Free Twelve Hours by Leo J. Maloney Page A

onlookers to reach the perimeter that the NYPD had formed around Grand Central at the corner of Vanderbilt Avenue and East Forty-sixth Street. She flashed her badge at the officer, who let her through the barrier. She turned back just long enough to see Conley, out of the corner of her eye, gaining admittance behind her.
    No time to wait for him. She ran down Vanderbilt Avenue, which was empty of pedestrians except policemen enforcing the cordon. When she had traversed a block down to Forty-fifth, she saw that, along the Grand Central building, cars had been left abandoned on the street by people escaping sniper fire. She caught sight of a dark bloodstain on the pavement and chills ran down her spine.
    She turned onto East Forty-second Street to find a cluster of first responders, some thirty in total, not only wearing NYPD uniforms but black suits and dress shirts, under the Park Avenue overpass, which provided at least partial protection in case the snipers returned. She searched the crowd, circling it until she saw who she was looking for.
    “Chambers!” she called out. He was conferring with Nolan, who was speaking into his phone at the same time.
    “Frieze? Jesus Christ, the Waldorf is still an ongoing terror scene. I need someone—”
    “Sir, this couldn’t wait,” she said, panting. “The Iranian president’s been abducted. They’re coming here.”
    “What are you talking about?” he said, motioning to a man carrying a rolled-up piece of paper some three feet long. He unrolled it on a table that had been dragged out of the Pershing Square Café. It was a floor plan of the terminal.
    “To Grand Central! The terrorists are bringing him here. We need people on the inside to intercept them.”
    That got his undivided attention. “How do you know this?”
    “Head of security for the Waldorf says he saw them go down to an underground track that runs between the Waldorf and Grand Central.”
    “Why am I only hearing this now? For God’s sake, Frieze, why didn’t you call?”
    Frieze motioned to his cell phone, still in his hand, with a call still active.
    Chambers stabbed the phone with a meaty finger to disconnect. “Our teams are tied up searching the buildings for the snipers,” he said. “Nolan,” he called out, and Frieze noticed that he was standing against the window of the café, texting on his phone. “Update on tactical.”
    “Sir,” said Nolan. “The snipers haven’t been found.”
    “Divert the teams,” he said. “I need word sent to the officers inside. All resources need to be on finding those kidnappers.”
    “What about the people inside Grand Central?” asked Frieze.
    “We can’t risk letting the Iranians slip out,” said Chambers. “They stay inside until our people inside get a grip on the situation.”

11:06 a.m.
    Soroush’s ten-man team invaded the Grand Central Control Room bearing MP7 submachine guns, spreading through the elongated chamber with its two rows of desks facing giant monitors built into the wall, reminiscent of Mission Control at Cape Canaveral. Masud and Paiman raised their firearms to the two security guards in the room. “Guns on the ground!” yelled Masud. “Now!”
    Seeing themselves outgunned, the guards placed their semiautomatics on the ground.
    “Hands on your desks,” Soroush yelled out. “Do not attempt to fight back and do not attempt to contact anyone, or you will die. Is that understood?” Then, in a measured tone, he said, “Touraj.” A young man sitting at the back desk, about three-quarters of the way to the far end of the room, stood up and walked to face Soroush. His hair was close-cropped and he wore a short-sleeved pale yellow shirt. People watched him as he stood, astonished. “Is everything in place?” asked Soroush.
    “The communications jammers are in trash cans around the terminal,” he answered in Farsi. “They are ready for deployment.”
    “And the other device?”
    “It is ready to be triggered,” said