The Midnight Watch

by James Rollins

  Only one way to find out.

  Jason reached the entrance first and swiped a black card with a holographic Σ embossed on one side through an electronic reader. The door unlocked with a loud click of its dead bolt. Jason began to open the door, but Kowalski moved him aside and led the way with his Desert Eagle. He entered a nondescript anteroom with a door ahead that opened onto the main levels of the museum. The mouth of a dark stairwell yawned on his left.

  “Where is this doctor?” Kowalski asked as Jason followed him inside.

  “The alarm was triggered from a first-­floor window on the building’s north side.” He pointed in that general direction. “To keep her well away from that spot, we told her to hole up in Dr. Polk’s old office in the basement.”

  Kowalski glanced sharply back at the kid. “Elizabeth’s old place?”

  Why send her to my ex’s office?

  “We knew Dr. Polk’s room was empty. The director also chose the rendezvous because you are familiar with the surrounding area. In case we run into trouble.”

  Great . . . I’m really beginning to hate this place.

  With a sigh, Kowalski led Jason to the stairwell and headed down. The steps ended at a maze of narrow passageways that spread under the museum. The way forward was dimly lit with the crimson glow of emergency lights. It was one of the oldest sections of the building, barely touched during the periodic renovations of the public spaces. Beneath their boots, the old marble floors had been honed to a lustrous sheen by decades of shuffling feet. Wooden doors with frosted glass windows lined either side, each pane etched with scholarly enterprises: ENTOMOLOGY, MINERAL SCIENCES, VERTEBRATE ZOOLOGY, BOTANY.

  Kowalski knew the path to Elizabeth’s office all too well. Memories flickered in the shadows of his mind as he tried to concentrate, to listen for any sign of threat. He remembered picnicking with Elizabeth in her office, hearing her laugh, basking in her smiles. He remembered the two of them stealing away into the old steam tunnels beneath the museum to smoke cigars, which even she partook of on occasion. He also remembered other midnight hours, he dozing on her couch while she finished cataloging a new shipment from Greece or Italy, other times when they were engaged in less studious pursuits, wrapped in each other’s arms. He felt his blood stirring at those last thoughts and pushed them down—­deep down.

  Now was not the time.

  Still, he could not escape darker memories, of those times when his impatience irritated her, when smiles turned to frowns; when words, spoken on both sides, became painful. They were both hotheaded, both too easy to bruise. Perhaps with time, they would have learned to settle into each other with more care, but all too often he’d been called away on missions abroad, on pursuits he hadn’t even been able to talk about upon returning. Likewise, she’d been gone for weeks on end: to dusty digs, to laborious scientific conferences. And while apart, their intimate daily calls, which had previously often lasted for hours, had eventually faded to curt text messages.

  And when the end had finally come, it hadn’t been any operatic act of betrayal. It had simply been the tide of their relationship ebbing away, until neither of them had been able to dismiss the inevitable. Ever the smarter of the two, Elizabeth had recognized it first and laid out the facts over a long, cold dinner.

  Still, it hurt.

  At last, a dark door appeared ahead. The frosted glass read ANTHROPOLOGY. Below that, hanging on the door from small hooks, was a black metal placard with silver letters that spelled ELIZABETH POLK, PHD.

  “Here we are,” Kowalski said needlessly.

  Surprised that she had left the placard, he bent down to unhook it. As he did so, the pane shattered above his head, accompanied by the loud retort of a pistol blast.

  JASON DROPPED TO one knee and spun around, cleanly pulling out his side arm, a SIG Sauer P226. He squeezed the trigger twice, shooting blindly down the hall in the direction of the gunshot, hoping to discourage the sniper from firing again. He wasn’t entirely successful. A second gunshot blasted from the shadows, splintering wood from the doorframe by his shoulder.

  Then a cannon went off by his ear.

  A clipped cry rose from down the hall.

  Kowalski held his smoking weapon and growled at him. “Get inside!”

  Jason dove behind the large man’s bulk, grabbed the doorknob—­thankfully, the door was unlocked—­and shoved the way open with his shoulder. He rolled inside, drawing Kowalski in his wake. Once clear, Jason slammed the office door closed, dislodging a few shattered panes of glass. Though it offered little protection, he thumbed the lock.

  “Sara,” he called to the dark room, while staying low. “It’s Jason Carter.”

  A small gasp rose from behind the desk. “I’m over here.”

  He spotted a shadow rising from out of hiding.

  “Stay down,” he warned.

  “They must’ve tailed us down here,” Kowalski grumbled, rising enough to peer out the shattered window.

  It made sense. They should have been more cautious. The enemy couldn’t have known where Dr. Gutierrez had holed up.

  Until we led them here, Jason realized.

  Either he and Kowalski had been spotted entering the building, or some small expeditionary force had already been inside and had come upon their path down here. Either way, they were trapped.

  “This way,” Kowalski said and headed away from the door in a hunched crouch. “There’s a small storeroom in the back.”

  Jason followed, collecting Dr. Gutierrez along the way.

  Wearing a white lab coat over jeans, she sidled next to him. She clutched a black leather satchel to her chest with one arm. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Don’t thank us yet.

  Jason looked around. The office was large, with shelved walls, a large desk, and an old leather sofa against one wall. But besides a handful of stray papers, it had been thoroughly cleaned out. Kowalski led them to a narrow door on the far side, which stood ajar.

  They all piled into the next room, which was twice the size of the office and divided by tall metal shelves. A pair of wooden pallets leaned against one wall. Jason imagined the storeroom had been used as a staging ground for Dr. Polk’s work on her antiquities collection.

  Kowalski closed the door, which was made of solid pine. Still, it wouldn’t give a determined enemy much of a problem, especially since there was no way to lock it from the inside. This didn’t seem to bother Kowalski as he headed over to the middle of the room and bent down to a solid grate in the floor. It was sealed with a padlock.

  Dropping to a knee and using the light of his cell phone for illumination, Kowalski spun the dial back and forth. Behind them, a tinkle of glass whispered from the neighboring room. Jason pictured a hand reaching through the shattered pane for the lock.

  Hurry. . .

  Kowalski freed the padlock and hauled up the heavy grate with one arm. A dark opening yawned below. “There’s a ladder on the left. It’s a short climb down into one of the ser­vice tunnels beneath the museum.”

  Jason didn’t question Kowalski’s plan or where it might lead. For the moment, the goal was to stay one step ahead of the enemy. He went first, mounting the steel rungs, then helping guide Sara along with him. Rushing, he stumbled as one boot slipped. He ended up sliding the rest of the way down, which luckily was only a ­couple of yards. He landed roughly, but managed to keep his feet and get Sara safely to the ground.

  Overhead, Kowalski closed the grate with a soft clang, then slid down the ladder without a boot touching a rung. He had plainly done this before.

  Jason unclipped a penlight and flashed it along the tunnel. The place was sweltering, smelling of wet cement, and echoing with trickles of water. Old pipes, frosted with cobwebs, trailed along the ceiling.

  “Where are we?” Sara asked.

  Kowalski pushed between them and led the way forward. �
�Old steam and ser­vice tunnels. Elizabeth and I would sometimes sneak down here and smoke.” He patted the walls. “It was the safest place without having to climb all the way back outside.”

  Jason heard a mix of sorrow and wistfulness in his voice.

  “Where are we going?” Sara asked, voicing Jason’s own concern.

  Kowalski coughed to clear his throat a bit. “Place is a maze down here. Some say these tunnels once reached all the way under the White House, but with heightened security, much of it’s been partitioned and walled off.” He pointed ahead as he turned a corner. “There are stairs this way that lead back up to a ser­vice door into the museum.”

  As they made the corner, a loud clang rang out behind them.

  The enemy had discovered their escape route.

  Jason flashed his light across the floor of the tunnel. Their footprints in the grime would be easy to follow.

  Muffled voices rose behind them.

  “Time to haul ass,” the big man warned, urging them forward.

  Again, Jason didn’t question his plan.

  KOWALSKI SHOVED THE Desert Eagle back into his belt and followed the others up the cement stairs. He fumbled with his wallet as he climbed, searching through its contents.

  Where the hell are you . . . ?

  By now, Jason had reached the stained cement landing at the top of the stairs. A yellow emergency bulb offered meager illumination, enough to reveal a nondescript steel door. It looked like it dated from the museum’s opening day, but a modern electronic lock sealed it securely.

  Jason tugged on the handle, but it was no use.

  Kowalski’s fingers finally plucked a card from the many stuffed into a side pocket of his tattered leather billfold. It was an old staff keycard. In one corner, barely discernible under the glow of the lone bulb, was a tiny picture of Elizabeth Polk. Her chestnut hair framed high cheekbones, while a pair of petite eyeglasses balanced on her nose. Elizabeth had given the card to him shortly after they had begun dating, making it easier for him to come and go while visiting her. He should have returned it or cut it up, but he hadn’t been able to do either.

  The furtive patter of boots on stone echoed up from below.

  “Kowalski . . .” Jason hissed to him.

  Kowalski hurried forward with the card, praying it was still coded to this ser­vice door. He swiped the card down the slit under a red glowing light—­it remained red.

  Motherfu. . .

  Jason stared at him with huge eyes. Dr. Gutierrez huddled at his shoulder. Beads of sweat pebbled her forehead, while her lips were fixed in a grimace of fear. They were sitting ducks up here.

  Kowalski rubbed the keycard’s magnetic strip over the sleeve of his jacket. “Sometimes these old readers are finicky.”

  God, I hope that’s it.

  A shout rose from below as the enemy abandoned any furtiveness.

  Jason swung to the side and used the muzzle of his gun to shatter the lone bulb in its cage. Darkness fell around them, offering some shelter. The kid pulled the woman low, while pointing his gun toward the stairs. He fired once to encourage their pursuers to proceed more cautiously.

  Kowalski swiped his card again.

  C’mon, Elizabeth, don’t let me down.

  Despite his silent plea, the tiny light remained red.

  What the hell!

  He fingered the card, wondering if he didn’t deserve this fate. But under his fingertips, he realized the magnetic strip was on the wrong side. In the dark, he had the card turned around the wrong way.

  He flipped the card, jammed it through the reader, and watched the light flash to green, accompanied by a gratifying roll of tumblers. He grabbed the handle and shoved the door open.

  They all piled into the hallway. Kowalski slammed the door behind them, then leaned against it with relief. Muffled shots rang out from the far side, ricocheting brightly off the steel, reminding them they had no time to relish this small victory.

  “We need to keep going,” Jason warned. “There’s no telling how many more might be out here.”

  Kowalski nodded. “Follow me.”

  He pushed off the door and ran down the hall to a stairwell. It was the same one he and Jason had used to reach the basement level. They fled back up to the side exit. Kowalski had his Desert Eagle in hand again, and he waved Jason and Dr. Gutierrez through the door as he propped it open and covered them. He watched the parking lot for any sign of an ambush, while listening with an ear cocked for any sound of pursuit from within the museum.

  The Jeep stood only a handful of yards away. Jason got the young woman into the front passenger seat, then hopped onto the rear bench. The kid stood with his back against the roll bar and raised his SIG Sauer, swiveling it to cover the lot.

  “Go!” Jason ordered.

  Kowalski rolled away from the door, letting it close behind him, and sprinted around the front of the Jeep to reach the driver’s side. As he climbed in, he heard a screaming whine rise from behind the museum. He remembered Jason saying that the alarm had been tripped from a broken window back there.

  As Kowalski fumbled the key into the ignition, he watched a single headlight come careening around the far corner into the parking lot. It was a motorcycle, bearing two helmeted riders. The one in the rear rose high in his seat, lifting a rifle to his shoulder.

  Kowalski twisted the key, and the engine coughed and died.

  A rifle blast exploded across the quiet night.

  The windshield fractured.

  Son of a bitch. . .

  Jason returned fire from the back, shooting over the roll bar. Kowalski pumped the accelerator once, then tried the key again, suddenly very worried about his wiring job on the ignition coil. But the engine coughed—­then caught with a jolt of the frame, growling roughly.

  Good enough.

  He yanked them into reverse, then shoved his boot to the floor. The Jeep sped backward, earning a hard oof from Jason as the roll bar slammed into his chest. But the kid’s assault had succeeded in driving the motorcycle to the side, forcing the enemy to zigzag through a copse of trees flanking 12th Street.

  Taking advantage of the moment, Kowalski yelled, “Hold tight!” and yanked hard on the wheel.

  The Jeep jackknifed around.

  Jason hugged the roll bar with one arm to keep his footing.

  Dr. Gutierrez slid from her seat into Kowalski’s side, but he still managed to shift into first. He sped them away, aiming for Madison Drive, which ran along the front of the museum.

  “Kowalski!” Jason hollered.

  But he had already spotted the threat. Two more motorcycles converged on their position, coming from opposite directions down Madison: one traveling with traffic, weaving swiftly through the scatter of cars at this hour; the other coming the wrong way down the one-­way street.

  Gunfire erupted behind them as the first bike took erratic potshots at them.

  Rounds pinged off his bumper and back panel.

  Jason returned fire just as wildly.

  As the Jeep reached the end of the lot, Kowalski thought quickly. He hated to carry this battle to the streets, where innocent bystanders might be caught in the firefight. Plus even if he attempted to take Madison, he would be pinned down on all sides.

  That left only one choice.

  “Duck low and hold tight!” he ordered his passengers.

  He gunned the engine, shifting rapidly up through the three gears, and shot out across Madison. He passed across the path of a late-­night bus and between the two converging motorcycles. He hit the far curb, bounced the Jeep high, and crashed through the temporary fencing that surrounded the section of the National Mall that was under construction. He landed hard on all four tires and kept going without slowing.

  Ahead, the landscape was a roiled mix of rock piles, towering dunes of soil, and tre
acherous pits. This phase of the construction project ran the half-­mile stretch from 7th Street almost to the foot of the Washington Monument.

  “What’re you doing?” Jason called out.

  “What the hell does it look like?”

  “Looks like you don’t know what you’re doing!”

  “Exactly! It’s called improvising!”

  As Jason let out a loud groan, Kowalski headed deeper into the tortured terrain at breakneck speed. In the rearview mirror, he saw the three motorcycles close in behind him. The enemy was not giving up that easily.

  Kowalski remembered earlier how he had wanted to test this Jeep off road.

  Looks like I’m about to get my chance.

  JASON HUGGED ONE arm around the roll bar as the Jeep sped deeper into the excavation site. Ahead, the brightly lit spire of the Washington Monument rose into the night sky.

  As the Jeep rattled over the uneven ground, he did his best to keep his balance on the rear bench seat, assisted by the fact that one boot had ripped through the worn fabric and sunk into the springs.

  A rifle blasted behind him, the round pinging off the back hatch of the vehicle. Still keeping one arm hooked to the bar, he raised his SIG Sauer and fired wildly at the closest motorcycle. It had a good thirty-­yard lead on the other two and looked ready to close the distance by itself.

  More rifle flashes burst from the cycle. Again all the rounds struck low: into the dirt or ricocheting off the bumper.

  Must be trying to take out the back tires. . .

  If so, it suggested they were trying to keep Sara alive.

  But why?

  “Hang on!” Kowalski called out.

  What do you think I’m doing back here?

  As the lead bike gunned toward them, Kowalski carved a sharp turn around a tall berm of loose dirt. The vehicle tilted precariously. Kowalski expertly downshifted, then punched the accelerator again.

  The thick-­treaded tires dug into the mound of soil and cast a roostertail behind the Jeep. The cascading wave of dirt and gravel struck the trailing motorcycle, swamping it and knocking it to the ground.

  Kowalski cleared the berm and set off again.