The Zero Hour

“Okay,” he said, as Sarah prepared to take notes. “There’s an organization that might help called APPLE, for the Area Police Private Security Liaison program. I guess the S is silent. The members are the security directors of nine hundred buildings and companies in the city. Mostly they’re involved with break-ins and domestic crime. They spend their time thinking about public toilets and loading docks and service entrances, but since the World Trade Center they’ve gotten pretty concerned about terrorism. The program coordinator is a buddy of mine. I’ll give him a call.”

“But if the Manhattan Bank is the target,” Sarah said, “why bother with nine hundred other companies?”

“On the assumption that the Manhattan Bank might be one of a series of targets. Probably I’m wrong, but I figure it’s safer to rule things out instead of being surprised down the line.”

“What are you going to ask them?”

“If they’ve received any threats or noticed any suspicious behavior. This is New York City. Threats and suspicious behavior are a way of life, so the answer will be yes, and we’ll have to screen. I mean, we got the resources, right, so why not squander them?”

“That’s one way to look at it,” Sarah said.

“Plus, I was thinking we should just go down the list of major landmark buildings and locations and keep them on our radar screens.”

“Like the Empire State Building and the Trade Center towers?”

“And Rockefeller Center, Lincoln Center, the United Nations, the Chrysler Building, the Empire State Building, the Statue of Liberty, the New York Stock Exchange.”

“The Statue of Liberty?”

“Hey, a bunch of Croatian nationalists planted a bomb there fifteen, twenty years ago. The thing went off. Fair amount of damage, luckily no injuries. The big lady’s managed by the National Park Service, and they use electronic scanning equipment on visitor’s packages.”

She nodded, leaned back in the mustard-yellow chair. It gave a squeak of protest. There was a deferential knock at the door, and Russell Ullman entered, bearing a large manila envelope. “It’s in,” he said.

“What’s in?” Sarah asked.

“The prints.”

“The prints of your Prince,” Roth said. “I told you someday your prints would come.”

“We’re on the home stretch,” Ullman said. He could barely contain his excitement. “We got him now.”

Lieutenant Roth rubbed a large, fleshy hand over his face. “Oh, is that right?” he asked, affecting the deepest boredom. “Kid, the race hasn’t even started.”

Sarah snatched the envelope from Ullman and tore it open. Roth was right. They hadn’t even started.

It was a complete set of fingerprints, carefully done.

“Where’s the photo?” she asked.

“They couldn’t turn one up,” Ullman said.

“What? What do you mean, they couldn’t ‘turn one up’? They couldn’t find a photograph of the guy?”

“The South Africans say they’re unable to turn up any photo of Baumann. In cases like his-deep-cover agents-the old secret service used to keep only one photograph, in its locked central personnel files. Reasons of security. But that one photograph appears to be missing-stolen, pilfered, something.”

“Try the prison, Russell,” Sarah snapped. “You didn’t think of that?”

“No, I did,” Ullman replied. “Pollsmoor photographs all incoming prisoners, like every other prison, and stores them in two different places, but both photos of Baumann have disappeared sometime in the last few weeks.”

“Bullshit!” Sarah exploded.

“No, really,” Ullman protested. “They did a thorough search, but the file photos have been stolen.”

“How can that be?”

“Look,” Ullman said, “for years the South African government did everything it could to keep this guy’s face a secret. The way CIA does with its deep-cover agents. Maybe there were three extant photographs of him in all the government files. So if our guy had enough pull, or some powerful friends in the right places, it was no big deal to make those photos disappear. The South Africans protected his anonymity so well and for so long that now-when they want a picture-they can’t get their hands on one.”

“Looks like your terrorist,” Roth interjected, “has some powerful friends.”

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Perry Taylor arrived at the FBI headquarters at 8:20 A.M. and pulled into the main employee entrance in the middle of the Tenth Street side of the building. This meant he would be in his office by 8:30 A.M. He was a punctual man, which was good for Baumann, because it meant he was also a man of regular habits, a most useful vulnerability.

Unfortunately, Taylor’s car did not leave the FBI building the entire day. The red dot remained fixed and flashing: the Hound Dog hadn’t been discovered, it was still transmitting, and the car hadn’t been moved.

Baumann spent a few hours walking the streets around FBI headquarters. He bought a pair of cheap sunglasses and a Washington, D.C., T-shirt, and played the tourist. For lunch he got a hot dog from a stand at Tenth Street and Pennsylvania Avenue.