The Prince of Risk A Novel(38)

“Worse than storming a building or a hostage situation?” asked Barnes. “Stop being such an alarmist.”

Alex looked at McVeigh. “What if they’re taking Manhattan?”

“You mean a Mumbai scenario?”

Alex nodded. “That’s exactly what I mean. Mumbai.”





24




At nine o’clock at night on November 26, 2008, twelve relatively untrained terrorists landed at the port of Mumbai, India, in rigid rubber-hulled motorboats. The men broke into four teams. Every man carried a machine gun, two hundred rounds of ammunition, hand grenades, and a store-bought cell phone with which to speak to the others. No one had a Kevlar vest. No one had state-of-the-art communications gear, and no one carried an antitank weapon. By any measure, it was a rudimentary martyrdom operation.

One team attacked the famed Taj Mahal Palace Hotel; another, the nearby Oberoi Trident; another, Mumbai’s central railway station; and yet another, Nariman House, a Jewish Chabad-Lubavitch center. For the next thirty-six hours, the entire city of Mumbai, population 16 million, was effectively paralyzed. Business ground to a halt as the city shut down and all economic activity ceased. The only people more poorly trained than the terrorists were the police. Their ineptness peaked when the police chief and his motorcade drove directly into a terrorist ambush and he was shot dead in the back seat of his car.

In the end, nearly two hundred people were dead, including more than thirty Western tourists and Jewish émigrés. The Taj Mahal Palace suffered a major fire. Worse was the economic cost to India, in both the short and the long term. Twelve young men armed only with machine guns and grenades and the will to give their lives caused over $5 billion in economic damage and brought one of the world’s most important financial capitals to its knees. The attack coined a new phrase, shoot and scoot, and brought a startling new tactic to the world of international terrorism.

“Twenty-four people…take Manhattan?” Barnes shook his head. “Come on. Not going to happen.”

“Look what twelve did to Mumbai,” said McVeigh.

“That what you think this is?” asked Barnes. “A shoot and scoot?”

“Too soon to say. Whatever it is, lots of people are going to die.”



“I’m not fighting you on this,” said Barnes, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Just trying to be prudent. We don’t want to run off half-cocked.”

“Half-cocked? That sounds like your problem, Bill.”

Barnes colored and rose in his chair.

“Hold on, Alex. We’re with you,” said McVeigh. “This is a chance to stop something before it happens. In the past, we’ve arrived late to the ball every time. We’re not going to mess this one up. But Bill’s correct in saying that we’re going to do things the right way. Calmly, efficiently, and professionally.”

Consensus building. Mediation. All that diplomatic crap. Alex rubbed her eyes, thinking she’d been foolish ever to dream of getting to D.C. That was for people like McVeigh. “Okay, then,” she said. “We’re clear.”

McVeigh smiled at her like a kindly aunt. “You can’t operate at the level we need going on no sleep for thirty-six hours. I want you to take a couple of days and rest up. We’ll talk Wednesday afternoon, see how you’re doing.”

“Jan—”

“That’s it, Alex. Two days on the bricks. No discussion. Give Bill everything you’ve got. If we need anything, we know where to find you. I’ll make sure Barry Mintz keeps you in the loop.”

“And what about the shooter’s fingerprints?”

“We’re putting them through the system. If we get anything, we’ll let you know.”

“But—”

Jan McVeigh stood. “We’re done here. Go home. Get some rest.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Alex left the room. She’d be damned if she’d take two days off.

Didn’t they understand?

This was happening now.





25




It was past four when Astor reached Greenwich.

The Audi Q7 drove rapidly along the two-lane road, climbing rolling hills, accelerating through forest so dense the sun threatened to disappear. Astor rolled down the window and a blast of warm air, thick with the scent of cut grass, invaded the car. The town of Greenwich, Connecticut, was a forty-minute drive north of Manhattan and a hundred light-years away.

Penelope Evans lived at 1133 Elm, a two-story Colonial set well back from the road. A circular drive led down a slope to the house. A Range Rover was parked near the front door. A flagpole stood in the center of a broad lawn. On this fine day, no flags were hoisted.