Homeland: Carrie's Run: A Homeland Novel Read online

  “You tell me. I’m sure NYPD counterintelligence has a list of potential targets and probabilities.”

  “Sure. The Empire State Building, the Chrysler Building, the B of A Tower, the Statue of Liberty, Times Square, Grand Central Station, the UN, the Stock Exchange, the Federal Reserve, Lincoln Center, Yankee Stadium—although it’s out of season—Madison Square Garden, bridges, tunnels. Take your pick. This is New York; the list is endless,” Gillespie said.

  “These guys are in Brooklyn. Anything there?” Saul asked.

  “The Brooklyn Bridge,” Leonora suggested.

  “Interesting,” Carrie said.

  “Why interesting?” Koslowski said.

  “On 9/11, there was a photograph of people fleeing from Manhattan on foot across the Brooklyn Bridge.”

  “Yeah, it was a famous picture. Among others. What about it?”

  “It became iconic in the Middle East,” she said. “At the time, Ayman al-Zawahiri was reported to have said, ‘Next time we’ll eliminate their means of escape too.’ ”

  For a moment, no one spoke. They were New Yorkers, she realized. She had brought memories of the day back to them.

  “What about the truck?” Saul said. “You said you thought of something.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Suppose it is the Empire State Building or the Brooklyn Bridge or whatever. They’re not flying planes, so it means a truck filled with explosives. Think. What explosive would they use?”

  “Of course,” Saul said, slapping the table. “HMTD. They flew in. Had to go through security. They didn’t bring anything in with them.”

  “HMTD,” Koslowski said. “Hexamethylene triperoxide diamine. We’ve always figured that would be what they would use. It’s cheap. Powerful. You can make it from three ordinary household products that are all perfectly legal and that you can purchase anywhere without ever attracting the slightest attention. HMTD and, of course, fertilizer have always been our assumptions.” He looked around the table, where the others of his team were nodding.

  “Except it has a drawback,” Carrie put in.

  “We know. It’s super unstable. Very volatile. The slightest jar, or if the temperature gets a little too warm, and—pow!” Gillespie said, snapping his fingers. “Dealing with it at room temperature is extremely dangerous.”

  “I see what she’s getting at,” Koslowski said. “The only way to be sure it won’t go off until you need it is to refrigerate it.”

  “Exactly. We check every refrigerated storage facility in New York City, starting with Brooklyn,” Saul said. “We’ll find the truck nearby.”

  “There’s another possibility,” Koslowski added. “The explosive could be in one of their apartments or inside the fitness company building.”

  “I thought of that,” Carrie said. “If they’re using a number of refrigerators—and they’ll need a lot because it’ll take a ton of explosives to take something like the Brooklyn Bridge down—they’ll have to be burning electricity like crazy. Check with the power company on the usage at the fitness company and their apartments. If it’s gone up a whole lot recently at one of them, that’s where it is.”

  “I’ll get right on it. Wake the bastards up. Everyone hates Con Ed anyway,” Gillespie said, getting up and going over to a phone. Carrie checked her watch. It was after three in the morning. When she looked up, Koslowski was watching her.

  “Not bad, Carrie,” he said, grinning widely. “If you ever decide to leave the CIA, you’ve got a job in New York if you want it.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind, Captain,” she said, glancing sideways at Saul, who was focused on his laptop screen.

  Forty minutes later, one of the male officers jumped up.

  “Got it,” he called out, coming over. “The truck’s parked in a lot one block from a refrigerated storage warehouse in Red Hook. We told our guys to look for it but leave it alone. Just drive on by and don’t go back. Rookie patrol officer spotted it. Said they painted over the Petra Fitness company logo on the side of the truck and replaced it with a pizza restaurant, but he said the paint job was easy to spot.”

  “Where’s Red Hook?” Saul asked.

  “From where that location is you can go up the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway and be on the Brooklyn Bridge in less than five minutes. Manhattan in ten minutes,” the officer said.

  Saul looked at Koslowski. “Now what?”

  “We’re gonna need more resources,” Koslowski said, getting up and taking out his cell phone. “I need to call the commissioner.”

  “Did somebody say ‘resources’?” said a man in a gray business suit who was just coming in, followed by a half dozen men in suits and about twenty men in military-style SWAT gear with the acronym “HRT” in Day-Glo paint on their jackets. “I’m Supervisory Special Agent Sanders,” he said to Carrie and Saul.

  “Great,” Gillespie muttered under his breath. “The Feds are here.”

  Sanders came over to Carrie.

  “You must be Mathison. I guess you’re the little lady who got us all down here. I hope to hell you know what you’re doing,” he said.

  “I could say the same about you,” she said.

  “They’re on the move,” Leonora said, indicating one of the TV monitors. The screen showed the Petra Fitness Equipment Company building and parking lot as viewed from the hidden video camera they’d installed on the roof of the building across the street. On the screen, two men—one of whom they’d identified as Bassam al-Shakran, the Jordanian salesman, from a frozen image that, though blurry and enlarged, appeared to be of him, and the other, the driver, an Arab-looking man they didn’t know—had gotten into one of the Petra company’s panel trucks.

  It was 9:46 A.M. Carrie rubbed her eyes. They’d been up all night and they had a long day ahead of them. She’d just come back from the restroom, where she’d stepped inside a stall to take her meds before going to the sink and splashing her face with water.

  “Assuming they’re going to the Waldorf, how will they go?” Saul asked.

  Gillespie shrugged. “Fastest would be Shore Parkway to the Gowanus Expressway to the Brooklyn Bridge,” he said.

  “So we don’t know if they’re going to hit the bridge or the hotel,” one of the FBI men with Sanders said.

  “Yes, we do,” Carrie said as the truck passed out of the camera’s view. “It’s the wrong truck to hit the bridge. They’re headed for the Waldorf.”

  “Do we have air surveillance?” Sanders asked.

  “Over here,” Koslowski said, pointing to one of the monitors that showed traffic on a Brooklyn street as seen from above. “We’ve got one of our AW119 helicopters flying high enough so they won’t hear it. See the truck?” He pointed out the white panel truck in the traffic flow.

  “They can’t follow continuously,” Saul said. “We don’t want it spotted.”

  They watched the truck make a right turn onto a highway.

  “They know. There it is. They’re on the Belt Parkway. Looks like they’re headed for Manhattan all right.”

  “We could take them out now,” Sanders said. “Set up a roadblock. My sharpshooters. Never let them get near the Waldorf.”

  Koslowski made a face. “I don’t think—”

  “The minute you do you alert the other team. You think there are no media in New York City?” Carrie said, jumping in. “Once that happens you don’t know what they’ll do. And if they spot your roadblock and start improvising, what then? How many dead civilians do you want? Not to mention we don’t know what’s in that truck. A couple of pounds of C-4 would make one hell of a hole in Park Avenue. We want them contained.”

  Sanders stared at her. “You understand, Miss Mathison, you’re here to observe,” he said.

  “Well, you just heard my damn observation, Special Agent,” she said, and heard Gillespie snort, stifling a laugh.

  “Easy, boys and girls,” Koslowski said. “We’ve got two full Hercules teams, all of them ex–Navy SEALs, Delta, CIA, who spent the night in suites
inside the Waldorf, just two floors above Jihan’s room. We’ve got another Hercules team set up in the UBS office on Forty-Ninth across the street and another team inside the FedEx on Park Avenue. Plus, we’ll have plenty of regular NYPD to lock down the block completely before the main event. Once we close it, we won’t let a mosquito in or out.”

  “What about this woman, this Jihan? Are we sure she’s in the hotel?” Sanders asked.

  “We’re monitoring the hotel corridor security camera. Here’s the feed,” Gillespie said, pointing out another of the monitors, showing the hotel corridor. “She went into the room at 12:17 P.M. and hasn’t come out.”

  “Let’s look at her going in,” Koslowski said.

  “Go to double oh sixteen hours,” Gillespie said to one of his officers, who typed on his computer. They watched the corridor flash back in time to sixteen minutes after midnight. They waited, then saw a slim, stylish woman with long blond hair get out of the elevator and walk to one of the rooms. “Freeze it.”

  “You know this woman?” Sanders asked Carrie.

  “As a double agent in Beirut. Yes,” she said.

  “Triple,” Saul muttered.

  “And that’s her? No question?” Sanders said persistently.

  “She’s wearing a blond wig, but yes, that’s Dima, a.k.a. Jihan.”

  “And nothing since?” Koslowski asked the officer.

  “Nothing. Yesterday she requested room service for breakfast for after eleven A.M. We suspect she gets up late,” the officer said.

  “Okay. You keep your eyes peeled on her corridor. Nothing else. And let’s keep monitoring her phones and the room phone, everyone,” Koslowski called out. “Anything she does, let me know ASAP. Don’t be afraid to interrupt me.”

  “What about the other two possibles we came up with? The Egyptian doctor and Ghaddar, the Lebanese businessman. Anything?” Saul asked, looking up from his laptop.

  “We put front and back surveillance on them. Apart from the fact that our Egyptian doctor seems to have a fascination with the hookers on Tenth Avenue, they seem to be who they say they are,” Gillespie said.

  “And the truck? Where is it now?” Carrie asked.

  Gillespie looked at the monitor showing the view from the helicopter camera.

  “Looks like Fort Hamilton. See the water?” he said, referring to the bay. “They’ll be coming up on the Verrazano Bridge shortly.”

  “What about the other truck? This refrigerated storage facility? The HMTD?” Sanders asked.

  “That’s where we’d like your Hostage Rescue Team,” Koslowski said. “The problem is, we don’t know who’s watching. If we did, we could set up and the minute this Abdel Yassin shows up, take the son of a bitch down.”

  “We have no idea where he is right now?” Saul asked.

  Koslowski shook his head. “We’re checking to see if he bought a cell phone and we’ve been monitoring all the calls in the Midwood-Flatbush section of Brooklyn for the past two days. So far nothing.”

  “When do you think he’ll move?” Sanders asked Carrie.

  “Late afternoon. Early evening. They don’t want to do something that will alert the authorities before their Waldorf operation is in motion. The Veep is scheduled to arrive at the Waldorf at eight thirty-five P.M. Figure Yassin and whoever else is with him will be at the storage place probably after six P.M.,” she said.

  “Where is this place?” Sanders asked.

  “Red Hook in Brooklyn. Mostly an industrial area right near the waterfront,” Koslowski said.

  “We’ll move our people in undercover this morning,” Sanders said. “Set up so we can close it down.”

  “No uniforms, no badges, nothing that attracts attention of any kind, especially from locals. If they send an alert, we could blow the whole thing,” Carrie said.

  “Why are you so worried about locals? Won’t they cooperate?” Sanders said.

  Koslowski half-smiled. “Listen, you remember the movie Casablanca? You know the part where Humphrey Bogart tells the Nazi that there are certain sections in New York he advised even the German army not to try to enter?”

  “What about it?”

  “He was talking about Red Hook,” Koslowski said.

  CHAPTER 16

  Park Avenue, New York City

  There were two of them: Bassam al-Shakran, the Jordanian pharmaceutical salesman, and another man, whom they couldn’t immediately identify. They watched on the monitor showing the view from the hidden camera across the street from the hotel as two men brought what looked like a treadmill machine wrapped in plastic off their panel truck and into the service entrance of the Waldorf Astoria on a dolly.

  “That’s him. That’s Bassam,” Carrie said.

  “Who’s the other guy? Is it the cousin?” Gillespie asked.

  “It’s the cousin. Mohammad al-Salman. Take a look,” Leonora said. They went over to her computer. On the screen was a photograph with an article from a local newspaper showing two Arab men in suits with an imam. The article was about a donation they had made to the local mosque, the Islamic Foundation Masjid. “That’s Mohammad.” She pointed.

  “You were right on the money,” Koslowski said to Carrie.

  They switched to a security camera video feed inside the hotel to watch the two men take the treadmill into the service elevator, but the monitor for the security camera on the nineteenth floor showed only one of the men getting out of the elevator to wheel the machine into the fitness center.

  “I see Mohammad,” Koslowski said. “Where’s Bassam?”

  “Look. The plastic covering on the machine’s been cut.” Carrie pointed.

  They all turned to the monitor showing the hotel corridor outside Dima’s room.

  “Look, Bassam,” Gillespie said, pointing. They watched al-Shakran walk down the corridor to Dima’s room and knock on the door. “What’s he carrying? A duffel bag?”

  “A duffel bag,” Gillespie said grimly. “What’ll you bet is in it?”

  They watched the hotel room door open and caught a brief glimpse of the woman in the blond wig letting him in. She put a “Do Not Disturb” hanger on the door and closed it. The corridor was empty.

  “Now what?” Agent Sanders said, getting off the phone with the HRT team he had dispatched to Red Hook.

  “We wait,” Carrie said.

  “For what?”

  “For Mohammad to come back,” she said.

  “If he’s coming back,” Sanders said.

  “He’ll be back,” she said. All along she had thought that to try to get through the Secret Service—even with the element of surprise—to the Vice-President wasn’t a one-man job. And Dima wasn’t going to be doing any of the shooting. Not Dima. So the cousin would have to come back to the hotel.

  Koslowski was on his phone with Tom Raeden, the NYPD Hercules team leader. He and his men were in their Waldorf suites. One of the monitors showed them with their gear in the suite. Raeden was a six-footer with buzz-cut blond hair and the shoulders of a linebacker. Koslowski told them to get ready. With any luck, they would move in a few hours.

  “What’s happening in Red Hook?” Koslowski asked Sanders.

  “We contacted a Mrs. Perez, who owns the storage facility. We’ve got two men inside. There’s an auto-parts warehouse across the street. Our men went in as construction workers. They’re setting up hidden cameras now, with ex-SEAL or -Delta snipers on the roofs. They’ll be out of sight till the last second. We’ll be able to see the feed any minute,” Sanders said. “We’ve also notified the Secret Service. Part of our protocol with them,” he explained. “They’re keeping the Vice-President to his schedule until further notice.”

  “What about blocking the route just in case?” Koslowski asked.

  “Once they show up with the truck, they’ll never get out of that street,” Sanders responded. “We’ve got two big armored trucks that will block off either end of the street at the same time we move in.”

  “Good.” Koslowski nodded.
“We need to see the feeds ASAP.”

  “What about when your people go into the hotel room?” Saul asked. “Will we be able to see anything?”

  “Hopefully,” Koslowski said. “Two of them will be wearing helmet cameras. It’ll be jumpy, but we should see what they see.”

  “There’s our surveillance,” Sanders said, pointing at two monitors. One showed the front door to the refrigerated storage facility from a camera across the street. It was in a concrete building with no windows and barbed wire on the roof.

  “Like a fortress,” one of the Counter-Terrorism Bureau officers muttered.

  The other monitor showed the parked panel truck with a hastily painted sign for Giovanni’s Pizza on the side, viewed from a height looking down at an angle from across the street.

  “Where’d you put the camera for that one?” Koslowski asked.

  “On a telephone pole,” one of Sanders’s FBI men said.

  “What time is it?” someone asked.

  “A little after noon,” Gillespie said, looking at his watch.

  “Going to be a long day,” Sanders said.

  Two officers, a man and a woman, from the counterterrorism team brought in boxes of deli sandwiches and soft drinks. Everyone grabbed something and started to eat. There was a murmur of conversation.

  “There he is,” Carrie said, her mouth full, pointing at the monitor showing the view from the FedEx office on Park Avenue.

  “Who?”

  “Mohammad. The cousin.”

  They watched a man in a brown suit walk toward the entrance to the Waldorf.

  “Good eyes. He changed clothes,” Koslowski said.

  They watched Mohammad go into the hotel. On another monitor from normal hotel security surveillance they watched him walk across the ornate lobby into the elevator. A minute later, the corridor monitor showed him exit from the elevator, walk past a hotel maid—she was actually one of Koslowski’s female officers—knock and enter the hotel room.

  “Now all they have to do is wait,” Koslowski said.

  “Like us,” Saul said.

  “Where’d he leave the truck?” Sanders asked.

  “Probably in a parking structure, then took the subway back,” Koslowski said. “I’ve got plainclothes checking all the midtown parking structures for the truck.”