FORTY NINE.
David had practiced
the routine precisely eight times. He looked like just any other
New Yorker as he walked up Park Avenue, his shoulders set with
determination and the collar of his black trench coat turned up
both to conceal his face and to ward off the bite of the cool March
evening air. The pedestrian traffic had died down from its
post-workday peak, but at a quarter past seven David was far from
alone.
Unlike in Jerusalem,
however, David did not feel as though he were being watched. There
was an outside chance that the FBI was trailing him, or an even
slimmer chance that Mossad had somehow followed him to America, but
David was confident in his ability to both elude and detect
surveillance. No, he was alone. He'd seen the footage of the
massacre in Hebron. Ben Freidman would think he had killed his
Palestinian informant. The destruction in Hebron was so complete it
would be some time before all the bodies were accounted for.
And as far as the
Americans were concerned, they had their hands full chasing Arab
students on expired visas. David had already changed identities
twice since leaving Hebron and was now traveling with a French
passport. His first-class ticket from Nice to Paris to New York had
been purchased with an American Express card that matched the name
on his passport. He was now Charles Utrillo, a mergers and
acquisitions specialist in town to meet with J. P. Morgan. The
cover was not deep. If he was arrested, and the FBI looked into his
credentials, they would quickly discover it was a sham. The
passport and credit card were merely there to ensure entrance into
America without raising any suspicion.
This portion of his
plan had been relatively easy to put together.
The West Bank was
rife with arms merchants, and for the right amount of cash almost
anything was obtainable. David's purchases were never very large or
exotic. Mostly small arms, silencers, ammunition and one very
expensive rifle. He preferred dealing with the Russians. They were
hungry for cash and despite their recent cooperation with the West,
they were still capable of keeping their mouths shut and records
closed.
Getting the weapons
to the United States had been a little more difficult, but not
much. The import-export business, worldwide, was known for not
asking too many questions. David had shipped a crate of rugs to a
warehouse in Philadelphia and picked it up back in January.
Broken down and
rolled up within the various rugs were two handguns and a
Russian-made VAL Silent Sniper rifle. The weapon fired a 9mm
subsonic heavy bullet and was capable of defeating standard body
armor at distances up to 400 yards. According to David's
information his target wouldn't be wearing anything so
cumbersome.
The man had reason to
celebrate this evening and he wasn't about to put on a bullet-proof
vest to dine at his favorite restaurant.
As David crossed 65th
Street he glanced to his right. Halfway down the block stood an old
brownstone with bars and steel mesh over all the windows. In front
of the house, on the sidewalk, the New York City Police Department
had erected a blue and white guardhouse large enough for only one
person. A police officer manned the post twenty-four hours a day,
seven days a week, just to make sure no one tried anything.
David knew this was
more to deter protestors and pranksters.
The real security was
inside the house.
David had been
invited there as a guest on many occasions. The brownstone was home
to the Permanent Observer Mission of Palestine to the United
Nations. The Palestinian Ambassador was a friend of David's or,
more precisely, a business acquaintance. Ambassador Hamed Ali was a
childhood friend of Yasser Arafat's. The posting had been given to
Ali as a reward for a lifetime of commitment and loyalty to Arafat.
Ali was seventy-five and had a smoker's hack that made it
abundantly clear to anyone who cared to listen that he was not long
for this world. That helped to ease David's conscience a bit. That
and the fact that in his younger days, Ali had sown plenty of death
and destruction.
The Palestinian
Authority, due to its inability to raise money through taxes or
tariffs, depended greatly on foreign aid and charity.
David had proved his
worth by personally delivering to Ambassador Ali a quarter of a
million dollars in the first three months of the year alone.
Ali often complained
to David that being an Ambassador was a very expensive job.
Diplomacy was almost always conducted under the pretense of a meal
and never a cheap one.
David responded by
opening an account for the Ambassador at his favorite restaurant,
La Goulue. The French restaurant, one of New York's finest, was
only two blocks from the Ambassador's residence.
David just so
happened to know that Ali would be dining there this evening. He
had spoken with the Ambassador earlier in the day, congratulating
him on his address to the UN David had intimated that a celebration
was in order. Ali agreed and invited David to join him and several
friends at La Goulue. David noted the time, but turned down the
invitation. He told the Ambassador he needed to catch a flight to
the West Coast.
Ali had spoken to a
rapt General Assembly, proclaiming that for a real and lasting
peace in the Middle East the UN must intercede. He decried the
unprovoked attack of innocent Palestinians by the Israeli aggressor
over the weekend and demanded that the UN make a full
investigation. In response to Israeli claims that the number of
casualties had been grossly exaggerated, Ali read off a list of
independent journalists and aid workers who were all reporting a
death toll in excess of one hundred people.
As soon as Ali was
finished, the Israeli Ambassador took the floor and assured the
assembly that, as a sovereign nation, Israel was more than capable
of conducting their own investigation into the matter. In a parting
shot the Israeli Ambassador recommended to Ali that in the future
they should locate their bomb-making factories in less populated
areas so as to avoid so much bloodshed. The Ambassador's quip was
met with jeers and catcalls by the various Arab delegations.
Right on cue
Ambassador Joussard of France took to the floor pleading for
civility and decorum. In the end, he promised the truth would be
known. With the eyes of the international community focused on
Hebron, France would work with the other permanent members of the
Security Council to get to the bottom of what had happened. When
David was finished tonight the UN would be that much closer to
intervening. And once an international force was on the ground, a
Palestinian state would be that much closer to a reality.
David crossed 66th
Street and looked up at the towering behemoth before him. The
Seventh Regiment Armory was a colossal architectural throwback.
Planted between Park and Lexington Avenues and 66th and 67th
Streets, the nineteenth-century building was built to house New
York's first regiment sent to fight in the Civil War.
The massive building
was no longer home to just the National Guard. It housed a women's
shelter, various local and state social services, a restaurant,
several nonprofits and a catering business that could handle groups
of up to several thousand people.
David turned up the
front steps behind a man roughly his age. Taking the steps one at a
time he was very conscious of what was under his trench coat. When
he entered the building the first thing he noticed was the roar of
a crowd coming from the drill hall straight ahead.
He didn't bother
stopping to investigate. Earlier in the day he'd read the marquee
announcing a class reunion for Brooklyn Prep.
David kept moving,
turning to his left and going to the end of the hall, past the torn
and battled-scarred regimental flags, past the elevator and into
the stairwell. In all of his previous visits he had yet to run into
someone on the staircase, which was a bit of a surprise considering
the condition of the elevator, and the fact that there was a good
chance you'd have to share the small metal cage with someone who
either suffered from a mental illness or an addiction to
crack.
He reached the top
floor and then continued up another half flight where he was
confronted with the locked door that led out onto the roof. David
paused, turning on the two-way radio in his pocket and donning a
flesh-colored earpiece. The digitally encrypted device was already
programmed to monitor the same channel that the Ambassador's
security detail was using. David listened for a moment. There was
no chatter so he checked his watch. It was 7:21. Ali's reservation
was for 7:30, but the man almost always ran five to ten minutes
late.
David retrieved a
lock pick from his jacket and went to work. He worked the tumblers
to perfection. Having done it before, he knew where each one would
fall. With the door opened he stepped out of the dim stairwell and
into the dark night. After placing a strip of duct tape over the
metal frame, he allowed the heavy fire door to close.
Standing in the glow
of the city lights David casually lit a cigarette.
Several apartment
buildings looked down on the Armory. If any of the occupants cared
to look out their windows, all they would see was just another
desperate smoker trying to enjoy his vice. Slowly, David moved over
toward the turret jutting out from the southwest corner.
He puffed on the
cigarette and looked around, scanning the adjacent buildings for
anyone who might be watching him. So far so good.
He had it down to a
science. It took Ali anywhere from eighty-three seconds to three
minutes and forty-eight seconds to walk from his residence to the
restaurant, depending on whether or not he made the lights at
Lexington, Park and Madison. David had time. It took him just
twenty seconds to assemble the rifle, fifteen if he was really
pressed.
He would wait until
they were on the move before he did that. If by chance someone was
watching him, he didn't need them to call the cops.
At 7:29, David heard
the familiar voice of one of Ali's bodyguards come over the
earpiece. The man was going out to check the street.
David took a deep
breath and reminded himself of his cause. To make peace, one often
had to make war. He repeated the phrase over and over. Men like Ali
and Arafat and Freidman would never agree to a real peace. It would
take huge pressure from the international community, and America
had to be a part of that. They were the only country that could
force Israel to sit down and grant the Palestinian people a state,
and after tonight the tide would continue to swell.
More chatter came
over the radio. The second bodyguard announced that the Ambassador
was coming out. David had no idea who or how many people would be
with him, or if he was meeting his guests at the restaurant. This
was the part that he needed to be flexible about. It was out of his
control. He started the stopwatch mode on his wristwatch, took one
last drag from his cigarette and then stabbed it against the wall
of the turret. Well versed in American investigative techniques,
David placed the butt in a plastic bag and put it in his pocket, as
he had done with each cigarette he had smoked while on the roof. He
would leave as little behind for the FBI as possible. From one of
his pockets he grabbed a sock filled with rice and placed it in the
base of the notch in the wall. It would help to balance the weapon
and prevent leaving metal residue from the barrel.
David opened his
trench coat, grabbed a thick black barrel and undid the Velcro that
held it in place. He slid the barrel into the receiver and twisted
it ninety degrees until it clicked into place. Next came the
10-power Leupold scope and a twenty-round magazine.
David extended the
stock into the locked position, pulled back on the cocking handle
and then released it, chambering one of the special 9mm
bullets.
Casually, he checked
his watch. He was at twenty-nine seconds and counting. David took
one last look around and then placed the heavy rifle inside one of
the notches in the stonework. Like a medieval archer perched atop a
castle wall he prepared himself to take out the enemy.
David looked through
the scope to make sure everything was as he wished. The range had
been checked for the southwest corner of Park and 65th. He'd zeroed
the rifle in himself at a state park two hours north of the city.
David was extremely accurate with the weapon up to 300 yards. A
better marksman could probably take it up to five hundred yards,
but David had no kind of need for that distance. Tonight his target
would be roughly 145 yards from him.
It was an easy shot
with one exception; Ali would be moving and there would be people
around him. David checked his watch again.
They were coming up
on a minute and a half. They must have missed the light at
Lexington. David eased his grip on the rifle and scanned the street
without the aid of the scope. He would see the bodyguard first,
walking several paces ahead, clearing the way.
As expected, the man
appeared and stopped at the red light. David eased his eye in
behind the scope and put the bodyguard in the center of the
crosshairs. Then he moved the weapon to the east and soon found
what he was looking for. The Ambassador stopped just behind the man
and David let out a curse. Ali was with a woman. She had her arm
hooked in his and she was standing between David and his
target.
The light turned
green and group began walking across Park Avenue.
One bodyguard in
front, the other behind, and Ali and the woman in the middle. David
kept breathing in a steady manner and kept his hand relaxed as he
followed the group, looking for a shot that wasn't there. When they
stepped onto the curb on the other side of Park he made his
decision. He hadn't come this far to not take the shot, but neither
was he going to kill a woman he did not know. He did not like it,
but it was a contingency he'd planned for. He quickly maneuvered
the rifle, bringing the crosshairs to bear on the head of the
trailing bodyguard.
David squeezed the
trigger and the rifle bucked just slightly as the heavy bullet spat
from the end of the thick black barrel. He instantly chambered a
fresh round and a split second later David had found his next
target. The man ahead of Ali was still walking, oblivious to the
fact that his friend had suffered a mortal wound and was at this
moment falling to the ground. Again, David squeezed the trigger,
sending another round on its way.
The rifle settled as
another round clicked into the chamber and David steadied the scope
on his next and last target. Ali took two more steps before he
realized something was wrong. The woman took two and a half steps
before she noticed the man falling in front of her. That extra half
step that she took was all David needed.
David watched as Ali
turned, looking behind him for help from his other guard. The
expression on the Ambassador's face turned from one of shock to
horror as he discovered that he was without protection.
Before Ali could
react further, David pulled the trigger for a third time and sent a
final silent bullet into the head of his intended target.