Free BioKill by Stuart Handley Page B

hard, making her hands tremble. Dang — but that smarts some! I’ll wait until tomorrow, I’ve got my shopping to do today.
     
    Yusuf al-Nasseri and Bashir Zuabi walked out of the apartment block to the sidewalk. Blending in with other pedestrians in the ethnically diverse neighborhood, the two silently, casually made their way to the nearest bus stop. There they caught the next available commuter bus via the Manhattan Bridge to 625 Eight Avenue, midtown Manhattan and the Port Authority Bus Terminal located in Times Square, just over five kilometers from One Police Plaza.
    The nation’s largest bus terminal sat amidst commercial neighbors, the likes of the New York Times building, Madame Tussaud’s and Ripley’s Believe It or Not, mothership to a swarm of state and interstate passengers, with over two hundred thousand people passing through each day.
    The two bioterrorists arrived outside, unnoticed in all the hustle and bustle. Exiting the city bus onto the busy sidewalk, the men made their way inside, where the semi-organized street traffic gave way to organized chaos. Duffel bags slung over their shoulders, tightly gripping the straps, they negotiated the throng of commuters, swerving in and out of the rumbustious flow. Every so often an unwitting person would bump into them, some knocking the bags the men carried. On not a single person’s mind was the notion that, within their midst, two young men were on their way to unleash an economic catastrophe to rival the loss of the Twin Towers. And it would be done so easily, so cheaply. The poor man’s nuke was in transit.
    Yusuf glanced down at his watch — ten forty-five in the morning. The last bus upstate to Binghamton had left at ten; the next was due to depart at eleven-thirty from the lower level of the North Terminal.
    Music played over loudspeakers, every so often interrupted with messages about security and not leaving luggage or parcels unattended otherwise there was the probability of search by the Port Authority Police. Neither Yusuf nor Bashir had any intention of letting go of their bags. Retrieving his credit card from the automated ticketing machine, Yusuf placed it safely in his pocket.
    Bashir carried out the same procedure. “C’mon, we’ve got plenty of time before we pick up our ride. Let’s go for a coffee and use the restroom, it’ll probably be a long trip.”
    “You’re as bad as my mother!” Yusuf grinned. “Hey, I’m getting more excited every minute! Look at all these people around us — the morons have no idea what we’re about to do!”
    His friend nodded. “Yeah, I’m the same. Can you feel the presence of Allah walking with us? It’s like he’s guiding our every move — and we’re totally invisible to our enemies. It’s like he’s put a protective shield around us.”
    His friend nodded. “We mustn’t lose our concentration; we have to stick to the plan. Timing is critical. As soon as we reach our destination, we’ll have to find our first victims straight away.”
    The bag straps never left their shoulders as they sipped their hot coffee and later relieved themselves in a restroom. At eleven twenty-five the last of the passengers boarded the Greyhound bus to Binghamton.

Chapter Eleven
    Matt Lilburn’s back told him he’d definitely had more comfortable night’s sleeps than the bunk room at One Police Plaza. He’d certainly eaten better meals than what was offered in the cafeteria — even the coffee didn’t taste that great. He remembered the coffee he’d had with Evangeline in London and promised himself that one day he would go slightly more up-market than instant. The night in the holding cells had done nothing to loosen the tongue of Imam Fawaz; the only good thing that came of the whole exercise was the listening devices NYPD had managed to place in his house overnight, with no interference. The helicopter pilot had apparently had a better time and not wasted the nightlife New York City had to offer.