58 Minutes Read online

  58 MINUTES

  INSPIRATION FOR THE BLOCKBUSTER FILM

  DIE HARD 2

  STARRING BRUCE WILLIS

  58 MINUTES

  WALTER WAGER

  This book is dedicated to

  JEROME S. MORRIS,

  attorney, philosopher and friend

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

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  41

  Author's Note

  1

  DECEMBER 21.

  5:09 P.M. on the western edge of the churning Atlantic.

  It was cold on the island. Light snow was fluttering from a blue-black winter sky, but the men and women peering down from the 86th floor of the famous skyscraper didn't really mind.

  The view from up here was still spectacular. It was also familiar. Many of the tourists on the Empire State Building's open observation deck nodded in approving recognition as they stared at the great city. The promise had been kept. The skyline looked just the way it did in the movies. Even through the shimmering curtain of frozen white crystals, this was clearly the legendary metropolis they'd come from a dozen U.S. states and nine foreign lands to see.

  This was New York—the power place.

  This was the celebrity city against which others were measured. Admired, envied and despised, it was more than a collection of dynamic innovators and achievers known around the world. This cocky and controversial city itself was the celebrity—a vital and cosmopolitan creature that couldn't or wouldn't stand still.

  It was moving right now. Some 1,050 feet above the streets, the tourists heard the insistent hum of rush-hour crowds and traffic—the municipal background music of bustling Manhattan. The visitors could almost feel the surging energy below. Suddenly the fabled skyline began to change before their eyes as swirling snow blurred the dramatic panorama. Soon scores of office towers and tall apartment houses were visible only as exotic clusters of lights, suggesting giant Christmas trees in the growing darkness.

  Many of the men and women on the observation deck raised cameras to try to record this extraordinary illusion. Other tourists eyed it intently through coin-operated telescopes mounted on the parapet. There was something almost magical about this glittering sight, and they would talk about it when they returned to their distant homes.

  Nine miles due east of the Empire State Building, someone else was watching the snow fall. He too was a visitor to this city. A thin-faced man in his late thirties, he'd been a visitor everywhere for more than a decade. He traveled so much he rarely recalled that he'd once had a home. When he did remember, it often made him angry.

  Now he was seated on a tweed-upholstered armchair in Room 206 of the Queens Skyway Motel, staring at the television set as the local news continued. Frowning in concentration, he listened carefully to every word spoken by the perfectly barbered meteorologist on screen.

  ". . . low pressure north of us. Let's take a look at the latest satellite photos."

  The pictures of the cascading snowflakes vanished. A large multishaded map of the United States and southern Canada abruptly took their place. It was marked with three large curved arrows. From north, south and west, they swept toward the east coast region between Washington and Boston.

  "As you can see, the snow that's falling here now is only the beginning of our problems. There's another load of snow heading our way from the south, and the jet stream is bringing us a juggernaut of icy Arctic air. Add to that some really nasty electrical storms in Pennsylvania that could get to us early tomorrow evening. Of more immediate significance, the National Weather Service is predicting very heavy precipitation for our entire area during the next twelve to fifteen hours," the dapper meteorologist singsonged briskly.

  Then he reappeared on the screen.

  "It looks as if they're right," he continued seamlessly. "Our own computer analysis shows that much of the tri-state region can expect at least a foot of the white stuff by noon tomorrow, and—don't blame me, folks—Mother Nature could sock it to us with as much as sixteen inches."

  The man in Room 206 sat rigid and unblinking.

  He was completely focused on this weather report.

  It was, literally, a matter of life or death for thousands of people.

  That didn't bother him. Death was a part of his business— the part he liked best. He enjoyed killing with a variety of weapons, including the P-15 semiautomatic in the holster under his left armpit. Tonight he'd use a new method.

  "The five P.M. temperature in Central Park was twenty-four degrees Fahrenheit. It's going to drop to twelve or thirteen by midnight."

  Now the weatherman was sharing a split screen with pictures of cars moving through the snow down a wide highway.

  "Driving conditions are deteriorating steadily. Traffic on the New Jersey Turnpike is being limited to thirty-five miles an hour. New York State Police have issued Traveler's Advisories for the entire Governor Dewey Throughway. Bottom line? We're facing the first major snowfall of the winter and it could be one of the nastier storms in recent years."

  The man who enjoyed killing smiled.

  This was perfect.

  As the weather report ended, he got up and walked to the closet. Ignoring the banal banter ricocheting between the meteorologist with the fine haircut and the pretty anchorwoman, he reached into the closet and took out a silvery aluminum suitcase. He had bought it after some thought. Thieves at airports sometimes razored open soft-sided luggage to loot the contents. He could not run that risk.

  He put the metal container on the bed, opened the top button of his shirt and slid a hand in to grasp the suitcase key on the chain around his neck. The eighteen-carat gold loop had been a gift from an Italian millionaire's passionate daughter who hated imperialism and her father. She was dead. It was her own fault. If she had followed instructions on how to handle the bomb, she would not have been blown into seven pieces outside the American embassy in Rome.

  She had moaned a lot during sex, he recalled as he unlocked the suitcase. It took only a moment to trip the hidden catch that released the false bottom. Then he took out the upper section filled with shirts and set it down beside the valise.

  Each thing in the secret lower compartment was held in place by a padded clamp welded to the metal shell. He had chosen every item carefully on the basis of years of covert combat in many countries. These were the tools of his lethal trade.

  A stubby Czech submachine gun—the 10.6-inch Skor-pion—plus a shoulder holster and a dozen twenty-round clips of ammunition.

  A bulletproof vest, a gas mask and four small incendiary bombs.

  A disassembled 460 Weatherby Magnum rifle with eight-power telescopic sight and heavy-load, high-speed bullets that could drop an elephant or take off a quarter of a man's head.

  A pair of walkie-talkie radios, three time fuses, a remote-control radio-detonator and a night-vision scope with light intensification power of 35,000.

  Two snub-nosed Heckler and Koch VP70Z pistols and a pouch filled with eighteen-round magazines for the 9-millimeter weapons.

 
; Screw-on silencers for the submachine and handguns, three L2A1 antipersonnel grenades with a "kill circle" of ten yards and a plastic bag containing a neatly trimmed black wig.

  He scanned his tools and nodded.

  It was time for the next phase of the operation.

  He put on the bulletproof vest. Then he took from the closet and donned a khaki-green Loden coat. Made of sturdy and tightly woven cloth, the waterproof garment was highly efficient in retaining body heat. Efficiency was important to the man in Room 206. It was one of his obsessions.

  He returned to the open suitcase, unclamped and loaded a 9-millimeter pistol and slipped the weapon into the right pocket of the coat. A few seconds later, he put one of the L2A1 grenades in the left pocket. It wasn't that he expected any particular trouble. He routinely carried a grenade as a prudent precaution when he ventured outdoors.

  There was another factor: the imminence of battle. The dangers of combat did not trouble him. They were exhilarating. Though he'd never told anyone, they aroused him more than any woman ever had. But they also made him tautly cautious. The closer this man got to armed confrontation, the more wary he became. In less than three hours, he would launch the biggest and most complex attack of his violent career. He certainly wasn't going to take any chances now.

  After reattaching the false bottom, he locked the suitcase and deposited it in the closet. Then he paused before the large mirror to adjust the curly brown wig that he'd worn since leaving Madrid twenty-three days earlier. Next he put on the horn-rimmed eyeglasses, studied his appearance and finally nodded. With the elementary camouflage of the false hair and equally fake spectacles, he didn't look much like the photo on the Interpol "alert" reports.

  The damned TV set was still on. Reflected in the mirror, the sincere anchorman, who had even better teeth than the ruthlessly perky blond "newscaster" beaming beside him, was burbling abut the new doll that was "definitely this year's hottest gift for the kiddie crowd—and very big bucks for the stores."

  Grunting in contempt, the man who enjoyed killing flicked off the set. As he left the room, he pulled up the hood of the coat to cover three quarters of his head. He couldn't rely absolutely on the wig and glasses. The less of his face that people saw, the smaller the risk of being recognized. He only had to fool the Americans for another four hours.

  The plan was good and the timetable was definite.

  By 9:45 P.M., 10:15 at the latest, he'd be out of the country.

  When he reached the motel's crowded lobby, he heard the infuriating music pouring from invisible loudspeakers. He despised Christmas songs as much as he loathed the holy day itself. From the age of eighteen, he had detested every religion and the priests, rabbis, nuns, monks and mullahs who were all enemies of the masses. He'd often told the Russians how wrong they were to let even a token shred of religion survive anywhere in the Soviet Union. They'd smiled patronizingly and ignored him.

  He walked out the front door and his stomach knotted in tension. It was completely automatic. In his trade, he never knew what or who was waiting for him. Ambush was a constant occupational hazard. A hail of bullets could tear his hand off at any moment. The body armor wouldn't help him if they aimed high. Local police might not, but that was exactly what the FBI's coolly practical shooters would do.

  He wouldn't blame them. It was the professional thing to do. In their place, he'd do the same. He already had—in five countries.

  He looked around, saw nothing threatening and relaxed— a little. But he was never totally relaxed. It wasn't only his mind that was always aware of the danger. By now, his body knew in some fierce visceral way—an animal's survival instinct. He hadn't really slept well for years, and his stomach hadn't been right for more than a decade.

  The price of fame, he thought sarcastically. Then he walked through the falling snow to his car. The Americans were obsessed with fame, he brooded as he reached the vehicle. They all wanted to be on television and see their names in newspapers and Time magazine—to be celebrities. Tomorrow he'd be the main celebrity in this media-sick society. They'd all be talking about him.

  And they would fear him.

  He'd like that.

  He hated the Americans most of all. They were the most powerful of the imperialists, and their intelligence networks were leading the global search for him right now.

  He got into the car, inserted the ignition key but did not turn it. Instead, he connected and adjusted the seat belt. He never drove a car without wearing a seat belt. He was only going nine blocks, but statistical studies had established that most auto accidents happened within half a mile of where the trip began. He believed in statistics.

  He checked both the side and rearview mirrors—twice— before he started the motor. Everything seemed to be going well. He was on schedule, the equipment was in place and the rest of the assault group was ready. He had the coins, the radio cube and the slip of flash paper. There were only a few things left to do—simple acts that wouldn't take more than twenty minutes.

  Then he would give the order to attack.

  2

  SOME SIXTY YARDS in front of the motel lay a wide and busy highway. As usual, it was covered with a constant stream of vehicles flowing on to nearby Kennedy Airport, outer Queens and the "bedroom" communities of suburban Nassau County beyond the city limits.

  Expecting the worst of his fellow humans in everything, the man who enjoyed killing always drove defensively. Tonight he was especially wary as he guided the Volvo sedan onto the multilane expressway. Rush-hour traffic surging from the great city's commercial center was building rapidly, and visibility was declining in the mounting snowfall.

  He had anticipated those conditions.

  He had factored both of them into his timetable.

  With windshield wipers flicking and clicking like twin metronomes, he drove three hundred yards in the slow outer lane to the turnoff. After leaving the highway, he cruised right for five blocks into an area of tree-lined streets and three-story private homes. There were a few neighborhood stores, one a small grocery named Arthur's. The telephone booth on the corner beside it was the reason he'd come here.

  Though he had seen no sign that he was under surveillance, he certainly wasn't going to dial these numbers from the motel. That would be as stupid as making more than two calls from the same booth—a dangerous violation of the basic rules.

  He parked the Volvo and looked carefully in both directions. There were hardly any pedestrians in sight, and only an occasional car loomed through the fluttering snow. Entering the booth, he caressed the grenade in his pocket as if it were some magical totem or religious talisman.

  It was merely a habit. He certainly didn't believe in good luck or that primitive God rubbish. Still, for a moment, he felt a visceral surge of confidence and power.

  Then he pulled from his shirt pocket the slip of fast-burning flash paper on which he'd written the first three numbers. He'd memorized the other three. He was the only member of the assault team who knew all those. It was safer for the entire group that way.

  He took out a fistful of coins, studied the piece of paper and dialed the first number.

  202 . . . 936 . . . 1212.

  After a few seconds of preamble, he finally heard the words that he was waiting for.

  ". . . another two inches in Washington by midnight as the new storm sweeps across the District of Columbia into Maryland."

  He dialed again.

  617 ... 936 .. . 1234.

  "Heavy fog continues to blanket greater Boston. Driving conditions will remain hazardous until early morning."

  It was time to move on. Following his security rule against more than two calls from one phone, he got back in the Volvo and drove nine blocks to the next booth on his list.

  412 . . . 936 . . . 1212.

  ". . . at Pittsburgh Airport. Major thunderstorms are rolling through Allegheny County. Freezing sleet is following right behind them with forty-mile-an-hour winds."

  The outer perimete
r was secure for at least six hours.

  That was more than he needed.

  The attack could proceed.

  Satisfaction gleamed in his left eye as he put more coins into the phone slot. Nothing showed in the right eye. It was artificial, a replacement for the one lost in a 1981 shootout with French antiterrorist police. He'd killed three of the leather-jacketed troopers before escaping into the Paris dawn. A month later he cremated the woman who betrayed him. She had screamed for a long time in the burning car before the fuel tank exploded.

  He wasn't thinking about her as he dialed the first of the numbers that he'd memorized. Concentrating on tonight's operation, he was again scanning the street warily, peering through the snow for any sign of danger. He let the telephone ring four times, hung up and redialed the same number.

  It belonged to a pay phone on the wall of a South Bronx garage. The man who picked it up was a stocky twenty-eight-year-old Latin. He had strong convictions and considerable experience with explosives.

  "Is Mr. Enrique Velez there?"

  "No. This is his cousin, Jose," the man in the garage replied.

  Challenge and countersign correct. The conversation immediately switched to Spanish, an exchange of short staccato phrases like bursts from an automatic weapon. After twenty seconds of curt communication, there was a brief silence while the mustachioed bomb expert studied his wristwatch. Then he adjusted it, carefully moving the larger hand forward one minute.

  "Bueno . . . adios," he said and hung up the phone.

  He turned to make a thumbs-up gesture to another young Latin male leaning against a white minivan ten yards away. Paco Garcia smiled back at his older brother. They had always been very close. That was a matter of official record in the files of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. The FBI had been interested in Juan and Paco Garcia for five and a half years.

  Paco Garcia unlocked the rear door of the van and took out a pair of tan, twenty-six-inch Samsonite valises. They were heavy, and he set them down on the garage floor immediately. He opened his lips to call out the defiant slogan of The Movement but he stifled it. Their orders had been blunt and specific. They were to say nothing political—not even here. They were to assume that they were under visual and electronic surveillance at all times.