Liberty

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Late Tuesday afternoon U.S. Coast Guard cutter Whidbey Island dropped her hook a half mile east of Liberty Island and backed down. Then she dropped another from the stern and tightened the cables so that she was moored between the two. Anchored bow and stern, she wouldn’t swing when the tide changed.

On her closed bridge, Jake Grafton studied the Statue of Liberty with binoculars. There was someone on the balcony of the torch. A man. The warhead was probably there. The FBI had questioned Hoyt Wilson in his office on Liberty Island a few minutes ago and telephoned Jake. Wilson said the chopper delivered a box, “Pulpit,” which was placed on the balcony since it was too large to go in the torch.

The agent who talked to Jake said, “We had to threaten this guy with arrest as a material witness, but he finally said that Gudarian told him the Pulpit device was a Corrigan radiation detection unit. I think he’s afraid of going to jail for having classified information.”

“Keep him there,” Jake had said. “I want to talk to him.”

It must still be on the balcony of the torch, Jake thought, and lowered the glasses. He rubbed his eyes.

The statue was in the ship’s forward port quarter, about twenty degrees left of the ship’s centerline. Beside Jake a sailor used a laser range finder to compute the exact distance. “Nine hundred and forty yards, Admiral.”

“Very well.”

The captain of the cutter was a lieutenant in rank, Schuyler Coleridge. With the anchors out, he ordered the bridge cleared so that he could be alone with Grafton. The admiral repeated the range to him.

“Think you can do it if necessary?”

Coleridge used his binoculars to glass the background behind the statue, then turned to the chart of the harbor. “Got a great shot from this position, but if we miss the shells are going into New Jersey.”

“That’s why you’re here. You have a twenty-five-millimeter gun. If we use a five- or eight-inch gun, we’ll blow up refineries, and we would have no guarantee that the contact fuses in the shells would detonate when they passed through the torch.”

“Yes, sir.” Lieutenant Coleridge couldn’t have been over twenty-eight years old. He looks about Amy’s age, Jake thought. Ah me, his own ship. The lucky dog!

“I think this is the best angle,” Jake said, turning back to the business at hand.

“I agree,” Coleridge said, and raised his binoculars again.

Jake continued, “The warhead is probably on the torch balcony. The renovation superintendent says the box it was in was too large to go inside the torch, and the warhead’s probably too heavy for two guys to move, even if they took it out of the box.”

“I see two men on the torch balcony.”

Jake looked. He saw them, too.

“We’re going to try to verify the weapon’s location,” Jake continued, “give you its exact position within the structure. I’ll use the radio to give you the information. I want your Bushmaster manned and ready at all times. Don’t aim it until I tell you; if the bad guys see that gun pointing at them, they’ll smell a rat.” The Bushmaster cannon was a 25-mm chain gun with a 400-rounds-per-minute cyclic rate. It had a 150-round magazine.

Coleridge lowered his binoculars and looked Jake square in the eyes.

“If I tell you to fire,” the admiral said, “I want you to open immediately at the torch, right above Liberty’s fingers. I want to shoot the torch off the statue.”

“Sir, our gun is electro-optically aimed and unstabilized. I can’t guarantee hits with the first rounds out of the tube.”

“Got a good shooter?”

Coleridge grinned. “My gunner is an artist.”

“Okay. Shoot until I tell you to cease fire or you run out of ammo. The skin is copper plating — the shells will go right through. There is a steel framework, and that is what we have to cut. The gunner will have to work his fire from side to side across the torch. I just hope to hell a hundred and fifty rounds is enough. Be ready to load a second magazine.”

“If the warhead is armed, it may explode when it hits the ground,” the lieutenant objected. “Or if one of the twenty-five-millimeter slugs hits the electric triggering mechanism.”

Grafton nodded. “Indeed it might. I guarantee you that if it’s armed and one of those maniacs pushes the button, it’ll go nuclear. If it does, you and I will learn about it from St. Peter.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The more likely outcome is a conventional explosion — some of the high explosives in the warhead might go off and spew plutonium around the island and harbor if a shell hits the warhead or it smashes into the ground. That happens, we’ll have a hell of a mess on our hands. But I’d prefer that to a nuclear blast.”

Schuyler Coleridge took a deep breath.

“You’re my last card, Mr. Coleridge. I won’t ask you to shoot unless all else fails.”

“Do I have permission to tell my crew what they are shooting at, sir?”

“No. This matter is classified top secret. You may tell your executive officer and your gunner. No one else.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“By the way, liberty is canceled. Button up the ship. No visitors. No mail, e-mail, or telephone calls.”

“I’ve already given the order.”

Jake and the Coast Guard officer discussed radio frequencies and he used his handheld radio to talk to the cutter’s radio operator. Finally he shook Coleridge’s hand. “Good shooting,” he said.

Fifteen minutes later a Coast Guard launch came alongside to take Jake off. It came up on the starboard side so that a watcher with binoculars on Liberty Island, if there was one, wouldn’t see who boarded the launch.

Jake took the launch to Battery Park and walked to the dock that Corrigan Engineering was using for their crew boats. He displayed a Park Service badge and boarded the boat. No one he knew was aboard, he noted with relief. Not that he expected anyone. He had been talking to Rita via cell phone. Both the Trans were in the statue this evening. After Nguyen went to the rest room, ate, and returned to the statue, Sonny came down. He also used the rest room, then got something to eat from the snack wagon just before the operator closed for the night. After he had eaten he too returned to the statue.

When Grafton got to the island an FBI agent in work clothes and hard hat was waiting for him. He had an extra hat in his hand and handed it to Jake, who put it on. The agent led the way to the administration building and went upstairs to the second floor. A man in dirty jeans and T-shirt sat on the stairs with a backpack between his knees. He was also FBI, and there was a weapon in the backpack. He flashed a smile at Jake as he went by.

Sonny and Nguyen had checked the capacitor last night. It worked precisely as it should. The car batteries put out twelve volts each. They tightened all the connections, inspected the detonator terminals, wired everything up. Sonny put two firing switches in the circuit, either of which was capable of triggering the warhead. One he put right on the box that held the warhead. The other he put in the little work area where the goddess’s hand grasped the torch. He checked each of the switches before he completed the final connection from the capacitor to the detonators.

This afternoon he checked all the connections again, looked everything over, then he and Nguyen sat on the balcony and kept an eye on things with binoculars. He kept down, under the level of the top rail, and looked out through the gaps.

“Either one,” Sonny told Nguyen, gesturing to the switch on the box. “The one here or the one in the hole.” He laughed. He was laughing a lot now. It was all so funny — checkmate! The bastards didn’t even know they were doomed. Perhaps he should tell them, somehow. How would he do that?

He asked Nguyen about that.

“Why tell them?” his younger brother sneered. “They think they’re so goddamn smart, with all the money and power. When this thing explodes they’ll learn different. Learn that life’s a dangerous journey and it doesn’t always go the way you want.”

“Through no fault of your own,” Sonny added.

“Yeah,” said Nguyen. He wished he had something to drink. A beer or whiskey or something. He lit a cigarette and savored the smoke as he watched the crane lower another load of aluminum scaffolding. Idly he focused his binoculars on the Coast Guard cutter. Someone was swabbing the deck, another sailor was using a hose on the upper works, two guys were working on the gun forward of the superstructure. They had the cover off the gun and were doing something — he couldn’t see what. He lowered the binoculars and sat thinking about things.

So it was about over. The end of the trail was in sight.

“We tell them we’re going to do it,” Sonny said, “they’ll know that a nuke aboard a Navy ship didn’t blow.”

Nguyen didn’t reply. He was thinking about wasting those ragheads in Florida, watching the little bastards die. That had been fun. He sat thinking about how it had been. When his cigarette burned down to the filter, he lit another and threw the butt over the rail.

“Don’t do that,” Sonny grunted. “Bastards will come up here.”

“So? We’ll blow’em all to hell. Maybe shoot a few.” Nguyen removed his pistol from his toolbox and put it on the deck beside him.

“Not yet.” Sonny pointed to the Ronald Reagan, which was maneuvering into her assigned anchorage with the help of two tugs. She was three or four hundred yards farther east than the Coast Guard cutter that had anchored earlier. “When the big honchos are aboard and the television cameras are broadcasting the signal all over the world, then we do it.”

Nguyen nodded. Too bad he couldn’t watch New York go up in a mushroom cloud on television. The fall of the American empire, and he and Sonny would be the dudes who shoved it off the cliff.

He felt damned good.

No wonder Timothy McVeigh didn’t apologize. Fuck’em all.

“You know,” he told his brother, “there’s something to be said for giving the world the finger.” He jabbed his aloft.

Sonny Tran laughed and laughed.

Hoyt Wilson was chewing a fingernail when Jake Grafton came into the room. Two FBI agents were with him, a man and a woman, and a tape recorder sat between them.

“Mr. Wilson has been very cooperative,” one agent said.

“Terrific,” Jake said, and dropped into a chair behind the desk. He pulled out the bottom drawer and propped his feet up on it. “Hope you don’t mind,” he said to Wilson.

“Not my office,” Wilson replied.

“This man who called himself Gudarian — did he say he was spending the night on the island?”

“Yes. Said he and a colleague were going to stay in the statue through Fleet Week.”

“Did you see a colleague?”

“No. Anyone could have come over on a work boat if they had the right credentials. He said he was going to lock it up, keep unauthorized people out.”

“When did you leave last night?”

“Around six on one of the boats. Didn’t see Gudarian after I left him.” He shrugged.

“Seen him today?”

“No.”

The man was plainly nervous. There was no way Wilson could pretend everything was normal if Sonny Tran dropped in for a chat. Jake asked one of the agents to find Rita Moravia.

“Do you have a guard on the statue?”

“We had one, construction security, a rent-a-cop. I didn’t want workers sneaking up there on company time. I laid the man off. Maybe I shouldn’t have with the Pulpit project and all, but it didn’t seem—”

“What work remains to be accomplished inside the statue?” he asked Wilson.

“Everything is done except for a thorough cleaning. The best time to clean any construction site is after the construction debris is removed.”

“Sure.” He led Wilson on, chatting about the renovation of the statue, what had been done, how close to budget they were.

“Did Gudarian say he was expecting anyone else?”

“No. I told him about the television crew that has permission to film from the crown during the opening ceremony on Saturday, and he said we might have to cancel. Said he’d let me know.”

“Okay.”

“I want you to know that I thought this was a legit thing, Department of Defense approved. We had messages on it. Gudarian had a D.O.D. pass. He looked okay to me. I don’t want to get in trouble over …”

When Rita came in, Jake introduced her to Wilson. “This is your new assistant. She’s going to sit in your office in case Gudarian wants to talk to you. You need to get off the island, go home. Stay there.”

“But the scaffolding, the cleanup … the job! We’ve got a contract to fulfill!”

“I take full responsibility. Believe me, the people in Boston have their hands full burying Mr. Corrigan. You’ll catch no grief from them.”

“Who is Gudarian, anyway?”

Jake rose from the chair and came around the desk. He put a hand on Wilson’s shoulder. “Go home and stay there. Turn on a ball game. Tell anyone who calls that you are running a fever. No statements to the press. Nothing to the neighbors.”

“This is my job,” Wilson said, shaking off Jake’s hand.

Grafton’s tone changed. “You’re smack in the middle of a classified matter involving national security. If you reveal it to anyone without a security clearance, you’ll be arrested and prosecuted. Do you understand?”

“Who the hell are you?”

“You don’t need to know that either. What will it be — home with the mouth shut or jail as a material witness, without bail?”

“Hey,” Hoyt Wilson said. “Let’s not go off the deep end here. I haven’t done a damn thing wrong and I’ve been cooperative. I want to go home — I’ll keep my trap shut.”

Jake turned to Rita Moravia. “Take a tour and be seen with him. Shut down the scaffold crew and the crane. Have them come back in the morning at the usual time.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, and, taking Wilson by the elbow, steered him out.

Harry Estep, Tommy Carmellini, and Toad Tarkington arrived on Liberty Island after dark. Together with Rita Moravia and another half dozen FBI agents, they met in a small conference room in the National Park Service’s admin building. Through the window the floodlit back of Lady Liberty was visible.

The FBI had brought pizza, sandwiches, and sleeping bags for their troops. When he saw Estep, Jake said, “Thanks for doing the witness protection thing for Anna Modin.”

“Sorry it’s taking so long. We’ll have everything in place next week.”

“Next week?”

“Yeah. She’s staying at your place, isn’t she?”

Jake realized that Carmellini was standing beside him, staring at Estep as if he’d seen a ghost.

“Let’s talk about it next week,” Jake said.

Tommy Carmellini took a seat in the corner and stared at his toes.

Over pizza Jake explained the situation. “There’s an armed nuclear warhead on the torch balcony. Two homicidal maniacs are baby-sitting it. I think their plan is to blow it Saturday night during Fleet Week opening ceremonies, but they may panic and pop the thing anytime. In fact, the longer we wait, the more likely it is that they will sense the presence of law enforcement and push the button. I propose to take them down tomorrow morning.”

Dead silence. It was broken when Harry Estep asked if anyone had thought about evacuating the people from the area around the harbor. “There must be eight or ten million people around this harbor who will be killed or maimed or poisoned with radiation if those criminals detonate that thing.”

“How much time will an evacuation take?” Jake asked. “Can we keep it off radio and television? I don’t know that Sonny and Nguyen have a portable radio or TV up there, but they might. What if we’re evacuating and they blow the thing tomorrow night?”

“I’ll be blunt, Admiral. Was the decision to take these people down in the morning made in the White House?”

Before Jake could reply, Toad Tarkington jumped into the fray. “I don’t know how you do things in the FBI, but when an admiral in the United States Navy says we’re going to fight, we’re going to fight.” He opened his mouth to say more, but a look from Grafton stoppered him.

Jake was deadly calm. “You’ve been ordered to cooperate, Harry. If it goes wrong tomorrow we’ll all be dead and it won’t matter who did or didn’t sprinkle holy water on the grand plan.”

Estep wasn’t intimidated. “Input from a variety of sources might increase our chances of success.”

“This is a military operation, not law enforcement,” Grafton shot back. “I’ve been placed in command. Like everyone in this room, I obey the orders of my superiors. If you are unable to perform your professional duties for any reason under the sun, say so now so that I can get. someone else.”

Estep surrendered. “I withdraw my objection,” he said.

“Fine,” the admiral replied coldly. “There are several unknowns, and they complicate our problem. We don’t know if the warhead detonator is radio-controlled. Nor do we know if the stairs and arm are booby-trapped. In any event, I suspect they could detonate the weapon with ten or fifteen seconds’ warning.

“We have a Coast Guard cutter anchored nine hundred forty yards in front of the statue. If worse comes to worst, I propose to order the captain to use his deck cannon to shoot the torch off the statue. The risks are obvious.”

Dead silence followed that remark.

“I propose to put an FBI sniper on the crane. The problem is the location of the crane, to the north. It is not in the optimum location, and there’s nothing we can do about that. Still, a sniper there would have a shot at anyone on the northern half of the balcony at a reasonable distance.”

He certainly had their attention. His audience didn’t seem to be breathing.

“The door from the torch to the balcony is on the west, or back, side of the torch. I intend to put four snipers on the west side, on top of the admin building or in trees, wherever. They’ll have longer shots than the man on the crane, but with four of them, we increase our chances of a fatal hit.”

“We don’t have that many snipers here in New York available right now,” Estep said.

“We’ll use marine riflemen from the Reagan,” Jake said without missing a beat.

He continued, “Once we get the two men, we need to get someone to the weapon as quickly as possible. A properly equipped man on top of the crown, maybe up the arm, might be able to get to the torch, bypassing any booby traps or triggers on the stairs.”

“What about a helicopter?” Estep asked.

“These guys came down from the torch yesterday evening one by one, went to the rest room and got food,” Jake said thoughtfully. “They may have a timer set to detonate the weapon if they don’t return within a certain period of time. The nearest places we can base a helo are Battery Park or the Reagan. It’ll take time for a chopper to fly over, hover, and lower someone. It might take more time than we have.”

“This isn’t much of a plan,” Estep observed sourly.

“I thought about having a cruiser use an eight-inch gun to shoot the torch off. I doubt that the shell would explode, but a hit would probably wipe the torch right off Liberty’s arm. The problem is the weapon is undoubtedly armed. I’m afraid that course of action would simply mean that we pulled the trigger ourselves.”

In the silence that followed, Jake directed his gaze at Carmellini. “Will you climb the statue? There won’t be ropes, and we can’t drill holes for safety anchors. You may fall off. If the enemy sees you too soon, I’m going to have the snipers and Bushmaster open up, but they may shoot you off that thing. Will you try it?”

Carmellini took a deep breath and exhaled completely before he nodded yes.

Jake looked from face to face. “Whatever we’re going to do has to be done before the scaffold removal crew comes to work. We don’t need an audience to gawk and point. And we can’t afford to change the routine around here and make these guys suspicious. Whatever we do, it must be quick and deadly.”

“You don’t really have a plan,” Estep said again.

“If you have a better idea, trot it out.”

“One option is to wait for them to make a mistake.”

“Time works against us. Every minute that passes with us on this island looking at them is a minute in which something can go wrong.”

No one had any more objections. They discussed details for an hour.

As the meeting broke up, Carmellini buttonholed Jake. “Who were those guys who came for Anna?”

“Either assassins or Ilin’s men. We’ll sort it out next week. She’s alive or she isn’t.”

Jake walked on out. There was much to do, and he didn’t have time to fret about Anna Modin.

The Explosive Ordnance Disposal expert was an army warrant officer — Jake asked how much experience he had — who had been working with explosives for twenty-five years. The name tag on his uniform shirt said “Dillingham.”

“I got a good look at the one you found in Washington, Admiral, so I shouldn’t have any trouble disarming this one.”

“Is there any way to rig it so that it will blow if someone tries to disarm the thing?”

“Yes and no, sir. If the cables to the detonators are severed downstream of the capacitors, then it can’t go off. Of course, you can put a loop circuit on the thing with a sensor that will fire it if it senses a voltage drop, like someone cutting a wire. But they have to be cutting the wire on the loop circuit.”

“Can you tell by inspection if it’s rigged that way?”

“Yes, sir. If I have enough time.”

“You’re implying that they may rig a timer of some sort.”

“Just like the fellow did in Washington.”

“Umph,” Jake muttered, and commenced chewing on his lower lip. Well, hell, this was going to be damned dicey — he knew that going in. “You stay out of sight and out of the way, Mr. Dillingham, until we need you. When we need you, the need will be urgent.”

During the night a visitor arrived, Sal Molina. He found Jake watching the technicians set up the communications equipment in the conference room, the same room Jake had used to brief everyone.

They stared out the window at the floodlit statue as Jake briefed Molina, who grunted occasionally. He had no suggestions. When he had heard everything Jake had to say, he went into a private office, shut the door, and called the president.

When the darkness of night faded, low, dirty gray clouds could be seen scudding across the sky. The dark water of the harbor was frothy with whitecaps. Three more warships had anchored during the night. Ferries were steaming on their usual routes, airplanes were coming and going from Newark and JFK, wisps of smoke rose from the stacks of the refineries in Bayonne and Jersey City. The day promised warmth and rain.

Jake Grafton glanced up at the torch of the statue, visible above the foliage of the trees outside the admin building, and wondered what those two up there were thinking this morning.

He didn’t wonder long. He had decided some time ago that they were both crazy, hate-filled killers. He just hoped that they weren’t going to do the dirty deed in the next few hours.

He went back into the admin building. The FBI had set up a command post in the second-floor conference room. A technician in earphones was sitting there turning the pages of a morning newspaper someone had brought over from Manhattan during the wee hours. He shook his head at Jake, who put on the second headset anyway and sat on the edge of the table.

Nothing. The technician continued to turn the pages of the newspaper, read selective articles. His name was Salmeron.

The headset cord was just long enough to allow Jake to get to the coffeepot and box of doughnuts without taking it off. He helped himself and sat back down on the table.

“Looks like rain.” That wasn’t Sonny. Must be Nguyen.

“Yeah. Wind kept me awake.”

“Sleeping on a steel floor kept me awake,” Nguyen said. “And the way this damn arm thing moves in the wind. It’s a wonder it hasn’t broke clean off.”

Sonny muttered something. Jake pressed his earphones to his ears, trying to catch the words. Nope, all he heard was noise.

He and Salmeron were listening to three parabolic microphones aimed at the torch. Each of them caught some of the sound, and the computer put the tracks together and played them for the listeners in real time.

One of the mikes was under the trees to the northwest of the statue, another was east, in front of it looking up, and the third was to the south, on the lady’s right hand. The parabolic dishes of the east and south mikes were both visible from the torch, if either man had looked. So far they hadn’t. The trick, Jake well knew, was not to listen too long.

“Have the technicians break down the parabolic mikes and get them out of there,” he told Salmeron. “I don’t want them spotted.”

He glanced at his watch. It was two minutes after six. Around seven-thirty the steelworkers were going to be back at it.

There was a small replica of the Statue of Liberty on the desk nearby. He picked it up, ran his fingers over it, then placed it so he could reach it.

He used the handheld radio to call the cutter Whidbey Island. “You guys ready this morning?”

“That’s affirmative.”

“The target is the base of the torch, above the fingers. The thing is on the outside balcony, south side.”

“Roger that.”

“Repeat it to me.”

“The base of the torch.”

“Out.”

At the next desk over, another FBI technician was monitoring a tactical communications network. Jake asked him, “Is the sniper doing okay?”

“Yes, sir. He reported a moment ago that he saw both men. One’s on the balcony, one’s inside. He can just see the head of the man on the balcony.”

“What’s the range?”

“Sixty-seven yards. Like shooting a fish in a barrel.”

The sniper had climbed the crane during the hours before dawn. Just now he was in the operator’s cab, sitting so that he could see the torch. He was actually about twenty feet above the top of the torch, sixty-seven yards away, so he was actually looking a bit down at the balcony. He was sitting on the floor of the cab looking through one of the operator’s lower windows.

The sniper’s name was Brendan McDonald. Jake had talked to him before he climbed the crane. “You ever shoot anyone with that rig?” Jake asked, nodding at the scoped bolt-action .308 rifle McDonald carried.

“No, sir. Never had to.”

“If you have to shoot, I want your target really dead really quick. I don’t know where the trigger for the weapon is, maybe on the weapon, maybe somewhere else. We need a one-shot kill.”

“Yes, sir.”

McDonald thought about that conversation as he sat in the cab on top of the crane. What a trip it had been climbing up here in the dark, carrying rifle and radio and a backpack full of water, crackers, and an empty bottle to pee in, plus ammo and laser range finder and binoculars.

The crane actually sat slightly east of north of the torch. McDonald could see into the balcony, but the weapon on the south side was out of sight. Nothing could be done about that. The crane could not be moved until it was disassembled.

Climbing up here had been an exercise in terror. At least it had been dark, so he wasn’t tempted to look down. Now that the day had come McDonald couldn’t believe he had done it.

He tried to put the view from the perch out of his mind and concentrate on the problem, which was that he didn’t have a shooting position. He was inside the cab. Where he really needed to be was on top of it.

It wasn’t a large structure, maybe six feet long by four feet wide. He could use carabiner rings to fasten his safety harness to the structure, so he wouldn’t fall off. He hoped. Still, the risk was high. If he did slip and ended up dangling off this crane, one of the Trans would surely see him.

Regardless, he had to get to a place where he could aim the rifle for that one-shot kill that Grafton demanded, or he was going to have to hide here useless until the show was over or the world ended.

Brendan McDonald grew up in Cleveland, went to school in Michigan, and had worked out of the FBI’s New York office for years. He had dozens of friends in New York, hundreds of acquaintances, a girlfriend and an ex-wife. He thought of those people as he adjusted his gear, slung his rifle over his shoulder, hooked a carabiner ring on one end of the ten-foot safety strap to a piece of structural steel inside the cab and hooked the other onto his safety harness. The earpiece and throat mike that allowed him to communicate on the tactical net were taped in place, so they wouldn’t fall off. He inspected the run of the safety strap, trying to decide if the line might be cut by something if he fell and put a strain on it. Looks okay, he thought.

Still no one in sight on the torch balcony.

The ladder came up to the door in the back of the cab. He would have to get out on the ladder and scramble on up.

He tried not to look down. Holy Mother …

Brendan McDonald grasped the ladder, stepped out, and forced his muscles to move.

Last night before they knocked off, the scaffolding crew had torn the scaffold down to just one course above the observation balcony on top of the pedestal. Tommy Carmellini scrambled up onto the scaffolding and examined the small pile of gear that the two FBI agents had helped him carry up here. He was on the north side of the statue, out of view of anyone on the torch balcony. This was the side of the statue he was going to have to climb.

He looked up, trying to see how it was going to go.

He would have to traverse under Liberty’s chin, then gain her right arm and climb up to the torch. If he could get that far, he could shoot through the air and water vents in the balcony floor. Or try to climb up on it.

The skin of the statue was composed of copper sheeting, which was riveted to the frame of the statue. That frame was now steel, though originally it had been iron.

He was wearing a safety harness and had a rope coiled over his shoulder, but this was a free climb — if he fell, he was dead.

He was going to have to climb quietly, and that meant suction cups. The FBI had spent most of the night acquiring the equipment Carmellini had asked for. He assumed they had gotten it from climb shops in New York, but he didn’t ask.

That Grafton! Nuclear weapons, terrorists, and he was Joe Cool. Toad said that when the admiral was young his squadron mates called him “Cool Hand,” after the Paul Newman character in the movie.

Grafton hadn’t turned a hair when the FBI dude said no FBI agents had come for Anna. Well, someone did. Carmellini thought about that as he checked his gear, cinched his backpack straps tight, made sure the laces on his climbing shoes were properly tied.

Grafton was right, of course: she was alive or she was dead. That was the reality. And there was nothing on God’s green earth he could do about it.

As the morning breeze tugged at him in the gray light, he installed the first suction cup, pumped the handle to force the air out and create a seal, then tested it with his weight. It held. He did another one about waist high. It didn’t hold, so he had to reset it. Standing on the first one, he placed the third one about shoulder height. Now he moved up to the second, using arm and leg strength, and broke the seal of the lowest cup using a string. He hauled it up, then straightened and installed it higher.

The statue was 151 feet tall. Call it 150. If he installed a cup every thirty seconds two feet above the last, he would need fifteen minutes to climb this thing. If he did a cup a minute he would need a half hour. Forty-five minutes to an hour was more likely — this was damned strenuous exercise — so that was the estimate he gave to Grafton.

Up the side of the statue he went, being careful to avoid thinking of Anna. Anything but that! Fortunately Tommy Carmellini had always had a good head for heights. He didn’t bother to look down, but if he had it wouldn’t have bothered him much. Climbing was great sport with him and good practice for burglary.

Standing on the observation balcony level in the top of the pedestal, Rita Moravia placed a stethoscope she had borrowed that morning from the construction first-aid of fice against the door to the crown stairs and listened.

Toad Tarkington was there with a submachine gun, one with a short barrel decorated with a long, sausage-shaped silencer. The weapon had no sights. He wore it on a strap over his shoulder.

Rita went out on the observation balcony and looked up, trying to see how Carmellini was doing. The scaffolding obscured her view. She returned to the door, applied the stethoscope, and stood listening.

Toad took the elevator down to the base of the pedestal. When he got into the position he wanted, he too checked in with Jake Grafton on the tac net.

“Toad’s in position.”

“Rita’s in position.”

“Tommy’s halfway up. Another fifteen minutes, at least.”

“McDonald’s ready.” The sniper’s voice was distorted somewhat, barely recognizable.

“Estep’s ready.” Harry Estep and a squad of heavily armed FBI agents were inside a construction trailer near the main entrance to the statue. They wore body armor and were armed with submachine guns and satchel charges. If necessary, they were to blow the doors and fight their way to the torch.

In the admin building, Jake closed his eyes, concentrating on the situation. He was betting that the warhead was armed, the two men were in radio contact with each other, and they probably had some kind of alarm on the staircase. Then there was the door to the torch, three-quarters of the way up — it was probably alarmed and locked, too.

The safest course was to wait until one of them came down. They would eventually, but when? How long could he wait? What if Sonny or Nguyen saw the sniper or Tommy climbing the statue?

What if they pushed the button? What if a shell from Whidbey Island detonated the warhead?

Unable to stand still, he paced behind Salmeron and the other radio operator. Over in the corner, Sal Molina sipped coffee. Jake wondered how in the world he could keep it down.

Nguyen had spent the night on the balcony. He had one blanket under him and one on top, so he had slept reasonably well. He slept on the east side of the torch, sheltered slightly from the wind.

Now he sat on the blankets and played with the Glock. He took the magazine out of the pistol, emptied the shell from the chamber, and dry-fired it at this and that while he thought about wasting the drug dealers in Kansas and the Arabs in Florida.

He enjoyed killing people. Came to that realization a little late in life, he thought, and chuckled. He leaned forward and looked to his right. Sonny had a blanket draped over the weapon.

He reloaded the Glock and jacked a shell into the chamber, then engaged the safety.

“I need to take a piss,” Nguyen called to Sonny, who was curled up under the light machinery.

“Drink the rest of the water in one of your bottles and pee in it. That’s what we brought them for.”

“I want to stretch my legs. I’m tired of sitting here.”

“Lie down then.”

“Sonny—”

“And when you do go, leave the fucking pistol, man. You look like you’re itching to shoot someone.”

“Anyone,” Nguyen agreed.

“Pee in the bottle, then get busy with the binoculars. Crawl around the balcony and take a squint in all directions. Keep alert.”

“Right.” Nguyen reached for his backpack and hauled out the submachine gun. He cradled it in his lap, lit a cigarette, and studied the mechanism. Even a cup of coffee would be good.

Petty Officer Second Class Joe Shack wiped the morning dew and sea spray from his Bushmaster for the fifteenth time. He was wearing a sound-powered headset and listening to the skipper on the bridge. The old man — Coleridge — had just given him the range again, 940 yards.

A nuclear warhead! God in heaven! Who in hell would have believed it? Joe Shack, standing here ready to cut loose with a 25-mm cannon at a nuke?

He was nervous. He had tried to get some food down this morning before dawn and promptly vomited it back up.

Shoot at the base of the torch, the old man said, right above her fingertips. Saw that thing clean off the statue.

A good breeze was blowing and the cutter was taut on her mooring lines. Still, she was moving a little in the swell, and that worried him. With an unstabilized gun, every shell didn’t go where the gunner wanted it — that’s a fact. The new Bushmasters were stabilized, of course, but the friggin’ Congress hadn’t given the friggin’ Coast Guard the money to buy the new mounts. Low priority, he had heard. Nobody cared about the problems of shooting back at drug runners or pirates who were shooting at Coasties.

He stopped thinking about money and what he didn’t have, and eyed the statue again. Ooh boy! Used the clean end of the rag to carefully wipe the moisture from the lens of the optical sight. Didn’t want that puppy fogged up if and when.

Well, if that thing exploded he and all the guys on this tub were going to be radioactive ash. No two ways about it.

Hell, everyone in the harbor would probably go together.

He was thinking about that when he eyed the statue again, and saw something moving up the side of it. He had a good set of young eyes, but at a half mile in this light …

“Skipper, guns. What’s that on the north side of the statue, there by the tablet?” The skipper had binoculars.

“It’s a man. Climbing the thing, looks like.”

“Holy …!”

“Just stay cool, Shack. You can do this if you have to.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The admiral won’t ask you to shoot unless it’s absolutely necessary. If it is and he gives the order, just do the best you can.”

Fuckin’ A, man. Talk about balls, Coleridge had a set! He was going to sit up there on the bridge and watch ol’ Joe Shack terminate life as we know it in the Big Apple. Goddamn steel cojones.

He was wiping furiously on the barrel of the cannon when the first drops of rain splattered on his face.

The marine detachment officer in charge aboard the Reagan, Captain BoBo Joachim, had brought his four most senior enlisted marines with him. He left them behind the admin building, out of sight of the statue, when he reported during the small hours of the morning. Now he had them positioned so that each had a good view of the torch. Each man had a shot of about three hundred yards. The steep angle allowed each rifle to be placed on a rest, in this case a rolled-up marine blanket. Over each man was a camouflage net or burlap bag, whatever seemed to best break up his outline and make him blend into the landscape.

Two of the marines were trained snipers, and Joachim had given them the two scoped sniper rifles from the ship’s armory. The other two, both expert riflemen, were using issue M-16s with peep sights.

All the marines wore headsets that allowed them to listen on the tactical net, yet not transmit. If and when Admiral Grafton gave the order to fire, they would hear it as the words were spoken.

When BoBo Joachim returned from checking on his men, he stationed himself in the window near Grafton and focused his binoculars on the torch. His job was to call Carmellini’s and the Tran brothers’ position for Grafton.

He was scanning with the binoculars when he saw Tommy Carmellini, a tiny figure, move up onto the tablet in the statue’s left arm. He told Grafton he was there.

Tommy Carmellini was resting where the tablet and Liberty’s arm made a flat spot when a handful of raindrops hit him. Uh-oh. Rain would make this copper slick as snot.

“Tommy,” he whispered. “I’m on the tablet.”

He had no time to lose. It would probably be quicker if he free-climbed the rest of the way. He looked up, searching the folds of Lady Liberty’s robe for hand- and footholds, then stood to his full height and reached. The wind buffeted him and more raindrops hit his cheeks and hands. He got a good hold with his left hand and hoisted himself up.

Jake Grafton fingered the small statue, studied the tablet that bore the date “July 4, 1776” in Roman numerals.

“It’s raining,” he heard Rita say. “Just a few drops, so far.”

He looked at his watch. 6:25.

The raindrops didn’t bother Brendan McDonald on his perch on top of the crane’s control cab. He had his neutral camo blanket rigged over him to break up his shape and silhouette, and that kept the rain off. The wind pulled at the blanket and threatened to tear it off before he got it secured, but he had it now.

It was a miracle he hadn’t fallen off this friggin’ thing when he was getting up here and wrestling with the blanket and getting into position under it.

The real benefit of the blanket was that it functioned like a set of blinders on a horse — it forced him to concentrate on the only thing he could see, the view through the telescopic sight on the rifle. No one on the torch had seen him when he was getting into position and rigging the blanket, which was damned lucky. At this range they could have shot him right off this crane. Or pushed the button on the bomb.

The torch was about twenty feet below him, so his view was slightly down. Staring through the sight now, he could see the legs and lap of a man on the balcony. The man had a submachine gun in his lap and was smoking a cigarette. He fondles that weapon like it was a rosary, McDonald thought. The other man wasn’t in sight.

He told Jake Grafton about the man on the balcony and received an acknowledgment.

His parents had wanted him to go into accounting, which was their profession. Perched 350 feet above the ground sweating a bullet or nuclear incineration, Brendan McDonald realized that he should have listened to his parents.

Tommy Carmellini felt as if he were scaling an Alp, a damn steep, slick one. He crossed under Liberty’s chin and gained her right shoulder. Standing on it with his back to her neck, he looked up, trying to catch his breath. He was tired; two weeks of soft living without exercise had taken their toll.

He was about thirty feet under the torch. He had another ten feet of robe to cross, then the smooth plates of the goddess’s arm rising up to the torch. He readjusted his gear, drained a small plastic water bottle and restowed it.

“Tommy. I’m ready for the arm,” he said over the net.

“One man on the balcony, Tommy, east side, sitting.” Jake Grafton’s voice. “Go.”

Carmellini scrambled upward. When he gained the top of her robe, he readied the suction cups and attached the first two. The copper was wet; he found the cups had to be as tight as he could get them to hold. A light misty rain blew on his face.

Inadvertently he glanced downward. God, he was high!

He paused and removed the coil of rope from his shoulder. Holding one end, he tossed it around the arm with his right, trying to make it come back to his left.

And missed.

He pulled the rope in and tried again. This time he got it. He snapped the hooks on the end of the rope to the carabiner ring on his safety harness. Just in case. Then he started upward using the suction cups.

Sitting in the little area at the top of the ladder inside the torch, Sonny Tran heard the slap of the rope on the arm twenty feet below him. It was a single sound that echoed inside the arm.

A moment later he heard it again.

He listened carefully. Something was down there.

“Nguyen,” he called, “you see anything?”

“No.”

“Get off your ass and look.”

Up on the balcony, Nguyen picked up the binoculars and sat erect. He looked over the edge of the balcony rail, looked at the Reagan and the cutter, looked at the ground far below. And saw nothing that piqued his interest. He moved to the north side of the balcony, staying low, and looked again.

He examined the crane with binoculars. No one in the control cab yet. Man, how would you like to have the job of operating that damned thing, climbing up and spending the day there, then climbing down every evening? If that crane ever collapsed, the operator was a dead man.

He moved on around the balcony to the west side, right in front of the open door. He studied the admin buildings, the boat dock — there was a boat arriving now and people getting off — glassed the piles of construction material and the walks and buildings.

He moved on over to the south side, right beside the weapon. He patted it, then glassed the south side of the island.

“Looks okay to me,” he told his brother, who was seated below him, inside the door.

“Well, I heard something. I’m going to set the timer for fifteen minutes, then I’m going downstairs for a look. Check your watch.”

Nguyen did so. It was 6:47 A.M.

“Okay,” Nguyen said. “I’ll turn my radio on.”

After setting the timer, Sonny turned and went backward down the ladder inside the arm.

With his head literally against the arm, Tommy Carmellini heard the noises of Sonny descending. He didn’t have a free hand. He had his tac net earpiece in his left ear, so he turned his head and pressed his right ear against the copper skin. He could hear someone in there, which meant they could also hear him. He froze.

Sonny descended the ladder to the door that blocked public access to the arm. He and Nguyen had installed a padlock on the inside last night — he unlocked it now, and with pistol in hand, gently pushed the door open.

Not a soul in sight. He gingerly looked around, pistol in hand, ready for anything.

Christ, he had heard something!

Maybe a bird that accidentally flew into the structure, or a skin plate cooling.

He used the radio. “All clear. I’m going on down for a look. Stay alert.”

“Right.”

The words came over a scanner that the FBI technicians had set up to monitor the civilian two-way radio frequencies. Jake Grafton heard it and recognized Sonny’s voice.

He keyed the mike for the tactical net. “Rita and Toad, Sonny’s coming down. You snipers, be alert.”

Sal Molina sat erect in his chair. His eyes were closed, but he was listening, Jake knew, visualizing the people and what was happening.

Jake Grafton picked up the miniature statue, turned it over in his hand, rubbed it with his fingers.

Sonny Tran descended the steps slowly, stopping frequently to listen. Whatever that noise was, he had not heard it again.

Down, down, down, the steps went on and on. He descended slowly, making no noise, the pistol at the ready.

If they got him they wouldn’t win. Nguyen would hear the shot, would set off the warhead. And send all these fucking bastards straight to hell.

Carmellini stayed frozen until he heard Jake’s voice in his left ear.

Still misting rain. The water coursing down the side of the arm had soaked him. He moved upward and, holding his weight with his left arm, used his right to remove a suction cup and attach it higher.

Running out of strength. He should not have agreed to do this. He was out of shape, too old for this shit, and he damn well knew it.

He pulled himself up with his right hand and used his left to detach that cup. He had it off and was moving it when the right cup slipped.

He grabbed with both hands, but there was nothing to hold on to. Off the arm he went, falling toward the earth far below.

Brendan McDonald saw Carmellini fall. “Tommy fell. He’s hanging on the end of the safety line.”

Jake Grafton heard the words and snapped over the net, “Where’s the man on the balcony? Watch him!”

Carmellini hung from the safety line adjacent to Liberty’s right armpit, three or four feet below the arm. He still had a suction cup in each hand.

His heart was hammering, his chest was heaving … He paused for ten seconds to gather his strength, then stowed the cups and began pulling himself up the line toward the arm. Using every ounce of strength he possessed, fighting the water dripping off the structure, he attached a suction cup with his right hand and heaved himself up.

Sonny listened at the door at the foot of the stairs for half a minute before he unlocked it. He pushed it open. No one in sight. He put the pistol in his waistband under his windbreaker and stepped out into the area in front of the ticket booths.

Satisfied, he jabbed the button to call the elevator. Funny that it should be down. He had ridden it up and left it here when he went up.

Perhaps a watchman had ridden up and looked around, then ridden down. That would explain it. Or perhaps the elevator was on a timer.

When the door opened he entered. Jabbed the down button.

The door closed and the elevator descended the shaft toward ground level.

He stood to one side as the door opened, moved carefully.

Damn place was empty as a pharaoh’s tomb.

He walked out and turned the corner.

Toad Tarkington was standing there with the submachine gun leveled. Even as Sonny realized who it was, Toad pulled the trigger.

The silenced submachine gun buzzed loudly, and shells kicked out as Toad held the trigger down. The bullets marched up Sonny’s chest and neck and smashed his head back, jackhammering him off his feet.

He was dead when he hit the ground.

“Sonny’s down,” Toad said on the tac net.

“Get up there,” Jake Grafton told him. “Nguyen’s alive and well and Tommy’s dangling off the arm.”

Toad took the time to check Sonny’s pockets. He pulled out the two-way radio and put it in his own pocket. No radio-control unit, he noted, that might be used to detonate the warhead remotely.

He took the elevator up and met Rita at the door. She also had a submachine gun — she had been waiting out on the observation deck in the event Sonny went out there first.

Together they began climbing the stairs.

Scrambling back up onto the arm, Tommy Carmellini was making noise, noise that even the wind couldn’t muffle. Nguyen Tran heard it. Staying low, he moved around to the north side of the balcony and looked down. And saw Carmellini.

He didn’t know who he was — he had never seen him before — but it was obvious that the authorities were up to something. People don’t scale the Statue of Liberty on a lark.

Nguyen and Sonny had agreed months ago what they would do if the authorities got on to them. They would detonate the weapon then and there. And win!

Nguyen keyed the mike on the radio. “Sonny? Sonny?”

No answer.

Well, hell, why not?

He straightened up, grasped the Glock in both hands, leaned over the rail, and took careful aim at Tommy Carmellini.

“Hey, asshole!” he called. “Look up here! Look up and see what I’m going to give you!”

Brendan McDonald saw it happening. He didn’t even have time to say anything on the tac net. He centered the crosshairs of his rifle on Nguyen Tran and pulled the trigger.

The shot knocked Nguyen back against the core of the torch. He looked down at his chest at the spreading red stain, so stunned and amazed that he didn’t realize he had dropped the pistol.

I’ve been shot, he thought.

The fact that the bullet had penetrated his right lung — had gone completely through his body — didn’t register. Now he remembered the warhead.

Gotta push the button. Blow it!

He staggered to the west, going around the balcony toward the weapon. The switch was there, right there, and all he had to do was reach it.

Jake Grafton was watching through binoculars. He saw Nguyen, holding himself erect with one hand on the railing and one on the side of the torch, fighting grimly to put one foot in front of the other.

“Snipers, kill him! Now!”

The reports of the four marine rifles sounded as one. People getting off the work boat and buying coffee and doughnuts at the snack wagon heard it and looked up, startled.

Three of the bullets hit Nguyen Tran, smashing him against the torch. By some miracle he stayed erect, staggering, trying to reach the warhead.

Then he fell outward, against the railing. In his determination to stay erect he stiffened his legs — soaked up another bullet from Brendan McDonald — and went over.

Jake saw the body falling. He dropped the binoculars.

“Come on,” he roared at Sal Molina. “Come on!” He raced from the room, took the stairs three at a time, and burst from the building on a dead run.

Harry Estep, two of his men, and Dillingham, the bomb disposal expert, followed Toad and Rita up the stairs. They didn’t run. It was just possible the place was booby-trapped — after all, Sonny and Nguyen had all night. How paranoid were they?

Toad inspected the ladder leading to the torch with a flashlight before he began climbing.

Rita was right behind, with Dillingham behind her.

The timer was at the top of the ladder. It was a mechanical unit with a dial that one twisted to set the time. Less than a minute to go.

Toad wiped his fingers, looked at the faceplate of the timer. Beside it was a switch, just a simple dollar switch from an automotive parts store.

He was breathing heavily from the climb and his ribs hurt like hell.

He wiped his hands again on his trousers. The bomb expert was way back there — and there wasn’t enough room for him unless Toad went all the way up to the balcony. He had to make a decision.

He twisted the dial to the stop and released it. Now they had thirty minutes.

“This is the timer and trigger switch,” he muttered at Rita. Then he went on by, on up to the balcony.

The steel plates there had blood on them. Toad ignored the red splotches, looked over the railing. Carmellini was coming up the goddess’s thumb.

“Hey, shipmate,” said Toad. “Toss me a rope.”

“I don’t have one to toss,” Carmellini hissed, and set the next cup.

Jake Grafton climbed the ladder inside Liberty’s arm and found no one in the base of the torch. He continued upward to the balcony.

Dillingham had the access plate off the box the warhead was in and was inspecting it with a flashlight when Jake arrived. He reached in with a set of wire cutters. When he backed out, he saw Grafton.

“It’s safe, Admiral.”

As Jake helped Toad and Rita haul an exhausted Tommy Carmellini over the railing, he heard Harry Estep on his cell phone. “We’ve got it, Mr. Emerick. The weapon is safe.”

Carmellini flopped down on the balcony, gasping for air.

“Thanks, Tommy,” Jake said, bending over. “You gave us our chance.”

“Next time …” Carmellini rasped out between breaths, “I want … a desk job. Promise me!”

Rita hooted with laughter, and Toad joined in.

Aboard Whidbey Island, Lieutenant Coleridge told Joe Shack on the sound-powered telephone, “Stop polishing that damn gun and put the cover on it.” Then he picked up the mike for the public address system, which had a loudspeaker in every compartment of the small ship.

“Liberty call for everyone except the duty section. If you have the hots to see New York in the rain, now’s your chance. Bosun, get the launch in the water.”

Joe Shack threw his rag on the deck and ran for the railing. When his stomach settled down, he stood looking at the Statue of Liberty. He drew himself to attention and saluted. She didn’t salute back — merely stood there against the gray sky with her torch held aloft.

Shack got out the cover for the gun and began the process of installing it.

Grafton, Carmellini, and the Tarkingtons were sitting with their backs to the torch facing Manhattan a half hour later when Jake’s cell phone rang. He dug it out of his pocket. It was Callie, calling from Washington.

“Where are you?” she demanded.

“Sitting on the balcony of the Statue of Liberty watching the clouds over Manhattan. It’s a gorgeous day, misting rain. The Empire State Building is fading in and out.”

“Emerick is on television. He just announced that the FBI found a warhead in the statue. Do you know anything about it?”

Jake began laughing and couldn’t stop. He passed the cell phone to Rita, who listened to Callie, said something, and also dissolved into laughter.

When he got the phone back, Jake told his wife, “I’ll tell you all about it this evening. Thought I might take the train home with Carmellini and the Tarkingtons this afternoon. Could you meet us at Union Station? I’ll call you later, tell you when we’re getting in. Bring Amy and we can get some dinner somewhere.”

“I love you, Jake.”

“I love you, too, Callie.”