He reaches into his wallet and pulls out a hundred-dollar bill, then another, and then another. He pushes them into Samatar’s trembling hand.

  “You are a good man, and you will listen to what I say,” Rashad says. “Where does your family live?”

  “Queens,” he says.

  “Good,” Rashad says, closing the man’s hand over the money. “Then leave Manhattan, leave it now, and pray for me.”

  Rashad picks up his two cases, which now feel as light as feather pillows.

  A mitzvah, indeed.

  Chapter 93

  JEREMY IS sharp enough to keep his mouth shut at my contradiction. “You ever see the casks the DOE uses to transport nuclear waste?” I ask him. “Have you? They’re friggin’ concrete-and-steel vaults. They are designed to withstand the most violent railroad accident, explosions, crashes, burning jet fuel, and anything else you can throw at them. Save for using a tactical nuke to break open those containers, there’s no way Rashad is using that waste as a weapon. Jesus, there has to be something else!”

  Gus goes back to his screen and again starts reading off what each train is carrying. Then: “That’s strange.”

  “Quick,” I say. “What’s strange?”

  “These freight trains,” says Gus. “They have only a crew of two running the engine: engineer and conductor. Cheaper labor costs, but the railways try to balance it out by limiting how many cars they’re hauling. With that type of GE diesel and a dual connected to it, you’d figure the northbound and southbound would be hauling about a hundred cars each. But they’re both hauling 160. Strange.”

  As Gus and Jeremy examine each train’s manifest, I look at the other monitor—the schematic of the Hudson Valley Railroad and its twin tracks, one going north and the other south.

  Dual tracks.

  Two tracks.

  Binary.

  Dual.

  Dual-use chemicals.

  Holy God.

  That’s it.

  Jeremy and Gus are still talking among themselves, and I’m ignoring them as lots of memories from old training sessions flood my mind. I squeeze Gus’s shoulder so hard he yelps. “Jeremy, quick: what’s a binary nerve-gas agent?”

  “Binary? Uh, well, pretty basic: you have a mortar shell or an artillery shell that has two containers inside. Each container has a chemical. By themselves, relatively harmless. But when you mix the two…you make a weapon.”

  “Gus, go back to the manifests. You said chemicals a lot. What kind of chemicals?”

  “Standard chemicals,” he says. “Nothing unusual, nothing out of place.”

  “Please,” I say, fighting to keep my voice calm. “Define usual.”

  “Well, let’s see. On the southbound train from Albany, you’ve got sodium chloride—lots of sodium chloride. It’s a dry chemical, so it’d be stored in regular casks. And northbound…hunh. Liquid hydrochloric acid—nasty stuff. Kept in pressurized tanker cars.”

  I hear a sudden intake of breath from Jeremy. “What would happen if there was an accident, or an explosion, on those cars?”

  Gus says, “The liquid hydrochloric acid…oh, that’d vent out. Again, nasty stuff, but if you were to set up a far enough perimeter, not that dangerous.”

  Jeremy says, “And the other chemical? The sodium chloride?”

  “Even less of a problem,” says Gus. “You could just shovel it into a dump truck, haul it away to a landfill or to be reclaimed.”

  My turn now. Even though I’m asking a question, I already know the catastrophic answer.

  “Gus, suppose both of those chemicals, on separate trains, were to explode when they were passing each other, so that there was a massive collision. What then?”

  Gus stares at the manifest, whispers, “Oh, sweet Jesus,” then frantically digs through his papers. He pulls out an odd and complicated-looking calculator and starts punching its keys. Jeremy is about to say something, but I shake my head. Gus looks up and says, “You…you’ve got to stop it. You’ve got to stop this, right now!”

  “What will happen?” I ask. “Gus, what’s going to happen?”

  He shakes his head, whispers, “No, no, no,” and looks to us both, tears in his eyes.

  “That amount of chemicals violently reacting—the dry sodium chloride and the liquid hydrochloric acid mixing like that—you’ll create an enormous, hazardous chemical cloud,” says Gus, nearly stammering. “As bad as anything used in the trenches in World War I. You’ll have clouds of chlorine gas and hydrogen chloride gas, both fatal, and with the prevailing winds…and the explosions taking place when both trains are near each other…”

  Jeremy demands, “How many dead? How many?”

  Gus’s eyes well up. “A hundred thousand dead. If not more. And hundreds of thousands more coughing their burned lungs out.”

  “When?” I ask.

  He gestures at the two screens. “When the two trains pass each other, in less than an hour, at 11:09 a.m. That’s when the dying will start.”

  Chapter 94

  AFTER LONG minutes of waiting—during which Tom Cornwall ducked into a men’s room for paper towels to sop up the bleeding from his right hand—he finally gets into an elevator, which quickly grows packed. It takes abnormally long to reach the lobby, seemingly stopping at every other floor.

  In those long minutes, he’s thinking of what just happened and what might happen next. He’s been fired. All right—happens to the best in journalism. And Amy, well, her job seems to be gone as well, and the CIA has been heavily subsidizing their Manhattan townhouse.

  What now?

  Another stop.

  Good Christ, what is going on here? Tom thinks.

  Well, facing facts—including his bleeding right hand—he and Amy are jobless. Which means leaving Manhattan, taking Denise out of school, a whole host of problems.

  What then?

  Another stop.

  Damn it, this is the slowest descent he’s ever been on.

  Amy had occasionally talked about moving up to Maine—where she grew up—once they both had enough money socked away. She could get a military consulting gig, and maybe he could purchase a weekly newspaper. Simplify things. Have Denise grow up in a place where the doors are unlocked at night and everyone sleeps safely and—

  He looks at the indicator.

  Three more floors to go.

  Safely.

  What is out there—what beast is Amy chasing down?

  Ticonderoga.

  Something serious, something big, but in the end, maybe—just maybe—a false alarm. In Tom’s years of reporting, he’s had tips that never panned out, like that dirty bomb supposedly hidden in Lafayette Park that turned out to be a hoax.

  Maybe that’s the case now.

  Maybe.

  But when he gets out of here, he’ll climb into their Chevy Equinox and haul ass to Staten Island, meet up with Uncle John, and ride out whatever might be coming.

  A smile.

  Spending quality time with Denise this fine May day—that would be fun. And she so enjoyed going fishing with Uncle John out on Raritan Bay.

  The elevator sighs to a stop, the doors slide open, and he walks with everyone else through the bright, shiny, high-ceilinged lobby of One World Trade Center. There’s a brief pang of regret that he’ll never step into this building again. Dylan is the kind of prick who will keep most angry promises, so Tom expects a few cardboard boxes filled with photos, files, and various memorabilia to arrive at their townhouse in a few days.

  He steps out into the warm May morning. Fair enough. It’ll probably make sense to keep his stuff in the boxes until he, Amy, and Denise finally move.

  And that brings another smile, thinking that Amy’s last phone call said she was done with overseas assignments. No more long, secretive trips. No more missed holidays or birthdays.

  Time to start what passes for a normal family life.

  He picks up his iPhone, meaning to call his uncle John, and sees there’s a voicemail message.

  From Uncle John.

  Standing in the narrow parklike area between One World Trade Center and busy West Street, he checks the message, now fifteen minutes old.

  He must have missed it when he was in the elevator.

  “Hey, Tom, it’s your uncle John. I’ve been calling and calling, but you haven’t picked up. I know this is a surprise, but Denise is insistent I take her into the city today. She says you promised her a tour. Denise is pretty upset, so…I’m on the road now, and let’s say I meet you at the Fulton Street entrance to your office at 11 a.m. Thanks. See you soon.”

  Shit!

  He calls Uncle John and it goes straight to voicemail. He knows Uncle John and his devotion to his old flip phone—“I don’t need those fancy apps and gadgets”—and lots of times, depending on the weather or even sunspots, you can’t reach him.

  He’s walking up Fulton Street now, seeing a blue-green construction van parked at the corner of Fulton and Greenwich—always, always some construction going on in this place—and he tries again.

  No answer.

  What promise? What tour?

  Then it hits him.

  May 29.

  Take Your Daughter to Work Day.

  He almost laughs. How about Take Your Daughter to the Unemployment Office Day instead?

  No matter.

  He’ll stay here and wait.

  He checks his watch.

  It’s 10:20 a.m.

  Chapter 95

  OUR DONATED Impala is running on fumes. After a quick stop to buy a gallon of gas—“No more than that,” I yell at Jeremy as he shoves the nozzle in the tank, “we can’t afford to waste time driving”—we’re rocketing along the two northbound lanes of NJ-440, heading in the direction of I-78, which I don’t plan to take.

  “Amy, time,” Jeremy says, as I weave in and out of traffic, thinking furiously, running through options, choices, and realizing that as much as I hate to do it, we’re going to have to divide our forces.

  I say, “I’m goddamn well aware of the goddamn time. We’ve got two missions ahead of us: stop the trains, and stop Rashad.”

  Horns blare as we keep speeding north. “We don’t know where Rashad is!”

  “I know, I know, just…quiet.”

  Jeremy shuts his mouth. I think of all I’ve learned about Rashad, about what he wants to do, about his earlier actions, all of them quiet and behind the scenes.

  Then he kills his father.

  Starts getting bolder. Showing off. Boasting.

  Like he’s telling the spirit of his father that he’s no longer a scared and ignored little boy.

  Gotcha, I think.

  “He likes to be near the action now, Jeremy,” I call out. “Like when he told you about the aircraft going down in Saudi. Being at the nuke-exchange site in France. Rashad wants to see the results of his planning; he needs to see the results. He wants to watch the trains explode. He wants to witness the gas clouds form, see people in the distance start to panic and choke to death.”

  “But where would he be?” he asks.

  “His hotels,” I say. “When I talked to him back in the UK, he bragged he would stand on top of his wealth and watch us die. His wealth? The three hotels. Get on your phone, find the one nearest the Hudson River. C’mon, pickup truck, move it, move it, move it!”

  I lay on the horn and sideswipe a delivery van, producing a crunch/bang that reminds me of driving in London. I see Jeremy working his borrowed iPhone out of the corner of my eye, and he says, “Gus should be making those 911 calls.”

  “Of course he is,” I say. “And it just might work…might. But I’m not going to rely on some poor 911 dispatcher believing Gus telling her what’s about to happen…come on Jeremy, what’s the goddamn holdup?”

  “Here, here,” he says. “The Nansen Arms. Right on the water, near Rockefeller Park, and across from Hoboken and the southern part of his railroad.”

  I punch the steering wheel. “The son of a bitch wants to see it, Jeremy. That’s where he’ll be.”

  “And if the bombs on the trains are on timers, he’ll want to use a command switch, and detonate them remotely if they’re delayed.”

  “You got it,” I say. “And that’s your job, Jeremy. I don’t know how or where you’re going to do it, but you’re going to get your Brit ass over to that hotel and stop him.”

  “And you? The trains? What are you going to do?”

  I say, “You tell me right now if there’s a park, or a golf course, or some big empty lot nearby, that’s your job. And I’ll tell you how I’m going to do it, if I can.”

  Jeremy flips through his donated iPhone and says, “About a half mile to go. Take the exit to Lefante Way. The Bayonne Golf Course is near there.”

  I check my watch.

  It’s 10:21 a.m.

  “Amy.”

  “Yeah.”

  “There’s a police cruiser coming up on us,” Jeremy says.

  Chapter 96

  IT HAS taken him nearly a month of preparation and permitting, but Mike Patel is sitting in the rear of a perfectly licensed and legitimate service van that has his HVAC company’s name and logo on its sides. Mike has taped his parking permit and other necessary paperwork to the windshield so that any passing police or transit officers won’t bother him.

  He’s parked on the corner of Greenwich and Fulton Street, right in the shadow of One World Trade Center, directly across from the memorial site with the walls of falling water and the rows upon rows of inscribed names.

  The interior of the van is painted deep black, and a curtain separates the two front seats from where he’s sitting, facing the twin rear doors. Both windows are tinted so no one can peer in. If someone succeeded in doing so, however, he or she would see Mike calmly sitting on a raised seat, facing the rear doors. Across his lap is a loaded M4 automatic rifle, with six spare magazines at his elbow.

  There’s a rope with a pulley system at his left. When the time comes, he will tug the rope and the left-side rear window will lift up. With the dark interior, nothing will be revealed to anyone passing by—especially when he picks up the rifle with the flash- and sound-suppressor, and starts shooting into the crowds.

  Mike is wearing a bullet-resistant vest, and the keys to the van are in the ignition. He’s a warrior today, but he doesn’t plan to be a martyr.

  He just wants revenge on those who have called him “Paki, Paki” over the years.

  Mike patiently waits.

  He doesn’t need to know what time it is.

  The little surprises he’s planted throughout One World Trade Center will let him know when the correct time has arrived.

  Chapter 97

  ABOARD THE GE diesel electric locomotive for his day’s trip—said train number being HV412-29, from the Hudson Valley dispatch office—Orrin Block is sitting in the right-side engineer’s chair, yawning, watching the gauges flicker and report to him in the green. In front of him are the four control handles that operate this train: a black one to apply the locomotive’s brakes, a red handle to apply the brakes for the entire train, an oblong black handle that’s the combined throttle and dynamic brake, and a fourth handle to reverse the locomotive.

  When he first started, Orrin wondered how he would ever tell the four apart. Now he dreams he’s holding them in his hands.

  He checks the gauges one more time. Funny thing, the gauges aren’t gauges—they’re two small computer screens constantly feeding him data on the status of the locomotive and the brake systems leading to the rear of its 160-car load today. But the folks running the railroads are big on nostalgia.

  Like where his conductor, Miguel Marcos, is stationed on the other side of the cab, beyond the thick center console that splits the cab in two. Since Orrin is the engineer and sits in the engineer’s chair, you’d think that Miguel—being the conductor—would sit in the conductor’s chair.

  Nope, that chair was called the fireman’s chair, from the days when a fireman shoveled coal for a steam locomotive.

  Tradition.

  Screw it.

  They’re still in the yard near the Hoboken Terminal, and the sun’s been up for a while, and Orrin’s just sitting, idly watching the other trains and cars in the yard, some of the short-track engines moving lines of freight cars to where they need to be for later runs by other crews. They’ve both completed their walk-around of the freight cars, ensuring that all is in place and the brake lines are attached.

  He says, “You got any plans for when we get to Albany?”

  Miguel doesn’t hear him. He’s staring out the left side windshield.

  Orrin is about to say something else when he spots something sticking out of Miguel’s heavy jean jacket.

  It looks like the butt of a pistol.

  What the hell?

  Why’s Miguel carrying?

  What’s he up to?

  Then Miguel shifts, and Orrin sees that the object is only his cell phone.

  Man, he thinks, why am I being so paranoid?

  This is what he loves. This is what he was born for. Brian Lamott is looking forward to his retirement—now just two months and three days away—but he knows he’ll miss this feeling of satisfaction, of leaving a train yard and hauling tons of freight that keeps the country running. There was a time when truckers were supposedly the “cowboys of the highways,” the romantic last breed of rugged individuals feeding and fueling America, but Brian knows that’s all bullshit.

  It’s train guys like him and his conductor, Alvi Dudin, who keep this country alive.

  The cabin of his GE diesel electric is as familiar to Brian as his kitchen at night. He knows what every switch, lever, and dial does, and a quick glance at the gauges—even though they’re really computer screens—shows everything is normal. The main air reservoir in this locomotive is at 135 psi; the hard rubber brake pipes extending all the way back are holding at 90 psi; the speed is an even 55 miles per hour.