear the cry of other sirens. A pair of blue-and-whites was already on the scene. They pulled up beside a rather nondescript brick warehouse — the office of the shipping line. Decker looked through the open doors of the warehouse and noticed Johnson and Kazinski running down the waterfront on the other side of the building. Williams and a host of uniformed policemen trailed them. A moment later, they had disappeared around the corner.
Decker and Warhaftig gave chase. They ran through the warehouse toward the river, then left along the waterfront. Williams and the policemen were disappearing into another warehouse down the dock. Decker and Warhaftig followed. As they neared the warehouse, an armored vehicle appeared just up the dock. It was the New York City Police Department’s Bomb Squad. The car was followed by a dark gray van with tinted windows. NRC, most probably, thought Decker. Experts from the Office of Nuclear Security and Incident Response.
Decker and Warhaftig flashed their badges at a policeman by the warehouse armed with an M-16. He waved them through the entrance. The warehouse was crawling with police. Johnson was standing by a large metal container. The container was open. A large black man dressed in jeans and an orange goose-down parka was standing by the SAC. He was pointing at something inside.