Текст книги "Twelve Hours"

Автор книги: Leo J. Maloney

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Highest Praise for Leo J. Maloney and His Thrillers

Twelve Hours

“Fine writing and real insider knowledge make this a must.”

–Lee Child

Black Skies

“Smart, savvy, and told with the pace and nuance that only

a former spook could bring to the page, Black Skies is a

tour-de-force novel of 21st century espionage and a great

geopolitical thriller. Maloney is the new master of the

modern spy game and this is first-rate story telling.”

—Mark Sullivan

“Black Skies is rough, tough, and entertaining. Leo J.

Maloney has written a ripping story.”

—Meg Gardiner

Silent Assassin

“Leo Maloney has done it again. Real life often

overshadows fiction and Silent Assassin is both: a

terrifyingly thrilling story of a man on a clandestine

mission to save us all from a madman hell-bent on murder,

written by a man who knows that world all too well.”

–Michele McPhee

“From the bloody, ripped-from-the-headlines opening

sequence, Silent Assassin grabs you and doesn’t let go.

Silent Assassin has everything a thriller reader wants—

nasty villains, twists and turns, and a hero—Cobra—

who just plain kicks ass.”

–Ben Coes

“Dan Morgan, a former Black Ops agent called out of

retirement and back into a secretive world of politics

and deceit to stop a madman.”

–The Stoneham Independent

Termination Orders

“Leo J. Maloney is the new voice to be reckoned with.

Termination Orders rings with the authenticity that can

only come from an insider. This is one outstanding thriller!”

–John Gilstrap

“Taut, tense, and terrifying! You’ll cross your fingers it’s

fiction—in this high-powered, action-packed thriller, Leo

Maloney proves he clearly knows his stuff.”

–Hank Phillippi Ryan

“A new must-read action thriller that features a

double-crossing CIA and Congress, vengeful

foreign agents, a corporate drug ring, the Taliban,

and narco-terrorists . . . A you-are-there account of

torture, assassination, and double agents, where nothing

is as it seems.”

–Jon Renaud

“Leo J. Maloney is a real-life Jason Bourne.”

–Josh Zwylen, Wicked Local Stoneham

“A masterly blend of Black Ops intrigue, cleverly

interwoven with imaginative sequences of fiction.

The reader must guess which accounts are real and

which are merely storytelling.”

–Chris Treece, “The Chris Treece Show”

“A deep ops story, presented in an epic style, that mixes

fact with a bit of fiction to create a spy thriller that takes

the reader deep into secret spy missions.”

–Cy Hilterman, Best Sellers World

“For fans of spy thrillers seeking a bit of realism mixed

into their novels, Termination Orders will prove to be

an excellent pick. Recommended.”

–Midwest Book Reviews

ALSO BY LEO J. MALONEY

Termination Orders

Silent Assassin

Black Skies

Twelve Hours

LEO J. MALONEY

e-PINNACLE

Kensington Publishing Corp.

www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

Highest Praise for Leo J. Maloney and His Thrillers

ALSO BY LEO J. MALONEY

Title Page

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Teaser chapter

Copyright Page

While writing this book I spent time in New York City

and spoke to many police officers and firefighters there. I

dedicate this novel to all the innocent victims of 9/11 and

to all the courageous men and women who were the first

responders to that horrific terrorist attack. Thank you to

all military personnel and first responders for your

service to our country. God Bless America.

Thanksgiving Day, 11:00 A.M.

The Bahrainis walked into the Park Avenue lobby of the Waldorf Astoria precisely at the appointed time, Acosta noted, looking down at his watch. Four of them, each in a sharp dark gray suit, tieless, all sporting facial hair in various styles. They walked with deliberate strides in a loose V formation, one man taking the lead. He had a trim black moustache on an angular face of light olive skin. His eyes were hidden behind dark gold-framed aviator sunglasses, but as he drew closer, Acosta saw an impassive expression—the face of a man who would be hard to please. Acosta adjusted his tie.

“That them?” asked Shane Rosso.

“I would believe so, Mr. Rosso.”

Rosso grunted in response. He was a simple man, an aging ex-cop of few words and, Acosta suspected, just as many thoughts. He was no good with guests, lacking the fine-tuned sense of politeness and propriety needed to work luxury hospitality. He was a fine head of security, though, and Acosta preferred him behind the scenes where he belonged. But the newcomers had asked for him to be present at their arrival, so here he was.

Acosta drew a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the sweat on his brow. Then he slipped on a solicitous smile and walked a few paces to meet the new arrivals, hand extended for a shake.

“Welcome, gentlemen,” he said.

“I am Makram Safar,” said the man, offering no sign that he’d seen Acosta’s hand. His accent was mostly BBC, with only a hint of the hardness of the Middle Eastern speech. “Head of security for Mr. Rasif Maloof.”

“Welcome to the Waldorf Astoria, Mr. Safar,” Acosta said, drawing back his hand, and, not knowing what else to do, bowing. “My name is Angelo Acosta, assistant manager. I’m here to help you with anything you might need in preparation for Mr. Maloof ’s visit.”

Safar met Acosta’s gaze for the first time through dark lenses. “I was told that the general manager would be here.” He looked at Mr. Rosso, the fish-eyed, thin-haired grunt in the rumpled suit. “I take it this is not him.”

“I’m afraid Mr. Floyd will not be here today, sir,” said Acosta. “I guarantee that he will be here tomorrow for Mr. Maloof ’s arrival. This is Mr. Rosso, our head of security.”

Safar raised an eyebrow. “But he is not here today?”

“My apologies, sir. I could certainly call him for you, sir, if you—”

“There will be no need,” said Safar, waving his hand. “You will do. We will need access to your security station—exclusive access—for the duration of Mr. Maloof’s stay.”

“Yes, that had been discussed,” said Acosta. This was completely against protocol, and exposed them to significant liability. But Maloof was paying them a not-so-small fortune to rent the Presidential Suite, and their general manager, Jerry Floyd, would brook no argument on this guest doing exactly as he pleased.

“Is there a problem?”

“No problem at all, sir,” Acosta reassured him. “You’ll have full access to our security capabilities. Mr. Rosso here will make sure that you have everything you need.”

“Good,” said Safar. “We require three members of the cleaning staff on call at all times, but no one is to come into Mr. Maloof ’s suite without being sent for. I cannot emphasize this point enough. Do you understand?”

“Of course, sir, we—”

“We will also need access to a secure and exclusive Internet connection, and you are to have a personal halal chef and laundry service on short order. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly, sir. All that has already been arranged, as per your advance instructions.”

“Good,” said Safar. “We have more men who will arrive with Mr. Maloof ’s luggage shortly.”

“I’ll have the porters waiting for them.”

“Nobody is to handle Mr. Maloof ’s luggage but us,” said Safar with unexpected sharpness. “Just have the keys to the suite prepared and we will take care of the rest.”

“Certainly, sir. Now, while your key cards are prepared, I can personally take you on a guided tour of our amenities. We boast a twenty-four-hour fitness center conveniently adjacent to our—”

“We have read the website,” said Safar. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Very well,” said Acosta, masking his chagrin as he gestured toward the chairs in the lobby. “If you gentlemen would like to take a seat as we get your key cards squared away.”

Rosso followed as Acosta made his way to the reception desk.

“I do not get paid enough for this shit,” Rosso grumbled. “Babysitting a bunch of . . .” his voice trailed off into a mumble.

“Screw this up and neither of us is going to be paid at all,” said Acosta. “Because we’re going to be out on our asses.”

“You know they’re going to wreck that room, don’t you?” said Rosso. “It’s always the same with these guys.”

“They are paying us enough to do whatever they want,” said Acosta. Then he turned to the girl at reception. “You, uh . . .”

“Debra,” she offered.

“Debra,” he said, “is the suite ready for our special guests?”

“Housekeeping is just about done, Mr. Acosta.” He looked down at his watch and considered that he might just get off work on time. Things seemed to be running smoothly, and suddenly Thanksgiving at home seemed like a real possibility. All he had to do was to get organized and keep everything humming.

Acosta took the express elevator upstairs and did a quick check of the multiroom suite—he had gone through it much more thoroughly earlier—and then returned to the lobby, where Safar and the others sat in stiff silence.

“Gentlemen, please follow me.”

It was a silent ride up. Upon arriving at the floor, Acosta opened the door marked THE PRESIDENTIAL SUITE. He gestured at the sprawling three-bedroom, 2,245-square-foot apartment appointed with Georgian furniture. “Would you like me to give you a tour? We have some exclusive items donated by past US presidents, which are themselves—”

“We will manage from here,” Safar cut him off. “My men will be coming down to confer with Mr. Rosso on security. Please tell your staff to stay clear from this floor unless summoned. Is that clear?”

“Of course,” said Acosta. He stood, expecting further directions. Instead, Safar just said, “Go.”

Acosta bowed and took his leave. Just three days, he told himself as he got into the elevator and hit the button for the lobby. And just another ninety minutes before he could leave, if all went well.

Acosta emerged into the lobby, walking as if he had purpose, but his step lost its spring when he reached the front desk. He was not actually needed anywhere at the moment, but he was still running on the nervous energy of attending to their exacting guest. He thought of calling the chef to confirm once more, but he had already done that not two hours before. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw two of the Bahrainis emerge from the elevator and started toward them before he noticed that they were moving toward Rosso, who escorted them into the back rooms. Acosta sighed and threw up his hands, then walked back to the front desk and called over a guest who was in line for checkout.

Before long, a town car arrived with the remaining two members of Mr. Maloof’s security team and the luggage. As instructed, Acosta directed them to the elevator and left them there to go up on their own to the correct floor. He glanced at his watch. Quarter of an hour to the end of his shift. Bob would be arriving to relieve him within minutes if he wasn’t late, and Bob was never late. He shifted his weight on his aching feet.

There was a lull in checkout, and it looked as though Acosta might actually be getting out of there when a man in a cheap black suit, clearly a livery driver, walked into the lobby. He looked around and identified Acosta as the one in charge, going straight for him.

“Hey, you know where those Arab dudes went?”

“Do you mean the Bahraini gentlemen?” asked Acosta.

“Arab, Bahraini, I don’t care,” said the driver, agitated. “I brought them all the way in from the airport, and I still haven’t been paid.”

“I’m sure it was just a misunderstanding,” said Acosta. He picked up the hotel intercom and dialed their room. “We’ll get this sorted out in a minute.” The phone returned a busy signal. He pressed down the hook and redialed. Busy again. “I’m sorry,” he told the driver. “I can’t get through.”

The driver leaned on the counter. “Listen, man, I gotta get going. If I don’t make it home in the next hour, the wife’s gonna have my head. Can’t you take care of it? Charge it to their room or something?”

“It’s against policy,” said Acosta. “I really can’t.”

“Hey, man, I gotta get out of here,” said the driver. “But I ain’t leaving until I get paid.”

Acosta cast a sidelong glance at the clock. If he didn’t make it out within the next ten minutes, he’d hit horrendous traffic.

“Let me see what I can do,” he said. He walked to the elevator with slight trepidation, reassuring himself with each step. Maloof wasn’t there yet. What harm could there be? They would appreciate the service he was providing in letting them know personally.

Acosta got into the elevator and hit the button for their floor. He planned out what he was going to say. The right level of deference and solicitousness would disarm their complaints, he was sure. It was just a matter of taking it far enough.

The elevator doors parted open and he walked to the Presidential Suite. The door was ajar and he heard talking inside. He approached the threshold.

“Gentlemen, pardon me for interrupting,” he said, knocking lightly and pushing the door open. “I’m afraid there is a situation—”

Acosta caught sight out of the corner of his eye of something black and heavy on the dining room table, which he could just see from the door. A second look told him it was several heavy black objects, and a third confirmed the suspicion that hovered at the edge of his consciousness.

Guns. Not just handguns, but those—what were those called? Submachine guns. Like Uzis, but not quite. Certainly something way beyond what this kind of security team would need—and wouldn’t they need permits for this kind of thing? What could be their—

His thoughts were interrupted as he saw that Safar was standing across the entry foyer, looking right at him. Acosta backed away as Safar moved forward.

“I truly, deeply apologize, sir,” began Acosta.

“Not at all,” said Safar with a vicious grin and a solicitude built on the most menacing undertones. “Please, Mr. Acosta, come in.”

He drew closer. Acosta could not hope to evade him without turning around. But he clung to the hope that, if he made no explicit sign of what he had seen, Safar would not stop him. “There really is no need,” he said. How far was the elevator? He didn’t dare look back. He took tiny backward steps, the logic of cornered prey taking over his mind. “I’ll come back at a more opportune time.”

In three more strides, Safar reached him. Acosta froze. “Please,” he said, his face inches from Acosta’s, his breath hot like a lion’s. “Stay.”

Acosta turned to run away, but as his finger pressed the elevator button, he saw a flash of black cross in front of his eyes and felt a tug at his neck, so tight. He couldn’t breathe. He was pulled back and his legs gave out. He fell on the carpeted floor, the wire tight around his neck—surely it would be cutting into his skin by now—as his lungs burned for air. He heard a ding, and the last thing he saw before the world faded to black were the art deco doors sliding open to reveal an empty elevator paneled with rich mahogany.

Black Friday, 6:13 A.M.

The tablet shook in Alex Morgan’s hand as the train rocked side to side. She set it down on her lap in frustration. Reading was going to be impossible. She shut her eyes and tried to lean her head back but soon realized that the noise in the car was going to make sleep impossible, too. She opened her eyes and saw that Clark had his phone raised up to take a picture.

“Smile,” he said.

Clark Duffy, tall and gangly in a hoodie with red earbuds popped into his ear. Clark Duffy, who smoked clove cigarettes and played a badly tuned guitar on which he knew four chords. Clark Duffy, who’d been her friend for years, but had lately been making awkward passes at her, and had not taken her polite ignoring of those passes as the rejection that it was. This was building toward an unpleasant confrontation that she didn’t like to think about. It had gotten to the point that she was actually a little put off at making the trip down to New York with him.

“Wanna see?” he said, turning the phone’s screen toward her. She leaned forward. Normally she wouldn’t care how she turned out in other people’s pictures, but she was still getting used to her new pixie haircut, and the unfamiliarity of her own visage got the better of her. She was pleased to see that the short brown hair framed her face quite nicely, bringing out her brown eyes.

“Cool,” she said, leaning back and turning on her tablet again.

“You should have smiled,” he said. “You’ve got a really captivating smile. Your teeth are, like, super white and straight. Too bad you’re so short.”

She stuck her tongue out at him. “I’m five seven.”

“Oh, I get it, you’re a giant,” he said. “What’re you reading?”

“Just the news,” she said, hoping to avoid conversation.

“What’s so interesting in there anyway?” he asked, pulling out his earbuds and fiddling with his phone. “I don’t really follow that stuff.” He put the phone and earphones into the pouch in his hoodie.

“Something about Ramadani’s visit,” she said.

“I’ve heard that name before.” He frowned.

“The president of Iran,” she said. “Navid Ramadani? Ring a bell?”

“Ah,” he said, nodding. “I remember seeing that on the news. I mostly read Pitchfork.” He laughed. “How about giving me the highlights?”

“Well, he’s here for a state visit,” she said. “To discuss nuclear power, nuclear weapons, and conflict in the Middle East. Hold on,” she said, and searched for a picture on her tablet. She picked the first hit on the search, a portrait that showed his serious and vaguely handsome face head-on, with its well-defined jawline, thick eyebrows, and neatly trimmed beard. “Here,” she said, handing it to him.

Clark took it in his hands. “Looks young,” he said.

“He is, for a President,” said Alex.

“He’s one of the bad guys, right?” He handed her back the tablet.

Alex grimaced. “He’s actually hoping to put all that stuff behind us,” she said. “Everyone knows that he’s coming to the US to make a kind of peace offering.”

“Everyone knows?” He grinned.

“Well, everyone who reads about this kind of thing. He’s all about bringing the US and Iran closer together, putting the bad blood behind us. ”

“So he’s pretty different from the last one, right?”

“Yes. But not everyone in Iran is happy about it,” she said. “Especially the Ayatollah.”

Clark raised an eyebrow. “Now, I know I’ve heard that word before. I’m getting some vague association with the seventies.”

“The Supreme Leader of Iran,” she explained helpfully. “The first one came to power after the Iranian Revolution of 1979. This new guy, Nasr, who rose to power after the death of the old Ayatollah just last year. He’s—let’s say, critical of the US and the West in general, and would sooner see us as opponents.”

“Kind of an asshole, then?” he said with a puckish smile.

“Kind of an asshole,” Alex conceded. “And he really doesn’t see eye-to-eye with Ramadani.”

“That’s the current President, right?”

“Right,” said Alex.

“And he’s a good guy?”

“It’s not about good and bad guys, Clark. Everything in foreign policy is a mix of interests and agendas. Just like every other politician, he has complex ideas and interests and is under various pressures that often conflict with each other, and he’s doing his best to negotiate between them. At the moment, it looks like his stance and policies align well enough with our own interests as a country that we might come to call him an ally.”

Clark frowned, trying to sort this out. “But is this Ramadani guy a good guy or not?”

It was hopeless. “Let’s say he’s a pretty good guy.”

“All right. See? That’s all you needed to say. Nice and simple.”

Alex slumped in frustration. “So you’re meeting up with your dad in New York?” she asked, changing the subject.

“Yeah,” he said. “Mom didn’t invite him to Thanksgiving, so he really wanted me to spend the day with him today.”

“Well, that should be fun,” she said, not knowing quite what to say.

“You’re meeting your dad, too, right?” he asked. “But your parents aren’t divorced, are they?”

“Oh, no, my parents are super in love,” she said, and cringed at her own words. Clark’s parents’ divorce was always an awkward subject, and Alex never quite knew how to talk about it. He never seemed bothered by it, but she couldn’t imagine not having both her mother and father under the same roof. “Anyway,” she added, trying to forget her comment, “he had an early Thanksgiving dinner with us, and then went to the city. Business.”

“I wish we didn’t have all this dad stuff to deal with,” he said. “Maybe then we could’ve spent the day together instead.”

Alex pretended to be watching the scenery. “I guess.”

“Hey, isn’t your dad a classic car dealer?” Clark asked.

“Yeah, he is,” she said, affecting innocence. She was getting practiced at keeping up the lie about her father’s double life. “Why do you ask?”

“What kind of business does a classic car broker have on Thanksgiving anyway?”

Alex grinned in her mind at the secret she shared with her father. “Beats me.”

6:55 a.m.

Dan Morgan walked on a patterned carpet past ornate furniture and knocked on the door to room 2722 of the Waldorf. He saw the pinpoint of light in the peephole disappear, then the deadbolt being undone. The door opened and was left ajar. Morgan took the cue to push it open and saw the back of a black silk nightgown and a long shock of blond hair. The acrid smell of smoke hit his nostrils as the figure turned around and leaned against a heavy carved wooden table, posing seductively and taking a long drag from her cigarette with full, ruby-red lips.

“I don’t think they allow smoking in here,” he said as he let himself into the foyer of the suite and scanned the room for potential threats. His trained eyes could assess a situation in seconds. Over the years, he, like many other covert operatives, had developed a sixth sense for danger. Nothing struck him as a potential threat, except the cream-skinned, hazel-eyed beauty in front of him.

Adele Sauvage, she called herself.

“But it’s so early,” she said, pouting, in a light French accent. “Can’t I have just one? Please?”

Her bathrobe was just loose enough to show a hint of a white lacy bra underneath. Her makeup was gently smudged, but Morgan could tell it had been freshly applied. Her feet arched up in black stiletto heels. Her hair was messy—not like the hair a woman who had really just woken up, but lightly tousled, as women do to give the faintest hint that they have just been having sex. The whole setup was too casual not to have been meticulously arranged. Most men wouldn’t notice, but for a woman like Adele, sex was a deadly weapon. In Morgan’s line of work, it paid to know all about deadly weapons.

“Smoke, or don’t,” he said, closing the door behind him. “I don’t care. We have business to do here.”

“Oh, but business is so boring.”

“Do you need time to make yourself decent?”

“Oh, I’m never decent,” she said with a girlish giggle, sitting down on an overstuffed loveseat. “Why don’t we do something fun? Let’s have a drink.”

“I don’t drink. And it’s seven in the morning.”

“You’re no fun,” she pouted. “I think I like your friend Peter better.”

“Peter Conley is an idiot for a skirt,” said Morgan. “But I have trouble believing even he would fall for this whole routine.” He wondered if anyone did as he caught sight of himself in the mirror. With short-cropped dark brown hair and strong, masculine features, he was tall and had a powerful body. And yet, he didn’t flatter himself to think that Adele’s behavior had anything to do with his looks.

“Routine?”

“This whole . . . Adele Sauvage persona.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.” She lifted a well-toned leg onto the sofa. “I am Adele Sauvage.”

“You are Marjorie Francis from Akron, Ohio,” said Morgan, closing the curtains in the foyer. “Your hair comes from a bottle and your accent comes from Brigitte Bardot movies.”

Adele smiled. “You’ve got the tongue of a viper.”

“I’m just not the kind of sap who makes up your clientele.”

“People fall for what they want to fall for,” said Adele, her voice now adult and self-assured. Morgan turned around to look at her. She had risen, her coquettish pose replaced by a disdainful hand on her hip. “You learn that when you trade in fantasy. But I don’t think I have to tell you that, do I, Mr. Secret Agent Man?”

“Morgan will do fine,” he said. “Now, I understand you have something for me?”

“I do,” she said, with a sly grin. “And you have something for me?”

“It’s on its way,” said Morgan. “As a matter of fact, your dear friend Peter Conley is bringing it to us.”

“Please tell me he’s not bringing cash,” she said. “I specifically asked no cash.”

“No, no money,” said Morgan. “We’re bringing a very expensive gift from an anonymous admirer. A valuable antique that we guarantee can be sold at auction for at least two hundred thousand.”

“Ooh, is it shiny?”

“Very shiny,” said Morgan. “That would be us holding up our end of the bargain. Now, where’s yours?”

“My end of the bargain is right here,” she said, reaching into her robe. Morgan’s hand went for his gun, which wasn’t there—it wouldn’t have made it past the hotel’s metal detectors. But there was no danger. She merely pulled out the stamp-sized memory card that Conley had given her two nights before and held it between her thumb and index finger. “The contents of the smart phone of Jasper Elliott.”

Morgan reached for it, but she slipped it back into her robe. “No, no, no, monsieur Morgan. Not until my payment arrives.”

Morgan threw up his hands. “Fair enough. Conley should be on his way.”

“I suppose we’ll have to stand each other’s company for a few more minutes, then.” Adele circled the table.

“Nice digs we’ve set you up with,” he said, looking around the suite. The carpet and upholstery were sky blue, offset by an off-white armchair and beige wallpaper. Altogether, the seats, the wrought iron coffee table, the Tiffany fireplace screen, the end table, and the desk gave the suite a feeling of clutter. Morgan’s wife, Jenny, the interior decorator, would have loved it. Morgan liked his spaces to be spare.

“Oh, please,” she said. “At my rates, this is on the low end for my clients. Plus, when you have lived in the palace of the Sultan of Brunei, there is little in the way of luxury that can impress you.”

Morgan raised his eyebrows in interest. “You’ll have to tell me all about that someday.”

“I really don’t,” she said.

Morgan sat back in the armchair, which was stiff and uncomfortable for all its fanciness. “I guess discretion is a big deal in your line of work.”

“Frankly, it’s more for what they say than what they do,” she said. “It’s the dirty little secret of my profession, Mr. Morgan. We spend quite a bit more time having conversations than on our backs. There’s a premium on a girl who can talk about everything from Shakespeare to Derrida to the Red Sox.”

“What’s a girl who can talk Shakespeare and Derrida doing being an escort?”

“To make the kind of money I make at my age,” she said, “the only other way is to be a different kind of whore on Wall Street.” She leaned in and whispered, “I think my kind is much more dignified.”

Morgan flashed a grin at her, and she returned it until something seemed to catch her eye though the narrow opening between the curtains. Morgan followed her gaze to see a procession of police cars.

“What the hell?” He stood up to get a clearer view. He tried to get his face flat against the window in order to see as far up Park Avenue as possible. He made out a couple of town cars bearing flags with green and red details.

He heard the beeping of his radio communicator in his ear. Conley was hailing him. “Morgan here. What’s happening? Thanksgiving Day parade come a day late?”

“It’s Ramadani,” said Conley. “The President of Iran. I just got off the phone with Bloch.”

“He was supposed to—”

“Stay at the Plaza, I know,” cut in Conley. “Change of plans, evidently. I got the package, but I’m not getting inside until this dies down.”

“All right,” said Morgan. “Keep me posted. Out.” He cut the mic and turned to Adele. “Is there any chance I could get that little piece of plastic off of you on an IOU?”

“Oh, baby, sorry, but I don’t work on credit,” she said. “Rule number one.” She sat back on the white armchair, extending her legs on an ottoman and letting her high heels dangle off her toes. “You want it, you’ve got to pay for it.”

He looked through the half-drawn curtain at the loose police cordon that was forming around the hotel entrance. A crowd was gathering, and he saw no sign of Conley. “Looks like it’s going to be awhile.” He thought about Alex. She’d be arriving at Grand Central Terminal pretty soon, and it was getting increasingly unlikely that he’d be able to meet her there.

“Honey, I’ve got all day,” she said. “It’s not like I was going outside on Black Friday, anyway. I beat the crowds by staying in.”

“Well, it looks like the crowds came to us,” he said.

“I can think of worse places to be stuck,” said Adele, and picked up the receiver on her hotel phone. “Breakfast? You’re buying.”

7:18 a.m.

Shir Soroush stood at the window overlooking Park Avenue, arms crossed, the entire city at his feet. In his mind, the various strands of the plan were converging. Months of planning led up to this moment. Righteous energy surged through his body. Soon, he thought. So soon.

He turned at the sound of footsteps approaching, wooden heels padding on the carpeted floor. It was a man with a large hooked nose and a thick beard despite his relative youth. Zubin.

“I have made contact with Razi, Salm, and Sharzeh,” he said. “They are in position.”

“Good,” said Soroush. “What of the Secret Service?”

“They have two men here already, but they are scrambling. They were caught completely off guard.”

“And Ramadani?”

“The President is on his way up with Asadi and Taleb.”

“I’ll be ready to welcome him,” said Soroush. He walked to the foyer and waited, hands clasped at the small of his back, until the elevator arrived at the floor and Ramadani emerged accompanied by his secretary and chief of staff.

“Sir,” Soroush said, offering his hand for a shake. “Welcome to your accommodations in New York City.”

“Shir, it is good to see you,” said Ramadani. “You’ve done a good job here.” He gestured to their surroundings. “Beautiful. Classic.”