Stone - 25 - Collateral Damage

she was set down at the curb in front of a pretty town house in the West Forties with geraniums growing in window boxes.
    “Basement,” her driver said, then drove away.
    She walked down a few steps, towing her case, then under the main stairs to a heavy door and rang the bell. She looked up into a surveillance camera and smiled.
    A moment later the door opened and a fashionably dressed, middle-aged man in a business suit let her in. “Welcome to New York,” he said. “I am Habib.”
    “Everybody’s Habib,” she said, then rolled her case into the apartment. It was bigger than she had thought it would be, with a large living room with a dining alcove. Habib took her case and rolled it to the rear of the apartment, showing her the bedroom.
    “Do you need to sleep?” he asked.
    “I need to blow up something,” she replied.
    “I’ll be at the dining room table when you’re ready.”
    Jasmine hung up a few clothes and put some things away, then returned to the front of the building and sat down at the dining table.
    Habib unrolled a map of the city. “There are a number of potential targets,” he said, and they discussed each.
    “I want the CIA station on the Upper East Side,” she said.
    Habib tapped his finger on the map. “It’s right here. We’ve been surveilling it.”
    “Do they have an underground garage?”
    “Yes, but it’s well guarded.” He showed her some photographs of the building. “There’s a steel door with a keypad. Cars have to be admitted from the inside. The security station and barrier are about eight feet into the building,” Habib said. “Covered by armed guards.”
    “Good,” she said. “I like armed guards. Do you have a person to deliver?”
    “I have two,” Habib said. “A young man and a young woman.”
    “What sort of accent does the young man have?”
    “American. He was born in Pakistan but came here at the age of two with his parents.”
    “The young man, then. I want him to drive a black Lincoln like the one that met me at the airport. It has a very large trunk, so we can maximize the size of the device. You have a reliable bomb builder?”
    “I am the bomb builder,” Habib replied, “and my devices are very reliable. I have one ready to go. I need only add more plastique to fill the trunk.”
    “I want cell phone activation,” she said, “and I want to be here.” She tapped a spot on the map around the corner from the garage entrance. “In a New York yellow taxi.”
    “I will drive you,” he said. “I think it is best you do not try to make an escape by car. Immediately after the detonation, the streets will become impassable. There is a subway station here.” He tapped the map. “You should take the subway twenty stops downtown, to here.” He moved his finger downtown. “Another car will meet you there and bring you up the West Side to this house. I will supply you with a Metrocard.”
    “Excellent,” she said.
    “Why do you want to observe the attack?” he asked.
    “Because it will give me pleasure,” she replied. “Let’s execute during rush hour tomorrow morning. Is that feasible?”
    “Perfectly. We have only to obtain the two vehicles, which will be done tonight.”
    “Good. Now I will have some food and a nap.”
    —
    Stone and Holly were sitting up in bed having a full English breakfast from a room-service cart. The TV was on the morning news, and the news was of heavy fog in London, preventing most flights.
    “Looks like we might be stuck here another day,” Holly said.
    “I can handle that,” Stone replied. “We can just keep ordering room service.”
    “Stone, you are always good in bed, but last night was really something.”
    “Takes two,” Stone replied, biting into a muffin.
    The phone rang, and Holly answered. “Yes?”
    “It’s Inspector Harry Tate,” a male voice said.
    “Good morning, Inspector.”
    “I thought you might like a report on the raincoat we took from your State Department’s personnel office.”
    “Yes, indeed.” She motioned to Stone to pick up the phone on his side, then put a finger to her lips.
    “The coat was unremarkable—a cheap knockoff of a Burberry raincoat, and we got nothing from the coat itself.”
    “Was there something else?”
    “There was a lipstick in one pocket,” Tate said. “The fingerprints were smudged, but we got enough DNA for a match. If we get her, we can place her at the office definitively.”
    “Very good, Inspector,” Holly said.