The gray winter sun and bare tree trunks passing by outside couldn’t dampen his mood. He looked around the car. People sat reading, playing with their phones or staring out the window, all stuck in their humdrum lives. Today, for him, was a culmination.
He would hand off the serum to put his parasites into a massive trial that would prove he was a visionary. Soldiers would not have to worry about fear as they did their jobs, and they would not have to deal with long-term stress afterward. His work would spare them that.
Saddiq’s call had put him on edge. He studied the relaxed figures around him. None of them spared him a second glance. They all seemed as innocuous as they had before the call. Tesla was not here.
The doctor drummed his fingers on his metal briefcase as the train rattled toward the long low entrance to the tunnel that would take them underground and down to Grand Central Terminal. He pulled the briefcase up further on his lap, keeping it close.
He’d feel better once he’d handed everything off, and the trials were underway. At that point, everyone would have too much to lose to expose him. And the parasite worked. Maybe not perfectly, but every war has casualties, and every drug has side effects. Overall, everyone would be better off.
Especially him.
The train slowed as it headed underground, darkness washing across the outside of the car. Inside, the fluorescent lights shone brightly. Dr. Dubois studied his reflection in the window. Bags under his eyes made him look tired. He should look tired—he hadn’t slept since Subject 523 had shot him. Not real sleep, anyway, just narcotics-induced unconsciousness. But his leg was healing, and once this trial got underway he could relax. There would be plenty of time to sleep then.
He leaned his forehead against the cool glass and peered into the darkness that lay beyond. The train slowed still further. Other sets of silver tracks joined with his. They were just slowing for the approach to the platform. The train always did that.
In just a few minutes the train would arrive, probably at Platform 112. He had a long trek up ramps and across treacherously smooth floors before he could get a cab. After that he’d be able to rest again on his way to his meeting.
One long finger stroked the top of the cold briefcase. He had held it tightly the whole trip, as if it might spring from his hands and leap out the window. Or be stolen. Unthinkable, and unlikely.
When he’d left the case unattended in the lab while he’d gone to the toilet, an overzealous postdoc lab assistant had plastered yellow biohazard stickers on both sides, as regulations required. The doctor had been furious, thinking that it might make it more difficult for him to board the train, but none of his fellow passengers had seemed to notice or care. If they had, who among them would have wanted to steal a biological hazard?
A woman with a poison-green scarf leaned her hip against the edge of his seat, a paperback novel open in her hand. She’d barely looked up from its pages since she’d boarded. Next to her, a businessman in a pinstriped suit crackled his Wall Street Journal. The young man with the piercings looked toward the dark windows, swaying in time to music that was piped into his ears via tiny black earbuds. Everything was normal.
He returned his gaze to the window. Nothing—just a wide room with faraway stone walls and lines of steel girders to hold up the ceiling. He’d seen the view a thousand times on his way to the city. Nothing to cause concern.
Then the car stopped.
Dr. Dubois pulled the briefcase closer to his chest. Despite his earlier assurances to himself, his heart fluttered. This felt wrong.
No one else seemed concerned. The woman with the green scarf licked her finger and turned a page in her paperback. The businessman’s eyes kept scanning down his newspaper. The kid with the earbuds didn’t pause in his rhythmic swaying. This kind of thing happened all the time. Probably just a train ahead of them in the station.
A shadow drew his attention outside. There was a man in the tunnel, walking next to the train. He was tall and thin and dressed all in black except for an orange safety vest. Clearly an MTA employee. Perhaps he knew the reason for the delay. Likely a mechanical problem that wouldn’t keep them stuck for long. His meeting must commence on time.
The train worker stopped next to the car ahead of theirs and looked inside for several seconds before moving slowly to the doctor’s car. The man seemed to be examining each seat, glancing quickly from one part of the car to another as if searching.
Anxiety tightened Dubois’s muscles, making his leg throb.
The man stopped directly outside the doctor’s window. He continued his examination until he reached the doctor’s seat. Their eyes met. The man looked at him for a long time before shifting his glance to the next passenger. The doctor squirmed in his seat, eyes darting around the car. There was nowhere to go.
Saddiq’s caution had been justified. Dr. Dubois glanced at his watch. 9:10. The train should have already arrived at the station. Maybe Saddiq had defied him. He would worry when the train didn’t arrive. He would come.
The man in the tunnel smiled.
Dr. Dubois knew what he was looking for now.
The man was looking for him.
Chapter 43
November 30, 9:09 a.m.
Tunnels under Grand Central Terminal
Joe stared up into the lit train window. The smell of metal and electricity surrounded him. Trains shouldered by on other tracks, none concerned with the blue and silver train sitting stock still on its tracks. Trains stopped all the time to wait for a train to clear the station ahead.
But this train’s stop had nothing to do with the schedule. He had caused it by resetting its digital wireless signaler. The signaler gave each train permission to move forward. He estimated that he had about five to seven minutes before the central switching center noticed and reset the signaler again and the train moved forward to Platform 112.
He’d better make it count.
Dr. Dubois was in the second car. He looked just like his photo on his company web site, except more tired. Everyone looked more tired in real life than on the Internet. A silver briefcase with a biohazard sticker on the front rested on his lap. It looked as if he had brought the serum with him after all. Joe needed to get that case.
Joe ran to the side of the train car and pulled himself up in the space between the first and second cars. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and entered. The car was full, standing room only, and he elbowed his way forward through the passengers.
The doctor was near the far end of the car. When he saw him, the doctor struggled to his feet, fumbling with his crutches. But he had nowhere to go.
Joe reached him and took hold of one of his crutches.
“Help!” Dr. Dubois wobbled on the other crutch.
A guy with a face full of piercings reached for Joe’s arm. “What do you think—”
“Careful, buddy,” Joe said. “I’m just here to save your life.”
The guy grabbed Joe’s elbow. “How?”
“I’m from the railroad.” Joe pointed at his orange vest. “They sent me down to get this case before it gets into the station.”
The doctor goggled at him.
“Are you Dr. Francis Dubois?” Joe asked.
“I…no,” said the doctor.
“You’re the only one on this train carrying a biohazard,” Joe said, “into a crowded railway station.”
“Nothing’s infectious,” the doctor said. “It’s just tissue samples.”
The doctor wrapped both arms around his briefcase.
Joe could tell that he was lying and, clearly, so could the man with the piercings. He let go of Joe’s elbow.
“I need to get that case off the train,” Joe said. “Please hand it to me.”
“Under no circumstances,” the doctor screeched.
The passengers edged away from them, except for the man with the piercings, who looked ready to pick a side and pile in. Joe hoped that the man would be on his side.
“Whose tissue samples?
” Joe asked quietly. “The ones for the hundred and three people whose boat sank just off the coast of Cuba—”
“No.” The doctor regained his dignity. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Joe held out his hands. “Give me the case. The officers in charge of quarantine can decide what to do about it. You can come with me, if you’d like.”
“Give him the case,” said the guy with the piercings.
A woman wearing a green scarf nodded.
The businessman looked confused, and the people around him began to mumble to each other. No one was sure if Joe was a helper or a threat. He didn’t have time to win anybody over.
“You will regret this,” said the doctor. “You think you can take this case? Hold me here?”
Joe’d had enough. “Of course I can. You know that the contents of that case can infect thousands of people. To keep people safe, I can take it. And I will.”
“Those are brave words from a murderer,” said the doctor. “What newspaper would print your allegations, Mr. Tesla?”
The man with the piercings looked uncertain now. He must have read the New York Post.
Joe didn’t have time to argue. He reached for the case.
The door at the other end of the car slammed open and a thin, dark-haired man stood in the doorway. Joe recognized his silhouette and his walk. Ozan Saddiq.
“Step away from that man,” Saddiq called down the train car. He drew a gun from under his coat and pointed it at Joe.
Panic erupted in the train car. People threw themselves to the floor and tried to crawl under the seats.
Joe kicked out Dr. Dubois’s crutch and grabbed his aluminum case as the man fell. The doctor wouldn’t let go until Joe twisted it in a fast circle and smashed it into his face.
The doctor stared at him, aghast.
“I’m not done with you,” Joe said. “Not by a long shot.”
The doctor brought both hands up to his streaming nose.
“Saddiq!” he called.
A gunshot echoed in the tiny space. Heat seared Joe’s ear. He dropped to the floor, still holding the briefcase, and dove the last few feet to the door at his end of the car. He leaned against it and pulled the door open one-handed. He fell more than jumped forward.
The ground jarred his ankles when he landed.
Joe looked back at the train car. The engineer had left his post at the front of the car to investigate the commotion. He wasn’t far from where Joe had been standing.
Saddiq jumped out of the rear of the car, and Joe ran around toward the front. He needed to keep the train between them as long as possible. The case bounced against his knee. He hoped that it wouldn’t turn the area into a biological waste site if it or something inside it broke.
The train lurched ahead. Joe sprinted forward a few yards, then cut in front of the engine as the train gained momentum. He heard another gunshot.
Pain blasted up his right arm.
Chapter 44
November 30, 9:15 a.m.
Tunnels under Grand Central Terminal
Ozan saw Tesla stumble. He’d hit his arm. He didn’t want to kill him. He had questions that only Tesla could answer.
“Stop!” called Ozan. He sent another shot just wide of Tesla’s head.
Tesla stopped. He held the wounded arm against his chest, but he wouldn’t let go of the case. Braver than he looked.
“I just want to talk to you,” called Ozan. “I want to know about what’s in that case.”
“It’s full of parasites called toxoplasmosis, Mr. Saddiq,” Joe said. “He was going to inject it into soldiers.”
Ozan wasn’t surprised that Tesla knew his name. The man knew everything. “Does it make you sick?”
“It gives you a fever, headaches, muscle pain.”
Ozan’s head throbbed. He’d had all those symptoms. He moved to a track next to the stopped train. “Then what?”
“It makes you reckless.”
He recognized that, too. This parasite was inside his body. Worry for Erol flashed across his mind. His brother would be alone without him. “Is it curable?”
The track points shifted with a clack. Ozan screamed as the bones of his foot were ground together. The train had been switched to the track on which he stood, catching his foot between the two tracks.
He dropped his gun and yanked at his foot. Hot pain flooded up his leg, but his foot didn’t budge. “Help me!”
Tesla put the case down and ran to him. He kicked away the gun before bending down to try to grab Ozan’s foot.
“Work the switch!” Ozan tried to push his foot straight back, but it was stuck tight.
The train rolled toward them, ready to go down the new track and run over him.
Tesla leaped up. He waved his arms over his head. Blood ran down his forearm from the gunshot wound.
Ozan looked up at the cabin to see if the engineer saw them. He could switch them back to another track and release his foot. The cabin was empty. The engineer must still be in the second car with Dr. Dubois.
There was no way to get his foot out.
And there was no way to stop the train.
Tesla saw it, too. He tore at Ozan’s leg with bloody fingers. Bones scraped together in Ozan’s foot when he lurched to the side. Panic tamped down the pain. He fumbled in his pants pocket. He had a knife in there. He could cut his foot off.
The train bore down.
Even as time slowed down, Ozan realized that there wasn’t enough of it. He straightened to face the oncoming headlights. The vision of Erol sleeping peacefully under his manatee blanket flashed through his head.
Tesla crouched next to him, still working on his foot. The man would die trying to save him. That was who Tesla was. The clarity that often came to Ozan on the battlefield came to him now. He grabbed Tesla’s shoulders and threw him away to safety.
Tesla sprawled on his ass and stared up at him with round eyes.
Ozan could trust him.
“Take care of my brother, Erol,” he called.
The train struck.
Chapter 45
November 30, 9:19 a.m.
Tunnels under Grand Central Terminal
Joe turned away, holding his bleeding arm. Ozan had been a bad man, but what a brutal way to die. His last thoughts had been for his brother. He’d trusted Joe to find him and look after him. And he would. His brother shouldn’t be made to suffer for Saddiq’s misdeeds.
A man in uniform shouted at Joe, but he ignored him.
He snatched up the case with his good hand and ran. Speed was all he had, and he poured it on. His legs fell into his familiar stride for running on train ties, but faster than he’d ever moved in his life. He gripped the case to his chest and ran.
Another shot. The cops must be shooting at him now.
A train bore down on him. Not the 9:07, the one after. Joe jumped the third rail and kept going.
Barking told him that he’d captured the dogs’ attention. And their handlers.
They all converged on him.
He fled toward the tunnel that led to his house. If he got in, he’d have only two guards to deal with. That sounded like a picnic compared to the mob around him.
He made it to his tunnel, punched in the code with his left hand, waited an eternity for the light to blink off, and turned the key. Once inside, he slammed it behind him.
Three figures ran toward him down the tunnel. Abbott and Costello. And Vivian. Oddly enough, fat Abbott led the pack.
“Freeze!” he called.
Joe froze, dropped the case, and raised his hands over his head.
Behind Abbott, Vivian lifted an arm, lightning fast, and drove something into Costello’s back. He pitched forward and lay still.
“Cuff Tesla,” Abbott called over his shoulder.
“Not today.” Vivian stuck what looked like a syringe in Abbott’s left buttock.
Eyebrows frozen in surprise, he half-turned before collapsing on the ground.
&nb
sp; She bent and picked up his fallen gun. “Please tell me that whatever you’ve got in the case is going to save my ass.”
“Maybe.” Thumps sounded against the tunnel door. Joe felt light-headed. Was he losing a lot of blood?
“Where do you want to go?”
“Elevator,” Joe said. “Hold it open.”
She ran like a deer, easier and much faster than Joe ever could.
He straightened his backpack and ran after her.
She waited inside the elevator, holding the doors open with her hand. “Someone’s calling it to go up.”
Chapter 46
November 30, 9:23 a.m.
Tunnels under Grand Central Terminal
Vivian moved to the side as Tesla stumbled in next to her, clanged shut the gate, and activated the lever to send them up.
“Cops on the other end,” she said, calmly. “Lots.”
Tesla released the lever, and the elevator lurched to a stop. “Don’t let it start again.”
“Your arm is wounded.” He was losing blood out of what looked like a bullet wound in his forearm. He’d come into the tunnel with that. Nobody had got a shot off once he got through the door. That meant that, even though the men she’d disabled hadn’t raised the alarm, someone else must have.
“I know.”
He threw his backpack on the floor and pulled out his laptop. “Hot damn! Wireless!”
Vivian knelt next to him and pulled off her scarf. “Really? You’re going online now?”
“Give me one second.” He fumbled with the keyboard, typing slowly with his left hand.
“How about I bandage up the right one?” she asked. “It’ll only take a minute.”
He held up his hurt arm without looking away from the computer. She pulled up his sleeve and began to wrap the wound with her scarf. She had enough left over to tie around his neck as a sling.
“Can they override the elevator?” she asked.
“I checked on that once. They can’t.” He reached into his backpack. “The only way they can get us moving is by cutting the cables and dropping us down.”
The World Beneath (Joe Tesla) Page 22
