Despite the early morning and the heavy snowfall, a loose crowd had begun to form around the destruction just off the Manhattan Bridge. A few police cars were parked along the streets, officers bundled in their winter uniform coats and hats trying to keep the crowd back. Beyond them were several ambulances as well as several black SUVs, men and women that were clearly Homeland Security agents moving from dead body to dead body. A helicopter circled in the air. It wasn’t a police chopper, and it wasn’t a news chopper, which made me think it too was from Homeland Security.
I approached down Canal Street on the snowmobile. A block away I hesitated. Even though police and agents swarmed the area, that didn’t mean the people who attacked us weren’t there either. Maybe they were hiding in plain sight, just part of the crowd. Waiting until I showed up before they whipped out their weapons and even more people died.
I spotted Agent Njeim. She was over by the colonnade, speaking to a group of other agents, but when she heard the snowmobile, she turned and saw me and said a few parting words to the agents before heading my way.
A police officer stood between us by his car, its hood lights flashing red. He was already shaking his head, waving for me to stay back. Agent Njeim came up behind him, touched his arm, said something to him. The officer nodded and, with an annoyed look on his face, waved me forward.
I turned off the snowmobile and climbed off it.
“How’s Hector?”
“He’s fine. He’s being treated as we speak.”
She motioned at one of the ambulances.
“What happened to the Black Hawk?”
“It crashed in Tompkins Square Park. No survivors.”
“Was anything salvageable?”
I hesitated. I wasn’t sure whether I should tell her about the cell phone. It still wasn’t clear who I could trust.
But then I remembered how she had walked Sanchez and me around my son’s house, repeating the police report she had undoubtedly read countless times, the thing practically memorized. The care she had taken when she opened my granddaughter’s and grandson’s bedroom doors.
I pulled the cell phone from my pocket.
“This was on the copilot. I doubt it will be useful, but that’s all there was.”
She took the phone from me and immediately stripped off the back, peeled out the battery and withdrew a tiny chip.
“What are you doing?”
“Making sure whoever else may have access to this phone can’t trace it or listen in to our conversation. I’ll have the analysts look at it when we return to base. In fact—”
She waved at an agent by the colonnade, who nodded and started toward one of the SUVs.
“—we should leave. It’s best you don’t stay around here too long. This is already starting to trend on social media. We’re doing our best to suppress it, but it won’t last long.”
“Sanchez?”
“He’ll be taken to the hospital.”
“I’d prefer he came with us. After what just happened, I’d like him to stay with me.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”
“Agent Njeim, he’s the only friend I have right now. I need to keep him close.”
She stared at me for a moment, then nodded.
“I understand.”
“I saw one of the agents from your SUV was killed. The others?”
“Agent Sobreiro was killed. Agent Rachman took a bullet to the leg, but he’ll live.”
“I’m sorry about Agent Palmer.”
She nodded solemnly.
“I’m going to have to tell his wife at some point today. Not sure when I’m going to find the time.”
The chopper continued to circle above us. The cops kept trying to get the crowd to disperse. Even as the people began to drift away, there were those in the nearby buildings watching from windows. Many had their phones out, snapping pictures.
An SUV pulled up.
Agent Njeim opened the back door, motioned me inside.
“If you want to get in, I’ll go get Mr. Sanchez and we’ll be on our way. Mr. Davidson is eager to meet you.”
“Mr. Davidson?”
“He’s the director of the Vault. He’s been involved since day one.”
A minute later Sanchez crawled into the back of the SUV. One of the medics had put his arm in a sling. He winced in pain as he settled in. He glanced at his seat belt, considered attempting to put it on, and then sighed and leaned his head back against the headrest.
I asked, “How do you feel?”
“Been better.”
He kept his eyes closed for a long moment as the driver got us moving. Agent Njeim was in the passenger seat, typing at her cell phone. Then, as we passed the barricade of police cars, Sanchez tilted his face toward me and opened one eye.
“I’m sorry to say it, Eli, but I’m starting to wish you hadn’t returned to the city.”
I stared out my own window at the passing buildings.
“Me too.”
We headed uptown. There were no emergency lights on the SUV, but the driver moved us through the streets like he had a bar on the roof flashing. Another SUV trailed us, no doubt our escort. For a moment I was surprised the helicopter wasn’t also following us, but then I realized that there was a good chance wherever we were going was not public knowledge. It was one thing for two SUVs to be driving through city streets, even if those streets were mostly deserted because of the snow, but an entirely different thing if a helicopter were circling above wherever we were headed.
Several blocks and several minutes later, we entered Midtown and I had my confirmation.
A Bank of America took up the corner of the block. Beside the bank was the entrance to an underground parking garage. The idea of entering another parking garage after having just been in one was a bit unsettling, but something told me this one wouldn’t be full of Ukrainian mobsters.
“A bank?”
Agent Njeim shifted in her seat to look back at me.
“People don’t question black SUVs and sedans coming out of a parking garage next to a bank. They just assume it’s business. If we were next to a dry cleaner’s, on the other hand, that might raise some eyebrows.”
I remembered what Agent Palmer had called their headquarters and nodded.
“I get it now. The Vault.”
Agent Njeim smiled.
“Exactly.”
A gate blocked the entrance to the parking garage. The driver paused before the entrance, leaned forward to stare out the windshield. It was difficult to know what he was looking for, but based on what Agent Palmer had told me two hours earlier, there were probably cameras stationed somewhere outside.
The gate began to lift.
The driver took his foot off the SUV’s brake and coasted us over the sidewalk and into the entrance. The SUV behind us followed. We went down a ramp into a much better lit garage than the one where Roman Vyhovsky and his men had been waiting. It made it easy to see the armed guards waiting at the base of the ramp.
There were four of them. Three of them had submachine guns strapped over their shoulders. A fourth held a German shepherd on a short leash, and as the driver stopped the SUV, the man led the dog around the vehicle one time, letting it sniff for explosives. Even with this measure done, another man used a stick with a mirror on its end to check the belly of the SUV.
Agent Njeim said, “Normally security isn’t so tight. But after what just happened, Mr. Davidson isn’t taking any chances.”
Beyond the four guards were a half-dozen other black SUVs parked against one wall, a handful of black sedans parked against another.
Once the guard with the mirror waved us forward, the driver accelerated several yards and parked near the other SUVs.
We got out as the guards inspected the second SUV.
Agent Njeim led us toward an elevator. She pressed her thumb against a pad on the wall and the elevator doors slid open.
We stepped inside—just the three of us, the driver staying back.
I asked, “What floor?”
She pressed the only button on the panel.
“Basement.”
The doors slid shut and we began to descend.