“There are five SDVs in the water as we speak, ten frogmen, all in a tight frame around the island,” said Ambern from the USS Fort Worth. “In addition, we are at battle stations and prepared to take out the Hinckley, on command. If you ask me, Mr. President, once we have a lock on the target, I would use our missiles in addition to any snipers.”

“What would be the damage to nearby boats?” asked someone in the Situation Room.

“There would be collateral damage,” said Ambern. “But blowing up the bomb is different from detonating it. We’re talking a few lives versus several hundred thousand.”

“What’s the flight time on a missile to the statue?” asked Dellenbaugh.

“From button press to target? About five seconds, maybe less.”

“Let’s talk about the target itself,” said Dellenbaugh. “Hector?”

Calibrisi looked at Igor.

“You ready to live-wire this?” whispered Calibrisi.

Igor nodded.

“Yes, Mr. President,” said Calibrisi. “What you’re all about to see is real-time visual of the harbor as filtered through a software program based on facial recognition technology. The software is scanning every square foot of water, detecting the make and model of the boat we believe the bomb is on. As a camera locks the target, it pushes the image against a database, removing anything that doesn’t match.”

“Hector, Greer here, how do we triage? I’m assuming we’re going to get some false positives. Worst thing that could happen would be if we identify the wrong guy and the terrorist just goes on his merry way and detonates the bomb.”

“You’re right,” said Calibrisi. “The software can only take us so far. There needs to be a human cipher at the end of the line.

“That’s you, Hector,” said Dellenbaugh. “Everyone else, get ready. Let’s keep all lines open.”

Calibrisi looked at Igor.

“Mute it.”

He looked at Katie and Tacoma.

“You guys all set?” he asked.

Tacoma nodded.

“Yeah, we’re good.”

107

WALL STREET

NEW YORK HARBOR

Polk carried two Styrofoam Dunkin’ Donuts coffee cups, which he passed to Katie and Tacoma as they climbed into the speedboat.

Polk fired up the engine. He was dressed in a madras button-down and shorts. His legs were the white that comes when skin hasn’t seen sun in a few years.

Tacoma took a sip.

“I fuckin’ hate Dunkin’ Donuts,” he said.

“Fuck you,” said Polk.

Polk untied the boat from the dock, then stepped to the wheel and put the boat in gear, putting out from the dock.

Tacoma glanced in front. The water was crowded with boats. There were hundreds of them, power boats and sailboats, small cruise ships, ferries, even dozens of kayaks. He looked at his green Rolex. It was 7:10.

Polk glanced back, then nodded to the transom. A small cardboard box was on it. Katie opened it. In the box were two tiny glass cases, inside of which were earpieces. Katie and Tacoma each put one in their ears.

“You guys hear me?” asked Polk.

“Yeah,” said Katie.

“I’m good,” said Tacoma.

“Get your eyes on,” said Polk, pointing to a duffel bag on the floor.

Tacoma pulled out two pairs of sunglasses, handing one to Katie. They were specialized; the right lens was a high-powered monocular.

“Guys, it’s me,” said Calibrisi over commo. “We have our first hard target. Putting it on your screen right now.”

A digital tablet was Velcroed to the transom of the boat. On it was a brightly illuminated map of the harbor, with the boat’s location at the center. A flashing red dot hit the screen, indicating the boat Calibrisi and Igor had marked, then a line between the two boats cut in yellow across the screen, along with the precise distance between the boats: 1,071 feet.

“Got it,” said Polk, cutting left, then speeding up.

“I want you guys to make the first sweep,” said Calibrisi. “That’s why you’re out there. If and when we mark the bomber, we’ll make the call as to whether we use the frogmen or the snipers.”

“Or us,” added Katie.

“Or you,” said Calibrisi. “Robbie, you ready if we need you?”

“Just put me in, Coach,” Tacoma whispered as he stepped to Polk’s side and scanned for the boat.

“Not too fast, Bill,” said Calibrisi.

Polk eased up a little as he steered through the crowded harbor.

Tacoma scanned the water, counting boats, losing count when he got to two hundred.

In the distance, he saw the Statue of Liberty. It was the first moment he realized not only the gravity of the situation, and the hard truth about what could be lost that day, but that if they didn’t stop the terrorists, he too would die.

He closed his eyes briefly, then shook his head.

“What is it?” asked Katie.

Tacoma looked her.

“Nothing.”

His gaze returned to the horizon, then the boats.

“We’re getting close,” said Polk.

“I see it,” said Tacoma. “Slow down. At one thirty, next to a sailboat.”

Polk steered in a curving arc toward the boat as all three of them studied it from afar.

“We have another match,” said Calibrisi. “Are you guys ready?”

“It’s blue,” said Katie. “I see a bunch of girls on the boat.”

Polk changed his course.

“That first one is a negative, Chief.”

“Okay, second should be on your screen right now.”

“Got it,” said Polk.

*   *   *

As Cloud had demanded, they came from the north via the Hudson River.

The assumption that guided them—that the Americans were searching for them—had guided them from the moment they set out from Sevastopol.

The radio was on. A news station continued its coverage of Boston. There was no mention of the bomb, only a plot by terrorists. The news was filled with quotes by various American officials, cautiously gloating about the foiled plot.

Faqir stood next to the Talaria’s steering wheel. He leaned against a railing as Naji maneuvered the yacht into New York harbor. Faqir’s olive-colored skin had turned grayish, as if someone had spread chalk across his now gaunt, hairless head and face.

He felt weak and slightly dizzy. But something had happened during his sleep. He’d awakened with newfound energy and purpose. Perhaps it was the coming achievement of an objective he’d sought for as long as he could remember. Or maybe it was the determination and toughness that Faqir so prided himself on.

He often felt that, in different times, he would’ve been a military leader, perhaps even a king. But that wasn’t the world he’d been born to. Instead of a country or a battalion, he’d been chosen by a different battle. Jihad.

Naji pointed to a building to the left. It was the gleaming glass-and-steel spire of the Freedom Tower. The sight gave Faqir goose bumps.

You’re at war. What you do today will live forever. You’ll be revered for the horror you deliver into the heart of the enemy.

After centuries of enslavement and silence, Allah’s soldiers were finally taking what was theirs. It would take time. Hundreds of years. But it was happening. They were coming. And today would be the second chapter in the great book that would be written about Islam’s victory over America. This day, July Fourth, would be looked upon by Muslims the same way Americans looked at the Boston Tea Party.

Faqir’s name would be as famous to Muslims as Paul Revere’s was to Americans.

On both sides of the boat, the water was crowded with boats, so many boats—sailboats and motorboats, even kayakers, close to shore, paddling beneath the warm sun.

If any of them were worried about a terror plot today, they certainly didn’t act like it. It felt … easy.

So far, they had seen only three police boats, all near the Brooklyn Navy Yard. A Coast Guard cutter loomed a quarter mile offshore, beyond that was a U.S. Navy destroyer, but its presence seemed ceremonial.