The Prince of Risk

87

Sandy Beaufoy drove the van down Broadway. Traffic was moving nicely. There was a police scanner on the center console. As he neared the drop-off zone, he listened to the usual litany of petty crime, larceny, and traffic mishaps that filled a big-city policeman’s day, be it in Jo’burg or the Big Apple. There was no hint that the police were gearing up for something out of the ordinary. Even so, he was wary, and listened carefully for any euphemism or nuanced turn of phrase. He was almost disappointed that the police were so clueless. There was, after all, no question that the FBI and NYPD knew they were here. Not after the bomb in Darien.

There hadn’t been time to remove all the weapons and munitions from the safe house, so he’d made the decision to booby-trap the place and blow it to kingdom come. The less evidence, the better. The morning radio buzzed with reports of the explosion in the Connecticut town and the death of an FBI agent. If he hadn’t heard from James Salt in over twelve hours, it was to be expected. At this point, it was impossible to communicate without compromising one another. Salt’s master had given him the green light. That was all that mattered. Sandy Beaufoy was a soldier. He followed orders.

The signal turned red at Zuccotti Park. Without prompting, the passenger door slid open and three men jumped out. They separated immediately. Wearing baseball caps and sunglasses, two of them carrying athletic bags, they looked like any other unthreatening Caucasian males. For all intents and purposes, they were invisible.

Beaufoy stopped again a block further on. A second three-man squad alighted in front of Trinity Church. Wall Street began to his left. Barricades prevented cars from entering. The Exchange was 200 feet down the narrow road. As such, there was always a police presence. His eye searched for reinforcements. Several uniformed policemen manned the vehicle barricades across the street. They appeared at ease-jovial, even.

If they only knew what was going to hit them, thought Beaufoy.

He had divided his remaining men into two teams, one infiltrating the target by the Number 5 line of the subway, Wall Street Station. It was common for Transit Police to search rucksacks and bags, no reason needed, so he’d ordered the team to strap their compact H &K submachine guns to their backs and tape their spare cartridges to their calves.

The other team came by car, but from the south. The plan called for the three teams to converge on the Exchange and to open fire only when they reached a distance of 20 feet from the building. From there it was a lightning strike through the entry. A hail of automatic-weapons fire, grenades, and, for the team entering on Exchange Place, a hearty hello from their TOW antitank weapon to see themselves in.

Beaufoy stopped the van a third time at the corner of Morris Street, allowing the final two mercenaries to get out. He turned right at the light and drove 200 yards, then parked illegally. He threw the keys in the sewer. He would not be back. Approaching Broadway, he made a commo check with every member of his team.

“Alpha comeback?”

“Alpha clear.”

“Beta?”

Twenty-two were called. Twenty-two answered.

Beaufoy reached Broadway. He spotted three of his men fanned out along the sidewalk, crossing the street and closing on the target. If he had a shred of sanity remaining, he would be scared out of his wits. It was a suicide mission. No one paid a merc $1 million with $200,000 up front. And yet he wasn’t. He was battle-bright and battle-ready. If this was to be his last day, so be it. He would have it no other way.

Gott mit uns.

Beaufoy ran across the street.