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.