Love and Terror on the 5:58

At 7:15 a.m., Laurie Warshaver left the Princeton Club, heading east on 43rd Street to Grand Central. She saw the side entrance from several blocks away.

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At 7:17 a.m., as the train chugged through the Bronx, Al-Malhouf’s cell phone rang. “Yeah?” he said.

Akhbar Mohammad called from the train he boarded in White Plains, at 7:00 a.m., due in Grand Central Terminal at 7:33 a.m. Agents Birdwell and Ruiz monitored the conversation.

“It’s a go, right?”

“Right.”

“I get to GCT first and take the elevators to the top, past the Met Life escalators to the news stand. You come up, we start walking to the down escalator. I hand the turkey to you and you go down the escalators. Then you do it. No sweat, nobody knows what’s going down.”

Al-Malhouf felt plenty of sweat, under his arms, around his stomach where the belt lay heavy and malignant, in the crux of the knee he couldn’t stop jiggling. “Yeah, no sweat. I’m ready.”

Mohammad clicked off. Al-Malhouf closed the phone and stared ahead. His eyes fell on the Oriental woman, still bopping to her headset. The seconds tick-tick-ticked on his watch, the train relentlessly carried him south. Maybe the infidel bitch would join the Jew on the escalators. Something caught in his throat as he gazed, with malevolence and longing, at her. “I’m going to die a virgin,” he thought.

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Armando Ruiz tapped his BlackBerry, sending a message to a intense, blond man sitting in the glass-fronted Dreyfus investment office at the top of the first set of escalators leading from Grand Central to the MetLife building. FBI Agent in Charge Jack Bauer read the message: “Targets in transit, under watch, confirm handoff at top of escalators. Train tails in place. GCT team in place?” Bauer tapped back, “In place, top and bottom of escalators.” He sent the message. The open space beyond the Dreyfus office swirled with hundreds of people, spinning and bumping through the day’s start. The glass in the office looked out on other glass-fronted retail stores in the area leading to East 45th Street. Past the huge Eastern Lobby magazine and newspaper shop sparkled other glass-fronted restaurants and retail stores. The panes soared 30 feet toward the ceiling. In the other direction, the four escalators connecting the shopping lobby with the main hall of Grand Central formed a natural funnel for people -- and, Bauer told himself -- shards of glass. The time was 7:35 a.m.

Looking across, in front of the newsstand, he saw a striking woman in an expensive trench coat and high -- but not too high -- heels. An orange and black scarf draped her neck. Amid the confusion, she stood still, glancing down past the MetLife escalators to the escalators leading up from the main hall of Grand Central. She looked around 40, very self possessed but overlaid with -- Bauer tried to read her mood -- anticipation, nerves?

Bauer’s own nerves jangled. Maintenance workers with mops and tools bustled in and out of the employee doors by the escalators and the newsstand. Bauer’s phone rang as one of the workers called.

“In place.”

“Good. Move the mops around,” said Bauer. “Look busy. Do you see the first target?”

“Not yet. His train gets in, what, 7:33?”

“Right. He’ll time it to reach the top of the escalators just before the second target rides up. I’ll call when he’s coming up. That’s the signal that things will start to happen.”

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Laurie looked at her Tiffany watch: 7:37 a.m. Daniel’s train should be pulling in right about now. Grand Central was a madhouse of people grabbing papers, lugging packages, shoulder-dipping around other commuters. “The maintenance people are sure out in force today. They must not want to have any slip and fall lawsuits on wet floors,” she smiled. She smelled the wonderful omelettes and coffees of Cuchina & Company. Standing quietly in the swirls and sounds of New York, Laurie Warshaver felt happy.

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At 7:38 a.m. Akhbar Mohammed was observed leaving the arrival platform of the White Plains train, which arrived five minutes earlier. He kept one hand in a coat pocket, and walked steadily through Grand Central, then took the farthest-right of the four escalators to the mezzanine level. At the top he skirted the escalators leading higher into the MetLife building and paused in front of the Eastern Lobby store, near a woman in a heavy coat and wavy brown hair. Jack Bauer and several others exchanged calls, but made no move toward Mohammed. Oblivious to each other, Muhammad and the woman both looked toward the escalators, expectant.

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“Last stop, Grand Central Terminal,” the conductor announced on the intercom. “Please take your newspapers, coffee cups, laptops, cell phones, scarves, and pumpkin pies. Have a safe and happy Thanksgiving, and please pick up the special schedule for this afternoon’s extra trains.” The time was 7:39 a.m.

Her coat and purse buttoned, Karen Rizzini DiFalcone exited with the shuffling mass. From the third car from the front she walked into the main lobby. Ordinarily she’d sweep to the subway, but today she headed to the information booth in the center of the huge space to grab the holiday schedule. She veered off as a man with a grey beard headed toward the escalator, followed by a dark man with a North Face backpack, a petite Asian woman, and several men who looked like New York union electricians, or carpenters, big guys. To Karen, they were just faces in the crowd.

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Al-Malhouf shivered with anticipation and dread. The Jew stood directly in front of him on the escalator. If only he were going down with Al-Malhouf and not just up. But the Jew’s precise direction did not matter; he would get swept up anyway. The right-hand escalator whisked them upward, a 25-second trip from bottom to top. I’ll walk through the revolving doors, find Akhbar Mohammed by the newsstand, connect the pumpkin and the turkey, then proceed to the down escalator. Half-way down: the world ends there.

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Behind Al-Malhouf, Jessica Chou clicked off the safety of her pistol.

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Laurie looked at her watch. It was now 7:42. She tingled with anticipation. Call me crazy, she thought, but I’m looking forward to this. A girl can hope, can’t she? To the side of the newsstand, maintenance men bustled in and out of the unmarked copper-colored doors leading into the building’s hidden guts. A dark man bounced from foot to foot. She heard him mutter, “Come on, come on.” She smiled. Everybody’s got places to go and people to meet.

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At 7:43 a.m., Daniel Lissner and Abdel al-Malhouf exited the Grand Central escalators. Five seconds later, after several strides, they spotted Laurie Warshaver and Akhbar Mohammad. Jessica Chou, behind Al-Malhouf, saw Mohammad stiffen with recognition and reach into his pocket. A woman at the newsstand waved and smiled. The man in front of Mohammad also waved and quickened his pace.

From the Dreyfus observation post, Jack Bauer growled into his cell phone, “Get ready. They’re going to do the hand-off.”

“Damn, Laurie looks nice,” thought Daniel as he approached her. She was flashing the heart-melting smile that captivated him so long ago, with those lips he had never kissed. So intent did Daniel gaze at Laurie that he did not notice the man beside her, Akhbar Mohammed, turn and walk across the open space in front of the newsstand. Daniel did not see Mohammed palm a piece of metal. Nor did Daniel sense the man behind him turn abruptly to walk parallel to Mohammed. His eyes stayed on Laurie.

But her smile faltered into puzzlement. Daniel didn’t understand it. He followed her eyes, which followed the two men walking close together and reaching to shake hands. If they were friends, she thought, they don’t look very pleased to see each other. And then, as their hands reached out, movement in the lobby sped up and slowed down at the same instant. The hands got closer and closer, but before they could touch a petite Asian woman pulled a gun from her pocket and the maintenance men milling around dropped their mops and tools and also drew guns and a man inside the Dreyfus office ran out and everybody had guns and the two men were swarmed from every direction by men and women who grabbed their arms. The Asian woman snapped the first man’s hand opened and grabbed something metallic.

Laurie heard her say, “I’ve got the key.”

The handshake never happened. The unmarked copper doors flew open. When Laurie glanced inside for the few seconds the doors were ajar, she saw people in the shadows, with rifles and flack jackets and helmets. The agents picked up Mohammed and Al-Malhouf, trapped like balls in the middle of a rugby scrum, and shoved them a few feet through the doors. The doors clanged shut to restore a smooth, anonymous surface. The agents who didn’t push through melted into the morning crowds. The few people who saw the 15 seconds of commotion stopped to stare then, with nothing left to see, moved on.

“What was THAT all about?” asked Laurie. Daniel grabbed her hands and kissed her cheek – the lips would have to wait.

“Hello, stranger, welcome to New York,” said Daniel. Under the bluffness his heart thudded. “Never a dull moment. Did we just see guns?”

“I, I think we did.”

“The guy must have had too many parking tickets. If it was anything important we’ll hear about it on the news.”

Laurie and Daniel stood in front of the magazine racks. They took deep breaths, then laughed.

“I dig your orange and black scarf, Laurie,” said Daniel. “And look at this.” Under his trench coat and jacket he wore an orange and black silk tie.

“Aren’t we the loyal alumni,” said Laurie.

“All we have to do is write some big checks and the big shots in Nassau Hall will really be happy. But until then, let’s get breakfast and talk about this reunion.”

Her mind tumbling with fear and excitement, Laurie tried to focus. She asked, “What is it we were going to talk about?”