Джеймс Паттерсон - The 19th Christmas

I thought how damned easy it was for anyone to bring anything into an airport terminal. Unknown white powder. Semiautomatic weapons. Explosives. Bags weren’t x-rayed unless people tried to check them in or take them through security.

Herz went on. “Forensics just picked up the lot of it. We’ve now gone through all of the bags in storage. Nothing looks hazardous or particularly valuable. Everything is labeled. But…”

I tried to wait him out, but after ten seconds or so, I had to say, “But what?”

He said, “But a tip just came in to airport security, a woman saying that there could be a nerve-gas attack coming over the HVAC system. The operator said, ‘Please repeat that,’ and the caller said, ‘Loman is targeting the cargo area,’ then hung up,” Herz said. “We couldn’t trace the call.”

Chapter 73

I was staring at Herz, imagining nerve gas billowing through air-conditioning vents, paralyzing airport personnel and travelers—to what end? I pictured rows of body bags.

I could see it in Herz’s eyes. He, too, was trying to part the fog surrounding this terror threat, figure out what it was and how to shut it down.

“I’ve got guys going through HVAC, and the surveillance room is working overtime.”

Herz went over the basics, and even though I had a pretty good idea that there were cameras in every niche of this terminal, including the baggage areas and the bathrooms, it was reassuring to hear him describe the pit.

I could see it in my mind’s eye: the whiteboards around the room covered with notations, the names of security officers and the number assigned to the unsubs—unidentified subjects— they would follow through the airport.

Until the unsubs were cleared, they were active and would have tails listening to their conversations, looking over their shoulders to see their tickets, following them into restrooms, and staying with them to security check-ins; TSA would take it from there.

Thousands of people an hour had legitimate reasons to be in the airport. It took only one with a weapon to turn the terminal into hell.

Herz said, “Along with the assigned undercover operators, we’ve got thirty plainclothes on this floor. Homeland Security is working the rest of the terminal, including all points out to the gates. TSA has been notified. Customs has been notified. SWAT is on standby.”

I said, “Good, good,” as I stared up through the artwork hanging from the high ceiling to the mezzanine levels and then back down to the terminal’s vast Main Hall.

“Seeing around corners is one thing,” Herz said. “Looking into the minds of psychos is something else. I’d like to shut the whole place down, but I can’t. Not based on an unconfirmed tip from an unidentified tipster.”

I thought about that as the Ronettes’ version of “Sleigh Ride” filled the hall.

Herz continued, “I sent a uniformed detail out to the cargo terminal.” He indicated the far end of the hall, where open-sided escalators carried passengers up to the higher floors and the AirTrain station.

“That was fifteen minutes ago,” Herz said. “So far my guys have seen nothing suspicious.”

I told Herz that although the phoned-in tip sounded typical of false leads we’d gotten over the past four days, sometimes the tips led to killings. I was saying, “We’ll head out to the cargo area—” when a woman yelled, “Gun!” and three sharp reports rang out across the terminal.

Adrenaline shot through me before the echoes died out. I drew my nine and Conklin did the same. The woman yelled again, this time saying, “Police. Drop your guns.”

I couldn’t see her. I couldn’t locate the cop.

People screamed and dived for the floor, threw themselves on top of their children, jumped behind counters, or raced into shops for cover. Others froze, immobilized by fear.

Conklin and I exchanged looks, each knowing what the other was thinking.

Loman’s rumored Christmas Day attack had just become real.

Chapter 74

My partner and I stood shoulder to shoulder, trying to see past obstacles and through a moving scene of terrified and screaming people.

A female cop had shouted, “Police. Drop your guns.”

Guns had fired. Had she been hit? Where was she?

A thin woman in tights and a long red pullover with a gun in her hand appeared twenty yards down the main passageway from where I stood and took cover in the news shop.

Herz was barking into his phone, and I figured out that the woman was an undercover airport operator, Heather Parsons.

Parsons yelled again, this time at passengers and bystanders, “Everyone get down on the floor and stay down.”

Three more shots were fired, and I saw a couple of uniformed cops dash out from the souvenir store three shops down from Parsons on the concourse and go out to the ticketing area that bisected the Main Hall.

Parsons took a stance, and, aiming at the cops, shouted, “Hands up. Stay where you are.”

I saw that she couldn’t get a clear shot. She didn’t fire.

I said to Herz, “We’re going after them.”

He nodded an okay.

The uniformed cops who had fired on the undercover were joined by two more cops looking much like them, and all four fast-walked toward the sliding-door exits.

They had a good lead on us, and as we ran up on them, I noticed details of their uniforms that confirmed that they were all wrong. The fabric was slate blue, a color I didn’t recognize as a uniform standard. And one of the cops was wearing running shoes, definitely not acceptable in uniform.

These cops were fake, had to be. Were they Loman’s crew?

I had tunnel vision now; I was intent on stopping the fake cops from leaving the terminal when I took a sudden blow to my right hip. I fought to keep my balance but failed and slid on the slick terrazzo, my arms windmilling uselessly before I went down.

I was sure I’d been shot, but as I hit the floor, I realized that a man who’d been running with his head down while pulling two heavy wheeled suitcases had T-boned me. Now he cried out apologies and fluttered around me, getting in my way and blocking my view.

By the time I’d brushed him off and gotten to my feet, I’d lost my sight of Conklin.

I started moving, dodging bystanders, yelling out, “Let me through!”

Then more shots rang out, more than I could count.

I took cover behind a shop doorway, and when the gunfire ceased, I peered out into the shrieking, stampeding crowd. I saw Conklin standing behind a column, reloading his gun. I shouted out to him. He waited for me to catch up, and then we sprinted to the next column in the line. Only a minute or two had passed since we’d raced off our mark at the travel agency into a shooting gallery.

But as we reached the end of the Main Hall, we weren’t alone.

As airport security and DHS streamed through the terminal, cruisers screamed up to the curb with all sirens and flashers to the max. The fake cops had seen the cars through the glass, and rather than break for the exits, they’d gone for the escalators.

I watched them disappear as the moving staircase took the fake cops to the floors above.

Chapter 75

Conklin said to me, “They’re going to the AirTrain.”

It made sense. The AirTrain was a closed-loop shuttle that took passengers around the airport to other terminals, rental-car booths, cargo storage, parking areas, and local transit. An excellent escape route.

Herz had previously sent a detail to the AirTrain, but they had found nothing and were now, no doubt, assisting in the forced evacuation as the terminal was cleared and locked down.

We had the up escalator to ourselves, and we rode it to the AirTrain station on level four. The station was empty when we arrived, but the stubby little shuttle was waiting at the platform with open doors.