An Eye For An Eye (21 page)

“We have teams all over the country searching,” Pat Monahan began, “and while we’ve found a number of things that concern us, we haven’t found the missing canister.”

Matthew Richter frowned. He was sitting in the Oval Office with the president and the Secretary of Homeland Security while Monahan provided an update. It was like looking for a needle in a haystack, he thought. Still, they had to try.

“The Department of Energy, the EPA, the NRC, and state and local authorities are working with us,” Monahan continued. “Our initial focus has been on highways, transportation routes, and waterways. We’ve followed up on hundreds of leads so far, but most have turned out to be illegally or improperly disposed of industrial equipment or industrial waste.” Monahan paused. “All of that has to be dealt with properly. And if some of it were to wind up in the hands of terrorists,” his voice trailed off; the implication was obvious. “At a minimum,” he continued, “we’ve identified a dozen issues that the NRC and EPA will need to follow up on.”

“What about the Ohio connection?” the president asked.

“We’re doing aerial and drive-by surveys, taking readings of farms, factories, warehouses, and rural properties,” Monahan responded. “But…” he shook his head.

“This stuff is in a sealed container, right?” the president asked.

Monahan nodded.

“So it may not emit radioactive waves,” the president continued. “How sure are we that we’ll be able to detect it?”

“Unless they break open the containers,” Monahan answered, “it’s going to be a challenge to find this stuff. But, we have a lot of resources out there searching, and some of the equipment they’re using is highly sophisticated and can detect sealed-source materials. Still,” he paused, “there’s a lot of ground to cover.”

The president glanced over and caught Richter’s eye. Richter could see the frustration and worry on his face. He knew what the president was thinking. One of the options they had discussed was mobilizing the National Guard. That was a tough decision. The president had already quietly raised the DEFCON level, but that fact had become public fairly quickly. Now, if they mobilized the guard, there was no way to prevent the public outcry that would ensue as people reacted to the sudden presence of troops all over the country, troops with Geiger counters and detection equipment searching for an unknown threat. And what could the government say? No matter how carefully they crafted a statement, speculation and conspiracy theories would dominate the news and internet chatter, potentially leading to panic. Still, they might not have a choice.

In the silence that followed, Richter heard a mechanical noise and glanced up at the mantel above the fireplace. The clock was ticking.

The sensor zoomed in on the boy’s face. Even from twenty thousand feet, he could see the boy clearly. The boy appeared to be pleading. He held up his possessions for the soldier to inspect. The sensor knew that the boy had been waiting for hours in the darkness just beyond the roadblock. Turned away the day before, he had returned before sunrise to try once more. Now, as the sun peeked over the horizon, it seemed, he had succeeded in making it to the gate where, once again, he held his possessions up for another soldier to inspect.

From his comfortable chair in the ground control station at Naval Air Station Corpus Christi, the sensor watched as the soldier inspected the pair of pruning shears, then the trowel, and, finally, the small bundle. This, the boy unrolled to reveal a small, colored glass. The sensor stared at the screen. It took him a moment to realize that the boy was holding a votive candle. He had seen them frequently in Texas, occasionally in Mexican restaurants, but more often on the side of the road in makeshift shrines. On one side, he knew, was a colorful picture of a saint dressed in flowing robes, a halo overhead. On the other: a prayer.

He watched as the soldier handed everything back to the boy. The soldier pulled out his radio. After a minute, he stepped back and let the boy through, directing him to a truck. Another soldier lifted the boy up into the back, where he sat on the bench sandwiched between two heavily-armed men. The sensor chuckled as the truck began bouncing up the long road toward the hacienda. The boy had made it through.

He had been wondering who would tend the grave. It had become a routine. Every day at noon, and sometimes in the early evening, a gardener would shuffle to the stables where he would retrieve his tools then make the long slow walk out to the grave. There, he would spend a half hour making sure everything was neat and orderly. Then, he would say a prayer, the lieutenant remembered, his hand resting on the marble cross.

But two days ago, the gardener, like many of the other workers, had failed to show up. Sensing their raid was blown, the heavily-armed troops had stormed the gates yesterday, in the darkness before dawn. There had been a brief firefight—a couple of dozen guards killed or wounded—but far less resistance than everyone had been expecting. The sensor hadn’t been on duty then; this he had learned from the briefing. Now, it appeared that many inside the compound had gone home or fled, having somehow caught wind of the pending raid. How so many had managed to flee, under the watchful eyes of the satellites and drones, was still a mystery. And from the frustrated looks on the faces of his officers, the sensor knew that Guerrero and his henchman were still missing.

The sensor followed the truck as it made its way past the house, past the stables, eventually stopping by the wrought iron fence. Two soldiers jumped out then, after helping the boy down, stood to the side as the boy made his way to the gate.

It was six-ten in the morning when the brown-haired man wheeled his small suitcase onto the platform. He found a spot against the wall and stood behind the crowd that was forming on the platform. Although the train was still three minutes out, people were already jostling to be first in line for a good seat.

He glanced down the track, then back at his watch. There was a sharp odor of burnt metal mixed with the pungent smell of grease, coming from the tracks he suspected. Almost June and the morning sun was already warm. The platform continued to fill: men and women dressed in suits, lugging briefcases or computer bags, some carrying newspapers folded below their arms, others sipping from steaming cups of coffee, some doing both. Many wore bored expressions, while the fingers of others danced over their phones’ screens, oblivious to the world around them, as they checked their latest messages or what additional nonsense disguised as news had been posted on CNN. They were like sheep, he thought, as he glanced from one to another. If they only knew how radically their lives were going to change that morning.

The woman next to him glanced over and he smiled. The woman frowned and quickly turned back to her book. A moment later, the woman glanced up again then stepped forward, jostling her way toward the edge of the platform. The others around him stepped forward as well and the man glanced up the track. In the distance, he saw the light. Thirty seconds later, the southbound Metro-North train pulled into the station. He joined the crowd and jostled for a space in front.

When the doors opened, he was tenth in line. He felt the blast of warm air as he stepped into the car. The air conditioning must be broken, he suspected, or perhaps Metro North hadn’t bothered to turn it on. Finding a seat three rows back, he lifted his travel bag. The wheel caught on the bottom of the overhead rack then began to slip from his hands. For a second, he thought he might drop it. An arm darted up, helping him shove the suitcase into the rack. He turned to a young African American man, in his early twenties, dressed in a business suit. The man smiled.

“Thank you.” He grinned at the younger man. “Wouldn’t want to go dropping that.”

The young man smiled back. “No problem,” he said as he headed down the aisle.

As the car began to fill, the brown-haired man shifted the bag slightly. He noticed a young woman next to him, waiting. He smiled as he stepped out of the way. She gave him a quick glance and nodded her thanks as she slid into the window seat. She seemed more interested in the music or whatever she was listening to in her earphones.

Fifteen minutes later, the train pulled into Stamford and he spotted his opportunity. The elderly woman stopped in the aisle and glanced down the length of the car. She was dressed elegantly in clothes that said money wasn’t a concern. She frowned, sighed loudly, then began to turn, when he jumped up.

“Please,” he said with a smile. “Take my seat.”

She smiled stiffly as if frustrated that it had taken him—anyone—so long. “Thank you,” she said dismissively as if she were talking to a servant.

He smiled nonetheless as she brushed past him, then made his way to the doorway, joining two other people who had resigned themselves to the fact that there were no seats left.

Thirty-five minutes later, he heard the static of the speakers and the conductor announced that 125
th
Street was the next stop. As the train began to slow, he turned and noticed the young man who had helped him stow his suitcase. They shared a brief smile.

The doors opened, and he let the man and several others step off, then just before the doors closed again, he followed them onto the platform. He trailed the line of people to the stairs when someone grabbed his arm.

“Hey! Your suitcase!”

He turned, a momentary look of confusion on his face. “Damn!” he said, frowning as the train pulled away.

The young man who had helped him earlier checked his watch. “Another train should be along in a few minutes. If you catch it,” he said, as he nodded toward the departing train, “that train should still be in Grand Central and hopefully you can find your bag.”

“That’s a good idea,” he said. “Thank you.”

He smiled as the young man turned toward the steps. He waited on the platform and a minute later, another train pulled in. This one was headed northbound. He hopped on. He had no intention of going anywhere near Grand Central Terminal today.

In the years after September 11
th
, the detectors had been quietly installed at the entrance to the tunnels at 96
th
Street, where the Metro-North train tracks dropped below Park Avenue. They were strategically placed so that they were able to take multiple readings from each passing car. Similar to other systems on the George Washington Bridge, the Holland Tunnel, and every other heavily traveled route into and out of Manhattan, the detectors initially installed were sodium iodide devices, designed to detect only gamma rays. But later enhancements, the addition of thin-window Geiger-Mueller probes, allowed the system to detect the shorter, heavier beta and alpha rays as well.

However, as the 6:14 out of Westport rumbled by, the detectors registered nothing unusual.

The conductor walked through the cars, ignoring the discarded newspapers, coffee cups, and soda cans. The crew waiting on the platform—the Coach Cleaners—would get those. He was interested in what else he might find. It was amazing what people left behind. Cell phones, calculators, iPods, watches, laptops—even the occasional wallet or purse. Most of these never made it to the lost and found, unless they were big and bulky—like laptops—and were likely to be picked up by the security cameras on the platform. The bulky items and the wallets and purses, he turned in. Of course, the money would have been removed by then, but that was usually the least of his forgetful passenger’s worries. He had learned long ago that they were often relieved to get their driver’s licenses, their credit cards, the pictures of their kids, their passports, and other personal information back and didn’t normally make a fuss over the missing hundred dollars.

Today was a light day, only two cell phones so far. He smiled to himself. It wasn’t every day when he found a diamond tennis bracelet, like he had three years ago. That had been a great day and just in time for his anniversary! So he took the light day in stride, knowing that it meant he was one day closer to another big find.

As he stepped into the next car, he spotted the suitcase up on the shelf. He shook his head. He wouldn’t have time to rifle through it, and it was much too big to hide, unlike the phones in his pocket. Those he would sell to the kid down the block. What the kid did with them, he didn’t know, but the kid would pay him thirty bucks. He glanced up at the suitcase as he pulled out his radio. Although his supervisor would reprimand him—delays were unacceptable for the commuter railroad—he believed in doing his part. They took unattended packages and luggage very seriously in the airports; to his way of thinking, the railroad should do the same. What could his supervisor do? Fire him? Not likely with the union at his back.

“Base. This is Sixteen on track Twenty-three. I got a suspicious stray bag here.”

The Metro-North cop walked down the platform, dodging between the commuters who were waiting to board the train for the outbound leg back to Connecticut. Most, like him, worked the third shift, but, unlike them, he still had another thirty-five minutes before his shift ended. He had been on patrol, on the adjacent platform, when the call came over the radio.

He stepped inside the car and spotted the two conductors chatting. He knew both. Behind them, on the overhead rack, he spotted the bag.

“Hey, Ed, Tom.” He gestured toward the bag. “That it?” he asked.

The conductors turned.

“Hey, Steve,” one said. “Yeah, that’s it.”

The cop studied the carry-on bag for a few seconds. He glanced down at his gun belt, checking his “radiation pager”—the portable detector most cops in the city carried. Nothing.

“You see who put it there?” he asked. “Any reason it’s suspicious?”

Ed, the conductor who had discovered the suitcase, shook his head. “No. I didn’t notice it until after we pulled in.” He shrugged. “But it was left behind…” The unfinished sentence was clear.

The cop nodded, glanced at his watch, then keyed the microphone on his lapel. “This is Unit Two-Nine. I’m going to need the portable ETD and K-9 on track Twenty-three.”

“Copy Two-Nine. Stand by.”

The cop exchanged a glance with the two conductors; Ed pulled his own radio out and called the dispatcher, notifying him of the delay. As the cop stepped back onto the platform, he heard enough of the dispatcher’s angry response over Ed’s radio to know he wasn’t happy.
Tough shit
, he thought. He wasn’t paid to make the dispatcher happy.

The train would wait as the dog sniffed the bag. Then, to be sure, they would swab the bag then run the swab through the detector, checking for trace elements of explosives. Even though he had been trained, he rarely got a chance to use the machine. Besides, he thought as he glanced at his watch again, if he played it right, he would probably earn some overtime.

He turned and scanned the crowd. Many were glancing at their own watches, frustrated at the delay. A moment later, he heard the crackle of the speaker, then the announcement. This was followed by a collective groan from the crowd. The passengers, most wearing a weary, resigned expression, turned, en masse, and began heading toward the new track.

Two of his fellow officers, one leading the German Shepherd on a leash, the other carrying the ETD unit, threaded their way through the stream of passengers. He nodded to both then tilted his head toward the open door next to him. Then, as he turned to step back into the train, there was a bright flash and he was slammed into the steel pillar behind him. He was dead before he knew what hit him.

Jean Dunlap sighed as she turned and began to shuffle slowly with the crowd to the next platform. She glanced at her watch and sighed again when she realized that she would be late for class. She pulled out her phone. A legal secretary, she worked the overnight shift at a law firm where the associates and many partners worked brutal hours, especially when there was a deal underway, as there always seemed to be. She was one of five secretaries who catered to their needs. More of a concierge than a secretary, really—the filing was handled by the paralegals, the lawyers did their own typing, and the phones were answered by a team of receptionists—her job was to arrange for the food, to handle the laundry and to run assorted errands for the overworked lawyers. She made travel arrangements and prepared their expense reports when necessary, and generally made life as easy as she could for the twenty-one associates and five junior partners who often caught only a few hours of sleep in their offices. When she had first taken the job, she had been amazed at the number of businesses that operated around the clock: restaurants and caterers, dry cleaning and laundry services, messengers and overnight delivery services—all available anytime. Her firm was one of seven law firms in the area that operated on a similar schedule, and the service industry in the surrounding neighborhood had grown and prospered along with the lawyers.

She accepted the hours because it allowed her to take law classes during the day. Tomorrow, she planned on speaking to her boss. With the first year of law school behind her, she was hoping to become a paralegal. Then, if she did well in school, in three more years, she would take the bar, and, hopefully, join the other associates who demanded freshly made pasta and fruit smoothies at three in the morning.

She left her professor a message then, as she put her phone away, told herself again that it was worth it. That was her last thought before the bright flash. She never heard the bang. When the first shockwave hit her, she was hurled like a rag doll onto the tracks. In a sense she was lucky: the blast killed her instantly, sparing her a more painful death when her limp body landed on the third rail.

Rebecca Matthews grabbed her husband’s hand even tighter and grinned.

“Isn’t this amazing?” she asked.

Her husband, looking like a deer caught in headlights, shook his head.

“This is crazy!” he responded.

Rebecca glanced at him again and could see that he was grinning too.

They stood still for a moment and watched as harried commuters streamed out of the arched passageways that led to the commuter trains and spilled out onto the main concourse. There the commuters darted left or right, heading off at every angle; many talking on phones or texting, somehow narrowly avoiding collisions as they shot across the floor toward the marble steps of the ornate staircase or around the corner, to where or what, Rebecca didn’t know. She turned and watched as others headed down yet more passageways to yet more mysterious places.
They must lead to someplace important
, she thought. Seconds later, she realized she was right when she spotted a sign on the archway through which a stream of people disappeared. That one led to the subway.

A man brushed past her, and she turned and watched him make his way over to the shops and restaurants along one wall. The noise was deafening but no one seemed to notice or mind, she thought, as she spotted people sitting and eating at the tables that seemed to be set up like a sidewalk cafe.

She shook her head in wonder before the ceiling caught her eye. She stared up at the picture of the night sky above her, the arched ceiling held up by enormous stone columns. She was jostled again and smiled nonetheless as the serious-faced man brushed by. He glanced at her momentarily, mouthed a
sorry
before turning his attention back to his phone and scurrying away. She shook her head as he was swallowed up by the crowd.

“We better ask at the information booth,” her husband said, “before we get run over.”

Rebecca, still grinning, nodded. “I guess we just do like they do. Right?” Her eyes were full of adventure. “Ready?”

Her husband grinned back and, with Rebecca leading, they began to snake their way toward the booth.

Visiting the city for only two days, there was a lot they wanted to see. But first on the list was the Empire State building. Then, shopping on Fifth Avenue, taking in the glitz and glamour, before stopping by St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Then they would make their way up to Central Park, maybe take a horse drawn carriage ride, before working their way back to Rockefeller Center. Unsure whether they should take a cab, try their luck on the subway, or simply walk, they decided to ask for advice. Although, Rebecca thought as she stepped around another group of tourists taking pictures, if the subway was anything like this, a cab or even walking might be better.

She had just reached the booth when the ground shook and a loud bang echoed through the building. There was a momentary silence—a fraction of a second when she was unsure what had happened—before she heard the screams and panicked cries echoing around her. Suddenly there were shouts, and people began pushing and shoving against her. The panic she saw in their eyes only fueled her own.

She turned to her husband, caught the panic in his eyes too, when, suddenly, she lost his hand. She screamed once and reached out for him when she was knocked from behind and fell to the ground. She saw a flash of blue light as her head slammed into the stone floor, then everything went black.

She never saw the smoke that began to billow out of the commuter train passageways.