Andrew Britton - The Assassin

The thought filled her with a fresh, crippling wave of terror, but she pushed it down, knowing she had to act immediately. She took a deep, shaky breath and tried to focus, looking down at her cuffed hands. She didn’t recognize the machine she was cuffed to, though she noticed it seemed out of place in the building, which was otherwise filled with wooden pallets loaded with bottled water and soft drinks. Her eyes followed the length of the bar that secured her to the main unit. Gripping it with her hands, she shook it as hard as she could, but it didn’t give an inch. She went to the left side of the machine and leaned close, examining where the bar joined the larger part of the metal structure. It seemed to be pushed into a well of some kind, but it was machined with precision, and the fit was perfect. There was no room for give.

Breathing deeply again to steady her nerves, she made her way back to the other end of the lathe. When she checked the right side of the structure, she immediately felt her spirits lift; the bar was secured by what looked like simple screws. Instantly, her eyes moved down to the toolbox, which was within reach of her foot. Moving to the middle of the bar, she stretched out her left foot as far as she could, the cuffs tight against her raw wrists, her arms stretched so far it felt like they would pull out of their sockets. Her wounded left shoulder was screaming for her to stop, but she ignored it and kept going. Finally, her foot brushed against the box, then caught the lip. She pulled it back inch by inch until she could move it easier. Then she pulled it directly under her body.

There. A screwdriver right on top. Shifting her body, she examined the screws again. She swore under her breath. She knew there were different types of screwdrivers, but she didn’t have a choice; as far as she could see, the box only held one kind of screwdriver, and she couldn’t see the tip.

She used her left shin to push off the shoe on her right foot, silently thanking God she had worn flats. When her foot was exposed, she pinched the metal part of the screwdriver between her toes, then lifted it carefully. A sudden noise outside the warehouse made her jump, and she nearly dropped it. She kept going, knowing that what she had heard was the back of the truck being pulled down. The fear started to rise again, and she felt her limbs turn to water; she was out of time. The voices outside were so distinct, they had to be getting closer. She steeled herself immediately, trying to force breath in and out of her constricted lungs. It took everything she had, but finally, the screwdriver was in her hand. From there it was shockingly easy; she had the three screws out in no time at all, and the bar came free.

She looked at her hands, slightly amazed at what she had managed to do. She was still handcuffed, but at least she could move. She immediately started toward the office, intent on getting to a phone. It was the only option left to her, as she didn’t have a weapon. But then, just as she put her hand on the door, she heard exactly what she’d feared most: nothing at all. The truck was gone, and that could only mean one thing. Vanderveen was coming back to kill her. She turned back to the building’s entrance, seeing nothing at first, but then a shadow loomed on the concrete, drawing closer.

She looked around frantically, but she was boxed in. Her heart hammering, she pushed open the door to the office and stepped inside.

NEW YORK CITY

After pulling the Isuzu up to the gate, which was still lowered, Vanderveen climbed out without shutting off the engine. He walked to the back, where Foster and Nazeri were waiting. Leaning in, he stared at the bomb one last time, aware that he would never again see it intact. The thought was strangely uplifting, but he couldn’t ignore the irony: in ceasing to exist, this device would create a whole new world of fear and terror.

For the most part, it still resembled the Parker boiler, with one exception: the panel on the left side had been removed, exposing the curvature of the BLU-82. The bomb itself was strapped to a customdesigned metal pallet and surrounded by an elaborate wooden framework. Wedged inside this framework, tight against the metal shell of the bomb, was 2? pounds of Semtex high explosive. The Semtex, in turn, was molded around a single nonelectric blasting cap, which fed 12 feet of military det cord through predrilled holes in the box and cab. The M60 fuse igniter was taped to the vinyl side of the driver’s seat; to set off the Semtex and the BLU-82, all Nazeri had to do was reach down, rip off the M60, push, turn, and pull. It was an extremely simple, efficient design. As far as Nazeri knew, he would then have approximately five minutes to get to safety before the bomb went off. In this belief, he was fatally mistaken.

Vanderveen had spent the last hour preparing the BLU-82, and in the process, he had replaced the time fuse he’d demonstrated earlier with standard det cord. It had not been difficult to distract Nazeri long enough to make the switch. The time fuse used by the U.S. military was extremely simple: black powder wound in yarn and sealed with bitumen, all of which was wrapped in plastic tubing. The powder was distributed in such a way as to ensure a slow burn. Det cord, on the other hand, was plastic tubing filled with thousands of grains of PETN, which burned at a rate of 8,400 meters per second. From the outside, time fuse and det cord looked remarkably similar, but the difference could hardly be greater. The instant Nazeri pulled the ring on the M60, he would cease to exist, along with the core leadership of the United Iraqi Alliance.

Vanderveen put a foot on the back bumper, reached up, and pulled down the rolling door. Once he’d secured it, he clamped on an ABUS Granit core-hardened padlock, the best that money could buy. Without the key, it would take a very long time to get through this simple piece of security.

And with that, it was done. He turned to Nazeri.

“It’s time.”

Nazeri nodded, his forehead bathed in a light sheen of sweat. Vanderveen almost reached out to put a hand on the man’s shoulder, but decided it wouldn’t be welcome. For the moment, it was just the two of them. Foster was standing a few feet away, but he was not a part of what they had started so many months ago, and he seemed to know it. He stayed silent and looked back to the warehouse, clearly uneasy.

In Farsi, Vanderveen said, “I know you’ve started to question whether you’re doing the right thing, Amir. I don’t question your love for your cousin, but I do wonder if you’re prepared to see this through. Why, when we’ve come this far, are you hesitating now?”

Nazeri lowered his head. Vanderveen knew exactly what he was thinking: that his hesitation reflected the limits of his grief; that in pausing to think things through, he had somehow marginalized his cousin’s death. “When I do this, many people will die. Many people who were not involved in her murder.”

“And who was responsible? In your eyes, who should pay?”

Nazeri looked up, his eyes burning. “The government. But we’re not attacking the government.”

“And yet you haven’t questioned the target. Why?”

“Because I know why you picked it,” Nazeri said slowly. “It’s a symbol of the city, known the world over. It’s a public-”

“No,” Vanderveen said. He shook his head and reached under his coat, withdrawing a single sheet of paper. “This is why.”

Nazeri accepted the document. He was confused at first, but he read it quickly, and when he was done, his eyes seemed clearer, sharper, and his body was unnaturally still. “Is this true?”

“Amir, I’ve never lied to you. I made it clear from the start that I had my own agenda, but I gave you the opportunity to take part because I knew your cousin, and I knew what she was trying to do. She was gunned down in Washington when she could have been taken alive, and her death was covered up so the government could save face.”