Silent Night - By Tom Barber Page 0,22

the walls in the changing rooms, intermingling with the rustle of clothes being changed in other stalls and the occasional cough or sniff from someone with a seasonal cold. He worked the last screw out of its home, then placed it alongside the other three in a neat line. Tucking the screwdriver back into his pocket, he quietly lifted off the panel and leant it against the wall.

Under the lid, there was an assortment of electrical wiring, but also a square ledge beside a small air vent.

There was already a box in there, identical to the one he had in the bag. He’d placed it here yesterday in preparation.

He lifted it out, putting it on the floor by his feet, then took its twin out of the bag. He carefully placed the new box inside the compartment, laying it on the ledge. Then he lifted the lid and tucked it underneath the box.

This bomb was different from the one left in Central Park. It had no disruptor or disturbance reactor.

And it also contained much more of the virus in the vial rigged up to the detonator.

The device he’d given to the drug dealer was just a tester. He’d had a small sample of the virus extracted from one of the main vials and transferred into a pressurised cylinder. He’d made a small bomb, something he could do in his sleep. He wasn’t the most intelligent guy out there, but certain things he knew how to do just fine. But he’d needed to see the virus at work, to ensure everything he’d heard wasn’t just bullshit. He knew from a job he’d held briefly in Central Park last year that the groundsman in the Meadow area, Luis Cesar, emptied the trash like clockwork between 9:45 and 10:10 every weeknight.

He’d been watching the Meadow from an upper floor corridor of a hotel on West 67at 10pm last night. He’d seen Cantrell deliver the box earlier. He hadn’t opened it, which Hurley had assured Bleeker he wouldn’t, and it meant Bleeker wouldn’t be on any security cameras mounted inside the Park. Through binoculars, he’d seen the groundsman approach, spot and open the box. He’d watched in fascination at the devastating effects of the virus as it killed the man, blood spraying from his mouth as he fell back and died out there on the snow. It wasn’t a hoax and it hadn’t been exaggerated.

This poisonous yellow shit was the real deal.

He looked down at the bomb in front of him. At the top of the box was a long vial. Inside the glass cylinder was a portion of noxious-looking yellow liquid. Below it was a digital timer, pre-set at 15:00 in lime-green numbers on a black display.

Fifteen minutes would suffice. It would give him enough time to get out of Midtown and be on his way back to Queens by the time it detonated, was sucked into the air ducts and killed everyone in the building.

Reaching forward, his finger rested on a small button on the side of the timer.

He coughed as he pressed it, covering the beep.

The countdown started silently.

14:59.

14:58.

14:57.

Reaching beside him, Bleeker lifted the panel and put it back in place, then quickly replaced the screws. When he'd finished, he slid the other shoebox into the plastic bag and rose. He grabbed the shirt on the hangar and pulled open the door, walking out of the stall.

Outside, Bleeker moved down the aisle to where the changing rooms met the main shopping floor. A female employee was standing behind a counter, a half-filled rail of clothing behind her.

She gave him a courteous smile which he didn’t return.

‘Any luck?’ she asked.

‘Not today,’ he said, passing over the shirt.

She took the garment from him, turning to place it on the rail behind her. Bleeker didn’t hesitate. He moved back out into the store and walked rapidly towards the escalator across the level.

He stepped onto the metal stairwell headed to the ground floor and within a few moments he disappeared out of sight.

TEN

At the Counter Terrorist Bureau, Shepherd was leaning on the table beside Rach, watching her work. She was logging into the NYPD’s advanced security camera network. They were connected on speakerphone to Marquez and Jorgensen, who were still in their Ford Explorer in Harlem with the arrested street dealer, Rashad Cantrell.

Rach typed in her password and a grid of security cameras came up on the screen. Each one was from a different vantage point in the city and all were moving in real