Sadira. I figured I’d ride with her to the hospital. She was in bad shape, but she’d live to tell about it—something I was banking on. Who were those two guys who had taken her? And why?
Foxx had already returned to the one he’d pulled from the van. The guy’s body language said it all. Dressed in jeans and a black sweatshirt, he wasn’t planning on saying anything. Another EMT was tending to him as the two cops from our car chase stood guard. Not that the guy was going anywhere. Forget making a run for it. He couldn’t even walk.
“Dylan.”
Sadira’s voice was so weak, but even with all the commotion around us I could somehow hear her. The way she said my name, it was as if she were whispering in my ear.
I climbed into the back of the ambulance. Neither EMT asked me who I was or gave me a hard time about my wanting to tag along. They’d seen me run out of the van with Sadira. If that didn’t buy me some slack, nothing would.
“What is it?” I asked her.
I suddenly remembered she’d tried to tell me something in the van.
“I was … about …” She paused, swallowed. She was already out of breath. “I was about to … call you.”
I could see how much it hurt for her to talk. The least I could do was fill in the gaps as best I could.
“You mean, before those guys broke into your apartment,” I said. “You heard from the Mudir?”
She nodded. “Rent a car … meet the Mudir near the train …”
“Yes, the train station.” The fact that he wanted her to rent a car most likely meant one thing. “He wants you to be a driver,” I said. But when? “Before or after the attack?”
“After,” she said.
This was good. Knowing where the Mudir wanted to rendezvous with her would be crucial if we stopped the attack without catching him.
“So what street around Penn Station?” I asked. “He must have told you an address, right?”
I waited for her to nod. Instead, she shook her head. “No,” she said. It was the whole point of what she wanted to tell me. “It’s not Penn Station.”
CHAPTER 109
I JUMPED out of the ambulance and sprinted over to Foxx while yelling his name.
“What the hell is it?” he asked.
“It’s Grand Central.”
“What is?”
“The attack,” I said. “The target is Grand Central Station.”
Foxx let that sink in for a moment. The implications. The logistics. The sudden loss of our leverage. “Holy shit.”
“It’s worse than that,” I said, looking at my watch. It was about twenty of eight. The Mudir had told Sadira to be in a white rental car at 46th Street and Third Avenue, right near the station, at 8:30 sharp. “Whatever’s going down, it’s all about to happen in less than an hour.”
Foxx had to make calls. Immediately. But right in front of us was a guy who clearly knew things about Sadira. Did he also know about the attack?
With his cropped blond hair, he looked more like a Hitler youth than a Middle Eastern terrorist, but that hardly meant there was no connection to the Mudir. He could’ve been Russian. He could’ve been anybody. What we couldn’t afford was his being useless. We had to get him talking. Fast.
He’d been staring at me since the moment I came over. His head was cocked, his eyes narrowed to a squint. I knew that look. It meant the same in any country and any language. The guy was sizing me up, trying to figure out if I was baiting him by what I told Foxx. I’m clever, but not that clever, dude …
Foxx reached for his cell while giving me the nod. The plan was to divide and conquer. He’d get the word to Evan Pritchard, who was camped at Penn Station, and I’d go to work on our mystery man here.
As soon as Foxx stepped away, I stared at the EMT, who thankfully was fluent in subtext and knew enough to step away as well. The two cops standing guard would still do their jobs, but their stares made it clear they would neither remember nor repeat anything they were about to hear.
All right, du verdammtes Arschloch, let’s you and I have a chat …
I knelt down, getting eye to eye with him. The key was letting him think he was in control. I’d ask the questions he’d never answer. He’d get into a rhythm. He’d get comfortable. Then, maybe,