by Mark Alpert
“If it comes to that, you’re authorized to take the necessary steps.”
Hawley went into the corridor and closed the door behind him. David heard the lock slide into place. Then the room became so quiet he could hear the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead.
Necessary steps. The meaning of the phrase became apparent as David sat there. He had information that the FBI, for whatever reasons, considered valuable. So valuable, in fact, that the Bureau would go to great lengths to make sure it didn’t fall into the wrong hands. In all likelihood, they’d destroy the information before letting anyone else take it. Even if it meant destroying him. In his mind’s eye he saw Agent Hawley reenter the room, pointing his gun.
David jumped to his feet. He couldn’t stay here, he had to get out! He looked around the room, searching wildly for some escape route, maybe a ceiling panel he could pry loose, an air duct he could crawl through. But the ceiling and walls were solid concrete, blank and white. There was nothing in the room except the chairs and the gray table, which held the pitcher of water, the Dixie cups, and the thoroughly inspected Super Soaker.
Then he noticed something else. In her haste, Lucille had left her bright red jacket on the back of her chair. Tucked in its pockets were a Zippo lighter and a flask of alcohol. And David remembered what his ex-wife had said about the dangers of Super Soakers.
SIMON HAD ONE GOOD THING to say about the security at the FBI complex: at least they hadn’t put the circuit breakers in an obvious place like the command-and-control room. He had to follow the twists and turns of the exposed cables before he found the utility closet. But his opinion of the agency plummeted once again when he saw that the closet was unlocked. He shook his head as he entered the small room and located the electrical panel. Incredible, he thought. If I were a taxpayer, I’d be outraged.
With the flip of a switch, the complex went dark. Then Simon reached into his pocket and took out his new toy, a pair of thermal infrared goggles. He turned on the device and adjusted the head strap so the binocular scope fit snugly over his eyes. It was a much better technology than the U.S. Army’s night-vision scopes, which worked by intensifying faint visible light; the thermal goggles showed heat, not light, so they could operate in total darkness. On his display screen, the still-warm computers and monitors in the room glowed brightly while the cold steel door was jet-black. He could easily find his way to the staircase by following the cooling fluorescent lights that had just been shut off. Simon smiled in the darkness—he loved new technologies. Now he was ready to hunt down his quarry, the trim, athletic prisoner who’d reminded Simon of a frightened bird.
He descended two flights of stairs before he heard footsteps. Very quietly, he backtracked up the steps to the landing and pointed his Uzi at the entrance to the stairway. After a few seconds he saw three separate flashlight beams lancing down the corridor. This was not exactly a mistake on the agents’ part; under the circumstances, they had little choice but to use their flashlights. Still, the result was the same. On the infrared display Simon saw a warm hand gripping a bright cylinder and a ghastly face that looked like it had been dipped in glow paint. Before the agent could aim the flashlight at him, Simon fired two rounds into his shining head.
A gruff voice yelled, “Cut the lights!” and the two other flashlight beams disappeared. Without making a sound, Simon came down the stairs, stepped over the body of the dead agent, and peered around the corner. Two figures crouched in the corridor, one about ten meters away and the other a little farther behind. The closer agent was in a shooting stance, holding his pistol with both hands and rapidly sweeping it back and forth, looking for a target in the darkness. The infrared image was so precise that Simon could see gray trails of cooler sweat dripping down his white face. Simon picked off the poor bastard with one shot to the forehead, but before he could take out the third agent, a bullet whizzed by his right ear.
Simon ducked around the corner as another bullet streaked past. The third agent was firing blindly in his direction. Not bad, he thought. At least this one has some spirit. He waited a few seconds, then peered down the corridor again to get a fix on his adversary. The agent had turned sideways to present a smaller target, and on the infrared screen Simon saw a thick, sturdy figure with trunk-like legs and a pair of massive breasts. He hesitated before raising his Uzi—the agent was a babushka! She could be Simon’s grandmother! And in that moment of hesitation she fired three more shots at him.
He flattened himself against the wall. Jesus, that was close! He raised his gun and prepared to return fire, but the babushka turned tail and vanished around a corner.
Simon was angry now. The old woman had humiliated him! He started to go after her, moving silently down the corridor. Before he got very far, though, he heard a muffled shout coming from somewhere behind him. He stopped in his tracks and spun around. He heard another shout, a distant but very loud male voice, so loud that it could be heard through the walls and across the complex: “Your heard me, Hawley! Open the goddamn door!”
With great reluctance Simon abandoned his pursuit of the babushka. He’d take care of her later. Right now he had a job to do.
THE LIGHTS WENT OUT JUST as David slipped his hand into Lucille’s jacket. He froze like a pickpocket caught in the act. Agent Hawley, standing guard outside the locked door, was equally surprised by the sudden blackout; David heard him cry, “Son of a—” before he stopped himself and went silent.
David took a deep breath. Okay, he thought. This doesn’t change a thing. Whether the lights are on or off, I still have to get out of here. He pulled the silver flask out of the inside pocket of Lucille’s jacket and set it gently on the table, being careful not to make a sound. Then he dug a little deeper and removed Lucille’s Zippo. For a moment he considered lighting it so he could see what he was doing, but he knew that Hawley might notice the glow coming through the gap under the door. No, David had to do this blind. He put the lighter on the table, carefully memorizing its position. Then he reached for the Super Soaker.
Luckily, he’d become fairly expert at handling the water gun. He’d filled and refilled the gun’s reservoir at least a dozen times when he was playing with Jonah just a few hours before, and now he could easily find the opening to the tank and take off the lid by touch. The memory of his afternoon with Jonah stopped him for a second, and his stomach clenched as he wondered if he’d ever see his son again. No, he told himself, don’t think about it. Just keep going.
He grabbed the silver flask and unscrewed the cap. It held maybe seven or eight ounces of liquor, and as Lucille had promised, it was nearly pure alcohol—the fumes stung David’s eyes as he poured the stuff into the Super Soaker. But was it enough? He needed at least a pint or so to generate the shooting pressure in the gun’s second reservoir. Shit!
Even though the room was pitch-black, he closed his eyes so he could think. Water. There were two Dixie cups of water somewhere on that table. And you could dilute alcohol up to 50 percent and it would still burn. After some careful groping, he found one of the Dixie cups, fished out the dead cigarette and poured about three ounces of water into the tank. Then he located the other cup and poured in three more ounces. That was as much as he could risk. He hoped to hell it was enough.
David closed the gun’s tank and quietly pumped the handle. In the darkness he pictured the alcohol/water mix streaming into the second reservoir and putting pressure on the air molecules inside. When he’d pumped as much as he could, he rotated the gun’s nozzle until it was set on Wide Blast. The alcohol would burn more easily if it were scattered in droplets. Then he reached for the Zippo in its remembered spot, but just as he was about to grasp it he heard two sharp cracks echoing down the corridors of the complex. It was gunfire. Startled, he knocked the lighter off the table and it skittered into the darkness.
The room seemed to tilt. David felt like he was drowning at the bottom of a black ocean. He stared helplessly at the abyss into which the Zippo had fallen, and then he got do
wn on his hands and knees and began groping for it. He methodically covered the whole area from the table to the walls, sweeping his arms in wide arcs across the cold linoleum, but he couldn’t find the damn thing.
More gunshots echoed down the corridor, closer this time. David frantically scoured the floor, jamming his fingers into every corner. Jesus God Christ! Where the hell is it? Then he banged his head against one of the chairs, and as he reached under the table he felt the Zippo.
Trembling, he opened the lighter and spun the flint wheel. The flame arose like an angel, a small miracle from heaven. David leaped to his feet, grabbed the Super Soaker, and pointed it at the door. He heard a third burst of gunfire as he positioned the flame in front of the plastic nozzle, but he didn’t flinch this time. “Hawley!” he shouted. “Open the door! You gotta let me out!”
A low voice hissed from the other side of the door. “Shut up, asshole!”
Hawley obviously didn’t want to draw the attention of whoever was shooting nearby. But David had a feeling they were coming anyway. “You heard me, Hawley!” he bellowed. “Open the goddamn door!”
Several seconds passed. He’s preparing himself, David thought. His position has become untenable and now he has to take the necessary steps. His only option is to kill me.
Then the door opened and David pulled the trigger.
SIMON CAME TO AN INTERSECTING corridor and saw yet another federal agent on the infrared screen. This one stood in front of a door, clutching the knob with one warm hand and holding a pistol in the other. Curious, Simon crept a little closer, keeping his Uzi trained on the man. The agent stood there for several seconds like a nervous suitor, muttering, “Son of a bitch, son of a bitch,” as if to calm himself. Then he opened the door wide and reached into his pocket for a flashlight. All at once, a brilliant white plume erupted from the doorway.
Simon was blinded. The scorching plume expanded until it filled every corner of his screen, turning the display into a blank white rectangle. He tore off the useless goggles and ducked into a protective crouch, crossing his arms over his head. It was some sort of incendiary device, but it didn’t smell like gasoline or white phosphorus. Oddly, it smelled more like homemade vodka. The fireball dissipated after a couple of seconds, leaving a few small, bluish flames rising from a puddle on the floor. The FBI agent staggered backward, then began rolling on the floor like a log, trying to extinguish the fringe of blue fire on his jacket.
Then Simon heard a quick series of rubbery squeaks. The noise was already moving past him by the time he realized what it was: the sneakers of the prisoner. Simon automatically raised his Uzi and pointed it in the direction of the rapid footsteps, but he didn’t dare take a shot. He wanted the man alive. So he scrambled to his feet and started chasing him down the pitch-black corridor. Simon was just a few strides from tackling the man when he heard something clatter to the floor, something plastic and hollow, and in the next instant he stepped on the thing and lost his balance. It’s that damn water gun, he realized as he tumbled backward. The base of his skull smacked against a door frame.
He lay there in the dark, stunned, for maybe ten or fifteen seconds. When he opened his eyes, he saw the still-smoldering FBI agent run right past him, rushing after the escaped prisoner. A true American idiot, Simon thought. Dedicated but oblivious. After taking a deep breath to clear his head, Simon stood up and put the thermal goggles back on. The display system had reset itself and the screen was working normally again. Then he picked up his Uzi and sprinted down the corridor.
DAVID PLUNGED INTO THE DARKNESS, thinking of nothing but escape. He heard a loud thud behind him after he dropped the Super Soaker, but he didn’t turn around, he just kept running. Without slowing down, he lit the Zippo again, and the flame illuminated a small circle around him. At first he saw nothing but blank walls on either side of the corridor, but then he spotted a gleaming red exit sign above a door to a stairway. He headed straight for it and rammed his shoulder against the door. To his dismay, it didn’t budge. He tried the knob, but it didn’t turn. Unbelievable! How could they lock an exit door? And as he stood there, fruitlessly jiggling the knob, he heard a distant roar—“Son of a bitch!”—and then the echoing footfalls of Agent Hawley.
David started running again. He made a left and raced down a different corridor, desperately searching for another stairway, another exit. He was scanning both sides of the hall and running as fast as he could when he tripped over something that felt like a sack of laundry. David relit his Zippo and saw that he was sprawled on top of a corpse. It was one of Hawley’s gray-suited partners, with a pair of bloody holes in his forehead. Choking with horror, David leaped to his feet. Then he noticed that the body lay at the foot of a staircase.
A moment later Hawley rounded the corner and appeared at the end of the corridor. He went into a shooting stance as soon as he saw the Zippo, so David doused the light and dashed up the stairway. He climbed in the darkness, madly grabbing the railing and barking his shins on the steps, with Hawley just a few seconds behind him. After ascending three flights, he spied a faint yellow glow coming through a jagged doorway. He ran through a room full of smashed video monitors, then hurtled over two more corpses without a second thought. He was in a parking garage now and he could smell the sweetly polluted New York air. He bolted up the ramp toward the glorious streetlight.
But it was at least a hundred feet to the top of the ramp and there was nowhere to take cover, so he knew he was doomed when he looked over his shoulder and saw Hawley at the bottom of the slope. The agent had a big smile on his burned and blackened face. He slowly raised his Glock, taking careful aim. Then a shot rang out and Hawley crumpled to the ground.
David stared at the agent’s body, which had collapsed into a fetal position. For a moment he thought someone was playing a joke on him. He was too confused to feel any relief and too scared to stop running. His legs carried him up the ramp and within seconds he stood on a deserted street overhung by office buildings. He read the sign on the corner: Liberty and Nassau streets. He was in Lower Manhattan, just three blocks north of the Stock Exchange. But he heard police sirens now, so he kept on moving, jogging west toward Broadway and the Hudson River.
BY THE TIME SIMON FINISHED off the charred FBI agent and reached the top of the ramp, half a dozen patrol cars were coming down Liberty Street. The babushka, he thought. She must have radioed the NYPD for backup. He ducked behind a shuttered newsstand as the cars screeched to a halt and the cops rushed into the parking garage. The prisoner was just a block ahead, at the corner of Broadway and Liberty, but Simon couldn’t risk walking past all those police officers, not when he had an Uzi hidden under his windbreaker. So he slipped down Nassau Street instead and dashed one block north to Maiden Lane, hoping to intercept his quarry. When he reached Broadway, though, he saw no sign of the prisoner. Simon raced along the avenue, glancing down each of the side streets, but the man was nowhere in sight. “Yobany v’rot!” he cursed, smacking his thigh in frustration.
But his fury lasted only a moment. It’s all about flexibility, he reminded himself. He just needed to adjust his strategy again.
Standing on the street corner, panting like a dog, Simon thought about the prisoner. There were only so many places he could go, and they were all fairly predictable. The first step was to identify the man and determine his connection to Professor Kleinman. Then it was just a matter of tracking down his contacts. Sooner or later, Simon knew, this fellow in sneakers would lead him to the Einheitliche Feldtheorie.
Simon caught his breath as he walked back to where he’d parked his Mercedes. He felt a grim satisfaction as he looked up at the skyscrapers on Broadway, the dark towers looming over the street. Very soon, he thought, all this will be gone.
Chapter Four
“GODDAMN IT, LUCY! WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED?”
Lucille sat in a conference room at the FBI’s office on Federal Plaza, speaking on a secure phone line with the Bureau’s director. She’d evacuated the co
mplex on Liberty Street and set up a temporary command post at the New York regional headquarters. All the off-duty agents in the area had been rousted from their beds and given new orders. And now, at fifteen minutes after midnight, Lucille handled the difficult task of delivering the bad news to her boss.
“They surprised us,” she admitted. “First they eliminated logistics and disabled our communications. Then they cut off the power and went after the detainee. We lost six agents.” Lucille was amazed she could report this so calmly. Six agents. What a fucking nightmare. “I take full responsibility, sir.”
“Shit, who the hell did this? Did you get any video?”
“No, sir, unfortunately the surveillance systems were destroyed. But we have some idea who we’re dealing with. They carried Uzis and used C-4. Probably had infrared scopes, too.”
“Are you thinking Al-Qaeda?”
“No, it was too sophisticated for them. Maybe the Russians. Or maybe the Chinese or the North Koreans. Hell, it might even be the Israelis. It was a pretty slick operation.”
“What about the detainee? You think he’s in league with them?”
Lucille hesitated before answering. To be honest, she didn’t know what to make of David Swift. “At first I would’ve said no. I mean, the guy’s a history professor. No criminal record, no military service, no unusual travel or international phone calls. But he admitted that Kleinman gave him a numeric key, probably an encryption code for a computer file. Maybe they were trying to sell the information, but the deal went sour.”
“What are the chances of getting him back? The secretary of defense is going nuts over this. He’s calling me every half hour for an update.”
She felt a twinge of distaste. The goddamn SecDef. He’d forced the Bureau to do the dirty work on this case, and yet he wouldn’t reveal what it was all about. “Tell him it’s under control,” she said. “We got the New York police running checkpoints at the bridges and tunnels, with bomb-sniffing dogs to check for traces of C-4. We also have agents stationed at all the train and bus stations.”
