An Eye For An Eye (25 page)

Ginny Martinelli pushed the hair out of her eyes and wiped her brow from the stifling air as she stared out the window. From the forty-eighth floor of the Chrysler Building, she had a bird’s eye view of Manhattan. In the fading light, she saw the reflection of the still blinking lights of the emergency vehicles down on the street below. She sighed. This was her first time visiting the building and she hated it. Tired, hungry, in need of a shower and a change of clothes, she had been trapped here for almost two days. What was worse, though, was not knowing.
How much radiation had she been exposed to? Would she get sick? Would she die?

A photographer, she had been hired by a real estate agent to take pictures of the vacant sixty-fourth floor. Not the type of job she was expecting when she decided that she might be able to carve out a living as a photographer, she had taken the job nonetheless. Still building her client base and her reputation, she rarely turned down work. Now, she regretted that decision.

She had asked for an early morning shoot—to capture the morning sunlight coming through the windows, she had told the agent. But the real reason was that she had another appointment at 9:30 all the way uptown. And so, they had met at 7:30 and, while she toured the space, considering angles and light, the young agent was on her heels, whispering suggestions into her ear. He wasn’t even the listing agent, she suspected, just one of the junior agents assigned to prep the property. She had politely and diplomatically given the overly helpful young man a five-dollar bill and sent him downstairs for two cups of coffee. Then, with him out of her hair, she pulled out her camera. She had only taken a dozen pictures when she heard the muffled bang. It sounded like an auto accident—not an uncommon sound in the city—and she had ignored it. Then came the sirens. These were commonplace too and she had ignored those as well. It wasn’t until she had finished taking pictures and uploading them to her laptop that she began to wonder what had happened to the agent. She had tried calling his cell and when she heard the tones and then the message that all circuits were busy, she began to pace. She didn’t want to leave without showing him the proofs. After repeatedly glancing at her watch, she walked over to the window and stared out at the beautiful morning. The skies were a brilliant shade of blue. She heard the sirens—they had been going nonstop she suddenly realized—and she pressed her face up against the glass, straining to see what was happening. Frustrated that she couldn’t see anything due to the angle, she began pacing again.

Ten minutes later, angry and not wanting to be late for her next appointment, she packed up her computer. It was probably better that she was unable to reach the agent, she thought. If she told him what she was thinking, as she had a very strong urge to do, she probably would have lost the client.

“Goddamn it!” she said five minutes later as she pressed the elevator call button again. With a sigh she tried her phone. When she heard the same message, she hit the disconnect button angrily and turned toward the stairs. With her backpack slung over her shoulder, she began making her way down, all the while cursing the agent and the sixty-four floors. Seven floors later, she met a handful of people. She asked what was wrong with the elevator and one woman shrugged her shoulders and said something about a fire at Grand Central.

“How does that affect us?” Ginny asked.

The woman merely shrugged.

It was then that Ginny began to wonder whether something was wrong.

She joined the group as they made their way down. By the time they got to the fifty-second floor, they heard voices below. The sound grew until they finally joined a larger group four stories below. Stopping on the crowded landing just above the forty-eighth floor, they spotted two men in white hazmat suits—firefighters or cops, she wasn’t sure. Using a bullhorn—their voices muffled by the hoods—they instructed people to return to their offices. They explained that there was an emergency situation at Grand Central and that once that was under control they would allow people to leave. They shook their heads at most questions and after a lot of protesting and grumbling the crowd began to disperse. Many began to make their way back up the stairway.

As Ginny flattened herself against the wall, she tried her phone again. Hearing the busy circuit message once more she hung up and pushed her way through the people coming up the steps. She was met by the two white suited men at the top of the stairwell on the floor below.

“You need to go back to your office, miss,” one had said. “You’ll be safer there.”

She lodged her own protest and, when that fell on deaf ears, she was directed through the doors onto the forty-eighth floor and into the offices of an investment firm. There she had remained for a long day and even longer night, sleeping fitfully on several chairs lined up side by side. The seven people in the office treated her well, and their well-stocked refrigerator meant that she wouldn’t go hungry. The water cooler and the half-dozen spare carboys meant she wouldn’t go thirsty either, at least not yet.

The large-screen TV in the conference room was tuned to CNN and from it they had learned about the attack. Hours later, they learned about the radiation. Most of the staff had congregated around the set throughout the day, some continuing to sit there through the night. Several were there right now, but Ginny had seen enough. It was bad enough to be trapped in the building, but to watch the same images over and over again, to hear the endless speculation was too much.

The firemen in suits had stopped by four times to check on them, to take headcounts and to see if anyone needed medical attention. Then there were the constant announcements over the building’s public address system, at least one per hour, Ginny had noticed, even during the long night. They were reassured that they would be evacuated soon, but she was beginning to resign herself to the fact that it might be another day or two. She had tried to send emails, to her friends, to her family, to let them know she was okay, but the servers seemed to be overwhelmed.

The staff had long abandoned their business attire, ties and suit jackets gone, shirts and blouses untucked. The air conditioning had been turned off early yesterday and the temperature had climbed during the day. People drank tea and coffee by the gallon, the caffeine not helping already frazzled nerves. Most grumbled, and one or two were angry, but Kathy, the senior partner, had done her best to reassure everyone, to calm the tension. She had even set up an exercise schedule and, once every two hours, led everyone through calisthenics and deep breathing exercises, both to take their mind off the terrible news on TV and to ease the tension over their plight. Ginny had to admit, Kathy was doing an admirable job under the circumstances.

She sighed and stepped away from the window, thinking that maybe she would go to the ladies room to splash water on her face then try to send an email. Again.

“Telephone service has been restored. Computers are up too.”

Ginny turned. Kathy stood in the doorway. Even the strain was staring to get to her, Ginny noticed. There were lines around her eyes, but still Kathy offered a smile. She was worried like everyone else, Ginny realized. She probably had a family, kids.
God,
Ginny chided herself.
She was so preoccupied with her own worries that she hadn’t even thought to ask about Kathy’s.
Through it all, Kathy had been more than accommodating to the stranger who had barged into her office a day and a half ago.

“Thanks, Kathy,” Ginny smiled as she reached for her phone.

She glanced at it and cursed silently. The battery was dead.

“Feel free to use that one,” Kathy said, gesturing toward the office phone on the table.

Ginny picked up the receiver and waved her thanks as Kathy left. Then she hesitated. Overwhelmed by being out of touch for almost thirty-six hours, she was suddenly unsure who to call. She stared at the phone for a minute and her hand shook as she punched in the number. She heard two rings before the phone was answered.

“Hello?” The voice was shaky, tentative.

“Mom?” Ginny said and then she began to cry.

Terry Fogel resisted the urge to laugh. With the high-pitched call of the gulls, the sound of the surf, and the smell of seaweed and salt in the breeze, if he closed his eyes he might have been standing on a quay back in Belfast. Yet, here he was, in the shade of a small covered cowshed with the angry head of one of Mexico’s most ruthless cartels, both dressed as if they were the
vaqueros
hired to mind the horses and cattle. He enjoyed the charade; no one would mistake them for the men who had plotted and carried out the bombing in New York. But as he had found in Belfast, the tit for tat cycle of revenge—a three-way match between the IRA, the Prods, and the British alike—left a seething anger in men for whom the latest retribution by bomb or bullet brought no more sense of relief than the one before it. Guerrero was no different.

Fogel wondered if he had overestimated the man. Guerrero didn’t get it. Certainly, while the loss of life was nowhere near what Guerrero himself had been able to inflict in Mexico City, a half a loaf, as his grandmother used to say, is better than no bread at all.

Guerrero, his eyes filled with menace, said nothing as he waited for an answer.

“I told you the number of deaths would be small,” Fogel said. “The purpose of this wasn’t to kill people, but to bring New York City to its knees.”

Guerrero continued to glare.

Fogel held up his phone, a newscast playing on the screen. “Radiation is a scary thing. People are nervous. Right now, there are hundreds of thousands, possibly millions of people wondering not if but when they will become sick. Maybe not right away, but ten years from now, twenty years from now”—he drew a steep line in the air with his finger—“cancer rates will shoot up.” He sniffed dismissively and shook his head. “They have no idea how to handle this.”

Guerrero said nothing.

He was no different than the boys back home, Fogel thought.

“Think of the impact this will have on their economy,” he continued, nodding to his cell phone again. “New York City is shut down and, right now, they don’t know when they will be able to return to normal. Or if they ever will. People will stay as far away from the city as they can, uncertain whether the government is telling them the truth when they say it’s safe.

“Think about it,” he added with a wave of his hand. “Restaurants, theaters, stores—they’ll all be forced to close. Businesses for blocks around Grand Central will move out—either because they are forced out by authorities or because they’re scared. Real estate prices in the surrounding blocks will plummet, and a relatively small but once very expensive piece of real estate in the heart of Manhattan might be deemed uninhabitable.” He held his phone up again. “Some of the newscasters are already suggesting that officials might not have any other choice but to tear buildings down.” He stared down at his phone for a moment before he continued. “Imagine that,” he said, almost to himself. “Some of the most expensive real estate in the world bulldozed to the ground and fenced off for years to come.” He looked up at Guerrero and smirked. “And what about the people who live there? They’ll leave the first chance they get. There’ll be a mass exodus as they move to Virginia or Pennsylvania or Ohio; somewhere far away from New York.” He twirled his finger. “And the death spiral will begin.”

He paused to study the Mexican. The angry glare was gone. Guerrero was thinking. “And it won’t just be in New York,” Fogel continued, knowing he had him now. “Chicago, Boston, Houston, Atlanta—all of their big cities will see the same thing. People will no longer feel safe living or working inside a giant target.” He grinned. “A terrorist sows terror, and that is precisely what I’ve done.”

Guerrero was silent for another moment before Fogel thought he noticed the hint of a smirk.

“How many more canisters do you have?” Guerrero asked.

With a frown, the president hung up the phone and turned to Matthew Richter.

“The mayor has imposed a curfew. There’s been some looting.”

Richter nodded. He had already been briefed. The looting was not just in Manhattan but in the outer boroughs as well and was primarily focused on survival items: water, food, medical supplies. It hadn’t taken long, though, before it had spread to items of opportunity: electronics, furniture, anything people could get their hands on in the midst of chaos.

This had been expected. The city’s emergency response center had run scenarios and looting was, unfortunately, one of the anticipated aftereffects of a major calamity.

“There’s also been a spike in crime,” the president added.

Richter nodded again. Violent crimes—muggings, robberies, and rapes—were all up. It was a tug of war between those looking to cash in on opportunity and the basic survival instinct of the masses. People were hoarding supplies, and stores in turn were jacking up prices. Meanwhile, the violent element had taken to the streets, preying on the masses.

“Yes,” Richter agreed, “but the fortunate thing is that most of what’s happening was expected. From what I can see, the mayor and the governor have done a good job in anticipating these challenges and responding appropriately.”

The number of cops on duty across the city, Richter explained, had increased twofold as shifts had been extended and, under emergency procedures, overtime became mandatory. Not that it had been necessary. Many cops had refused to go home at the end of their shift. The governor had deployed the National Guard and the State Police to assist. And in addition to the hundreds of federal agents working on the investigation, thousands more had been sent to assist New York City Police in restoring order.

“Still,” the president continued with a sigh, “the mayor assures me that it’s not been as bad as they had expected.” He came around his desk and sat down on the couch. He gestured for Richter to do the same.

“Are they moving fast enough in evacuating the hot zones?” the president asked.

“From what FEMA and the NEST teams are telling me, they’re moving as fast as they can, sir. Everyone has to be checked by medical personnel, and they’ve been working their way through, building by building. They expect to have that done in two more days. In the meantime, they’re making sure that the people who are trapped have enough food and water. They’re also dealing with a spike in medical emergencies, which frankly isn’t unusual during a disaster such as this.”

“A full moon?” The president asked.

“Sort of, sir,” Richter answered. “Disasters tend to bring out both the best and the worst in people.” New York City, he explained, had been preparing for this day for years. As part of the Joint Terrorism Taskforce, he had participated in numerous scenarios, mock disasters, and drills. Ever since 9/11, the city had been holding these exercises, preparing hospitals, clinics, medical personnel, as well as city, state, and federal health and emergency personnel for the day that no one ever wanted to see but knew was coming nonetheless.

After another minute of discussion, the president waved his hand, dismissing the matter. New York was in capable hands. He and Richter had other things to discuss.

“What’s the latest?”

Richter let out a breath then told the president about three additional canisters of cesium that had been stolen and the scramble to determine if all or only some had been used in Grand Central.

The president’s eyes darkened. “We need to find Fogel,” he said. “Pretty damn quick.”

Terry Fogel glanced out the window as the bus slowed. Seeing nothing but scrub brush on the side of the road, he leaned over into the aisle and peered out the driver’s windshield. Over the line of cars in front, he saw the flashing lights.
An accident?
he wondered.
No matter
, he thought as he glanced at his watch then sat back.
Nothing to worry about
. He still had plenty of time before the flight.

As the bus pulled forward, he could see the orange cones out his window, then the black trucks with their flashing lights, the men in black tactical gear, only their eyes and mouths visible through their masks. Most were cradling automatic weapons in their arms while a few others held leashes, the German Shepherds sitting patiently at their sides.
Los Federales
. The Federal Police.
Well that answers one question
, he thought. It wasn’t an accident; it was a roadblock.

Beyond them, he spotted the two larger trucks, both painted a dull, army green. Standing in a line in front were a dozen soldiers, also carrying automatic weapons. They were serious about this, he mused.

He casually glanced around the bus. Most other passengers, he noticed, looked up briefly and, seemingly unconcerned, turned their attention back to their books or their cell phones or the conversations they were having. He glanced over at the girl across the aisle, the teenager who spoke English. He caught her eye.

She smiled. “It’s just a routine stop,” she said as she pulled out her ID card. “They do this all the time.”

“What are they looking for?” he asked with a smile.

“Drugs,” she responded. “But it shouldn’t take long. We’ll be on our way soon.” The girl, fourteen or fifteen he thought, was sitting next to an older woman. Probably her grandmother, he guessed. Recognizing him as a foreigner when they had boarded earlier, she had decided to practice her English until her grandmother scolded her.

The old woman glowered at the girl again, then looked back down at her lap as she worked her fingers over the rosary beads, silently mumbling the same prayers she had been muttering since the bus had left two hours ago. For a brief moment his smile faded as he thought of his own grandmother, long dead now. Coming home late in the evening, or sometimes very early in the morning, he would find her in front of the wood stove, her fingers playing over the beads. Praying for him, he knew.

“You have nothing to worry about,” the girl said then smiled. “Unless you have drugs.”

He grinned back. “And what would I be wanting drugs for?” he asked, the lilt in his voice, the Belfast accent slipping out in a momentary lapse.

She laughed, and her grandmother gave her another dirty look and said something in Spanish. The girl rolled her eyes and Fogel grinned as he pulled out his passport. It was an Australian passport, the edges and cover slightly worn as they would be for a frequent traveler. However, despite its appearance, the passport was new as was the tourist visa folded inside. The passport that he had used when he fled the U.S. after the bombing was now nothing more than ashes in an incinerator. Even he wasn’t foolhardy enough to try and use it again.

The bus stopped and Fogel heard the hiss as the doors opened. A federal cop, this one not wearing a mask, climbed on board and barked out an order in Spanish. The passengers around him began to gather their belongings.

“They want us to get off,” the girl said. “They want to search the bus.” She nodded at the bin over his head. “You have to take your bags.”

Fogel nodded and smiled as he stood and grabbed his carry-on. He followed the girl and her grandmother as they made their way up the aisle and then down the steps into the hot sun. As his eyes adjusted to the glare, he noticed the line of masked policeman. The one who had ordered them off the bus was shouting and pointing at the two tables set up on the side of the road. Fogel joined the other passengers as they obediently formed a line.

A cop with a dog circled the bus, the dog sniffing the tires and the wheel wells. Two more cops with dogs waited by the storage compartment while the driver pulled out the luggage and lined it up on the side of the road next to the bus. Fogel hid his smirk. He glanced farther up the road and saw the line of soldiers and, to the side, the sandbag emplacement and the dark-eyed soldier standing behind the machine gun. He felt like he was back in Belfast.
Jesus
, he thought. They were serious.

The line moved quickly. The police glanced briefly at the passengers’ documents, asked one or two questions, hastily searched their hand luggage, then directed them to the side of the road where they waited. They would soon be on their way again, Fogel thought. When he reached the table, the man standing behind said something, and Fogel shook his head.

“I don’t speak Spanish,” he said, smiling.

The cop who had ordered them off the bus stepped over. “You’re American?” the cop asked in English.

Fogel shook his head. “I’m Australian.”

“Your passport.” The cop held his hand out.

Fogel handed over his documents.

“Put your bag on the table please,” the cop instructed.

Fogel did as he was told and watched as the cop behind the table unzipped the bag and began pulling his clothes and toiletries out. That his luggage was being inspected more thoroughly was obvious to both him as well as the other passengers who now seemed to regard him warily. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the English-speaking cop flip through the pages in his passport, studying each for a moment before turning his attention to the tourist visa. The cop looked up.

“Your purpose for visiting Mexico, Mr. Abbott?”

“Business,” Fogel responded.

The cop studied him for a moment before he nodded.

“Wait here,” he ordered, staring for a second to make sure Fogel understood before he walked away.

Fogel watched as the cop climbed up into one of the trucks. He could see the glare of a computer through the window and, after a few moments, he saw the cop speaking on the phone. This was more than a random drug inspection, Fogel realized as he casually glanced around. All of the other passengers, having already passed through the inspection, were standing to the side. Fogel could feel as well as see that all eyes were on him. He smiled at the girl and began to weigh his options.

Pablo Guerrero walked along the bluff overlooking the ocean. By himself, he passed the cows and the few horses that were out grazing. He followed the rough split-rail fence over the uneven ground to the gate. Beyond was the path that led down to the ocean. Resting his hands on the gate, he stared out over the beach. He could still picture Carolina, laughing as they swam in the surf. She had enjoyed the smell of the salt water, floating on the gentle waves, splashing and playing with her papá. The wave had hit them from behind—he hadn’t seen it coming—and Carolina had tumbled out of his arms. He felt a flood of panic as she disappeared below the surface. She had resurfaced moments later, dazed and scared, ten yards from him, and he had lunged before she disappeared again.

That day, for the first time in his life, he had known what fear felt like.

He pictured Carolina again moments after he had pulled her to the beach; she was laughing and running across the sand, her wet hair flying in the breeze.

“Catch me, Papá!” she had called over her shoulder.

As he stared out at the beach, a single tear slid down his cheek.