New York, New York Saturday, 7:27 P Dism.
Traffic In Times Square Is Extremely Dense After Seven Pm. On Saturday Night As Theatergoers Arrive From Out Of Town. Limousines Clog The Side Streets, Garages Have Cars Lined Up Waiting To Get In, And Cabs And Buses Inch Through The Center Of The Theater District.
Georgiev Had Allowed For The Delay When He Planned This Part Of The Operation. When He Finally Turned East On Forty-Second Street And Rolled Toward Bryant Park, He Was Relaxed And Confident. So Were The Other Members Of The Team. But Then, If He Hadn’t Served With Them, Seen That They Were Cool Under Pressure, He Never Would Have Recruited Them For This Mission.
Apart From Reynold Downer, The Forty-Eight-Year-Old Former Colonel Of The Bulgarian People’s Army Was The Only Truly Mercenary Man On The Team. Barone Wanted Money To Help His People Back Home. Sazanka And Vandal Had Issues Of Honor Dating Back To World War Ii.
Issues That Money Would Clear Away. Georgiev Had A Different Problem. He’d Spent Nearly Ten Years As Part Of The Cia’-Financed Underground In Bulgaria. He’d Fought The Communists For So Long That He Couldn’t Adapt To An Era That Had No Enemy. He Had No Trade Apart From Soldiering, The Army Was Not Paying Its People With Regularity, And He Was Much Poorer Now Than He’d Been Taking American Dollars And Living Under The Shadow Of The Soviet Empire. He Wanted To Open A New Business: Financing Petroleum And Natural Gas Exploitation. He Would Do That With His Share Of The Take From Today’s Mission.
Because Of Georgiev’s Familiarity With Cia Tactics And His Fluency In American English, The Others Had No Trouble With Him Leading This Half Of The Operation. Besides, As He’d Proven When He Organized The Prostitution Ring In Cambodia, He Was A Natural Leader.
Georgiev Drove Slowly, Carefully. He Watched Out For Jaywalking Pedestrians. He Didn’t Tailgate. He Didn’t Shout At Taxi Drivers Who Cut Him Off. He Didn’t Do Anything That Would Cause Him To Be Stopped By The Police. It Was Ironic. He Was About To Commit An Act Of Destruction And Murder That The World Would Not Soon Forget. Yet Here He Was, The Model Of Tranquil, Lawful Motoring. There Was A Time, Growing Up, When Georgiev Wanted To Be A Philosopher. Maybe When All Of This Was Over, He Would Finally Get To Take That Up. Contrasts Fascinated Him.
When He Had Driven This Route The Day Before, He Noticed A Traffic Camera On A Streetlight At The Southwest Corner Of Forty-Second Street And Fifth Avenue. The Camera Faced North. There Was Another On Forty-Second Street And Third Avenue Facing South. Vandal, Who Was Sitting In The Passenger’s Seat, And Georgiev Both Adjusted Their Sun Visors To Cover Those Windows.
They’d Be Wearing Ski Masks When They Went Into The Un. The Nypd Would Probably Review All The Cameras In The Area, And He Didn’t Want Anyone To Have A Photographic: Record Of Who Was In The Van. The Traffic Cameras Would Tell Them Nothing. And While Police Might Find A Few Tourists Who Had Videotaped The Van, Georgiev Had Intentionally Approached The Target From The Setting Sun. All Any Videotape Would See Was Glare Off The Windshield. God Bless The Things He’d Learned From The Cia.
They Passed The New York Public Library, Grand Central Station, And The Chrysler Building They Reached First Avenue Without Incident.
Georgiev Timed His Approach So They’d Stop At The Light. He’d Made Sure He Was In The Right-Hand Lane. When They Made The Left Turn, He Would Be On The Same Side Of The Street As The United Nations, On The Right. He Glanced Toward The North.
The Target Area Was Just Two Blocks Away. Almost Straight Ahead Was The Secretariat Building, Set Back Behind A Circular Courtyard And A Fountain. A Seven-Foot-High Iron Fence Fronted The Complex For Its Four-Block Length. There Were Three Guard Booths Spaced Along The Gates, Behind Them.
Nypd Officers Patrolled The Street. Across First Avenue, On The Corner Of Forty-Fifth Street, Was An Nypd Command Booth.
He Had Reconnoitered All Of This The Day Before. And He’d Studied Photographs And Videotape He’d Taken Months Before That. He Knew This Area Completely, From The Location Of Every Streetlight To Every Fire Hydrant.
Georgiev Waited Until The Don’t Walk Sign Began Flashing To His Left. That Meant They Had Six Seconds Until The Light Changed.
Georgiev’s Black Ski Mask Was Tucked Between His Legs. He Pulled It Out And Slipped It On. The Other Men Did Likewise. They Were Already Wearing Thin White Gloves So They Wouldn’t Leave Fingerprints But Could Still Handle Their Weapons. The Light Turned. So Did Georgiev.
Eight New York, New York Saturday, 7:30 P.M.
Etienne Vandal Pulled On His Ski Mask. Then He Turned To Receive His Weapons From Sazanka, Who Was In The Back Of The Van Along With Barone And Downer. The Seats Had Been Removed And Piled In A Corner Of The Hotel Garage. The Windows Had Been Painted Over. The Men Were Able To Prepare In Total Secrecy. Barone Holstered His Own Two Automatics And Picked Up The Uzi. He Would Also Be Wearing The Backpack Containing Tear Gas And Gas Masks. If It Became Necessary To Fight Their Way Out, They’d Have The Gas As Well As Hostages. It Was Difficult To Twist Very Far Because Of The Bulletproof Vest, But Vandal Preferred Discomfort To Vulnerability. The Japanese Officer Handed Him Two Automatics And An Uzi. Downer Was Kneeling Beside The Door On The Driver’s Side Of The Van. He Placed His Own Weapons On The Floor. A Swiss-Made B-77 Missile Launcher Lay Across His Shoulder. He Had Requested An American M47 Dragon, But This Was The Closest Ustinoviks Could Come. Downer Had Examined The Short-Range, Lightweight Antitank Missile And Had Assured The Team It Would Do The Job. Vandal And The Others Hoped So.
Without It, They’d Be Dead In The Street. Barone Was Crouched Beside The Side Door, Ready To Pull It Open.
Vandal Had Already Checked His Weapons At The Hotel. Now He Sat And Waited As The Van Continued To Accelerate. It Was Here At Last. The Countdown They’d Been Working For, Going Over Again And Again For More Than A Year. In Vandal’s Case, It Was A Moment He’d Been Awaiting For Even Longer Than That. He Was Calm, Even Relieved, As The Target Area Came Into View.
The Other Men Also Seemed Calm, Especially Georgiev. Yet He Always Came Across As A Big, Cold Machine. Vandal Knew Very Little About The Man, But What He Did Know, He Didn’t Like Or Respect.
Until Bulgaria Drafted A New Constitution In 1991, It Was Among The Most Repressive Nations In The Soviet Bloc. Georgiev Helped The Cia Recruit Informants Inside The Government. Vandal Would Have Understood If The Man Had Struggled To Overthrow The Regime For Principle. But Georgiev Had Worked For The Cia Simply Because They Paid Well. Though The Goals Were The Same, That Was The Difference Between A Patriot And A Traitor. As Far As Vandal Was Concerned, A Man Who Would Betray His Country Would Certainly Betray His Partners In Crime. That Was Something Etienne Vandal Knew About. His Grandfather Was A Former Nazi Collaborator Who Died In A French Prison. It Wasn’t Only That Charles Vandal Had Betrayed His Country. He’d Been A Member Of The Mulot Resistance Group, Which Had Been Responsible For Stealing And Hiding Art And Treasures Before The Germans Could Plunder Them From French Museums.
Charles Vandal Not Only Turned Over Mulot And His Team, But He Led The Germans To A Cache Of French Art.
They Had Less Than One Block To Go. A Few Tourists Who Were Still Out At This Hour Turned To Look At The Speeding Van. The Vehicle Shot Past The Un Library Building On The South Side Of The Plaza.
Then Georgiev Raced Past The First Guard Booth With Its Green-Tinted Bulletproof Glass And Bored-Looking Officers. The Booth Was Located Behind The Black Iron Fence, Which Was Separated From The Avenue By Twenty Feet Of Sidewalk. There Were Extra Guards For Tonight’s Soiree And The Gape Was Closed, But That Didn’t Matter. The Target Area Was Less Than Fifty Feet To The North. Georgiev Passed The Second Guard Booth. Then, Clearing A Fire Hydrant Just Beyond, He Swung The Van To The Right And Floored The Gas Pedal. The Vehicle Shot Across The Sidewalk, Hitting One Pedestrian And Running Him Under The Driver’s-Side Wheel. Several Others Were Knocked To The Side. A Moment Later, The Van Ripped Through A Yard-High Chain-Link Fence. The Sound Of The Metal Scraping The Sides Of The Van Drowned Out The Screams Of Injured Pedestrians. The Vehicle Plowed Through A Small Garden Filled With Trees And Shrubs, Georgiev Steering Clear Of The Large Tree On The South Side Of The Garden. A Few Low-Hanging Branches From Other Trees Smashed Against The Windshield And Roof. Some Branches Snapped, Others Whipped Back As The Van Pushed Ahead. To The North And South, Un Police, Members Of The Nypd, And A Handful Of White-Shirted State Department Police Were Just Beginning To Respond To The Breach. Guns Drawn, Radios In Hand, They Ran From The Three Guard Booths Along First Avenue, From The Booth Inside The Courtyard To The North, And From The Police Outpost Across The Street.