He glanced quickly at the ceiling. She remembered the last time they’d been in the elevator together. He’d been nervous then. She hoped he didn’t lose it.
She helped him pull a brown leather box out of his backpack. It was an ancient briefcase, fastened with a modern leather belt. He tried to open it one-handed.
“Tell me what to do,” she said. “I don’t want them cutting the cables, either.”
He smiled gratefully at her. “If you could take out the papers in there and lay them out on the floor.”
He fiddled with his phone while she worked. The papers talked about a disease. Some were old, some new. She didn’t take time to read them.
Joe whistled, startling her.
“I’m in.” He struggled to his feet next to her and photographed the papers. He had to stand on one foot because something was wrong with his leg, but he wouldn’t let her look at it.
She put them away after he took the pictures and laid out new ones until he was done. He also opened the metal case with the biohazard stickers and took pictures of glass tubes inside of it. “Those pictures are going to save us?”
“Maybe not us,” Joe said, “but lots of other people.”
“Great,” Vivian said. “What about us?”
Joe sat cross-legged on the floor and pulled his laptop onto his knees. “Maybe.”
Vivian’s phone rang. Mr. Rossi. She put him on speaker.
“I’m up here in the concourse of Grand Central Terminal,” he said. “I’m with an agent named Connelly. Do you know Tesla’s whereabouts?”
“I’m in the elevator,” Tesla said. His fingers zoomed around the keyboard. Even left-handed, he was a faster typist than she was.
“Connelly would like to negotiate your surrender before anyone else gets hurt.”
“If I surrender right now,” Tesla said, “thousands of men will get hurt. Soldiers. American soldiers.”
“They say that they have dispatched a crew to cut through the elevator cables,” said Mr. Rossi.
That was probably a lie, she thought. But if it was true, and assuming they lived through the crash, she didn’t think the two agents at the bottom would be happy to see them.
She drew her gun. If Tesla had ever needed a bodyguard, the moment was now.
Chapter 47
November 30, 9:37 a.m.
Elevator
Joe looked up at the ceiling. It wouldn’t take long to cut through the cables.
“Please put that away, Miss Torres.” He pointed to her gun. “I think I have another solution.”
She holstered the weapon, but scowled while doing it. Clearly, she didn’t like being trapped here helplessly any more than he did.
His right arm hurt like hell, but he kept typing. “Danny, please put Mr. Connelly on the line.”
“Mr. Tesla,” said a deep voice a second later. “You’re in a world of trouble right now.”
Joe checked the upload bar. The pictures of the research papers were off to an online leak site. All but one of them. “I’d say that you’re in more trouble than I am.”
“Doesn’t feel like it. Let’s talk about what you need to do—”
“Let’s talk about what you need to do,” Joe interrupted. “You might not be aware that your agency is tied to a dangerous rogue.”
“If you mean that man who died in the tunnel a few minutes ago, you—”
“Ozan Saddiq is not the man I mean.” He typed in an encryption code with his left-hand. “Dr. Dubois is.”
A slight hesitation, then Connelly spoke again. “Who?”
“I have information linking your Dr. Dubois to a hundred murders in Cuba.” Not exactly true, but he kept going. “And a medical experiment that’s scheduled to infect thousands of soldiers tomorrow.”
“I’m not sure where you get your information, but—”
“I have uploaded all of it to a site similar to WikiLeaks. Journalists are even now being notified.” Joe tapped Send on an email, the one that might save their lives.
The elevator lurched to the side.
“Mr. Connelly,” Joe said. “But one page that I uploaded is encrypted so they won’t be able to read it right away.”
“Let’s talk about this up here.” Connelly was losing his bluster.
“I’ve given a friend the encryption code,” Joe said. “He’ll release it to journalists unless he hears otherwise from me personally.”
“Your life is in no danger, Mr. Tesla. There’s no need to be so dramatic.”
“Aren’t you curious about this last sheet of paper?” Joe asked. “It links the toxoplasmosis program to your agency and makes it impossible for you to disavow the actions of Dr. Dubois.”
Another pause. “A clever theory. I’d be very interested to discuss it. Up here.”
The elevator trembled. “Tell your men working on the cables to desist. Tell your men at my house to stand down. We can discuss your proposal in my home.”
“I think that would be an excellent way to de-escalate the situation,” Connelly said.
Diplomatic to the last.
A minute later, Connelly said, “I’ve stopped the men on the cables, can’t reach the men in the tunnels by your house. Are they all right?”
Joe pressed the mute button and looked at Vivian.
“They’ll be out for at least an hour,” she said. “I injected them with a sedative.”
He made a mental note to ask her why she’d been carrying two syringes of knockout juice around. Instead, he pressed the mute button again.
“They’re just napping,” he said. “See you soon!”
Joe packed up the case with the serum and the battered briefcase with its damning papers.
“What now?” Vivian asked.
“We go down.” Joe reached for the lever. “At the bottom, hold the doors open. I don’t want Connelly coming down here until I’m ready for him.”
He had one more thing that he needed to do.
Vivian helped to lift the backpack onto his back, threading it carefully over his wounded arm. It hurt with each heartbeat. He hurried to his front door, glancing at the two agents stretched out in the tunnel. Vivian had guided them down to lie on their backs, then rolled them onto their sides so that they wouldn’t choke. Thoughtful of her.
He entered his house, breathing in the familiar smells, and went into the parlor. He gritted his teeth against the pain and set up his laptop and phone, careful to make them both untraceable. Then he went to the iPhone database he’d used earlier and found phones in Times Square. He’d be sending more than a seagull this time. He turned his phone’s camera on his face. Vivian’s phone he set on the edge of his lap. He expected it to ring soon.
“I’m Joe Tesla,” he said. “And I have something to tell you.”
Chapter 48
November 30, 9:45 a.m.
Times Square, New York
Dr. Dubois struggled out of the cab into the crush of humanity and honking horns that was Times Square. Billboards shouted for his attention, ads for musicals he’d never want to see, and junk food he shouldn’t consume. He stuck the crutches under his armpits and hobbled toward the hotel.
He was scheduled to meet Agent Marks at the Marriott Marquis hotel at 10 o’clock. He could still fix this. Tesla had the serum, and he had some information about it, but he was contained underground. Saddiq might already have killed him. If not, there was a good chance that he’d been caught by the police. The doctor had heard the gunshots as the train had started to move again. They were after Tesla. They would get him.
If not, he needed to get to his meeting right away. He intended to record it and use the recording as insurance should the CIA try to cut ties with him. Since the 500 series debacle, they had distanced themselves from him, but they knew that they had enough on the line to fill the tunnels with agents looking for Tesla. They’d back him up, especially if he had a little insurance.
The noise level in the square dropped, and several people turned to look at the J
umbotron. It looked dark among all the glittering lights. He stopped to catch his breath, straightened his glasses, and looked up at the giant screen.
A familiar face looked down on him. His crutch slipped, and he almost fell. Pain rippled up from his leg. He caught his balance and looked back up at the screen.
Joe Tesla’s image stared down at him, large as a building. His lips moved as if he were speaking, but there was no audio, of course.
Subtitles appeared against his shirt.
The doctor read them. They told how Joe Tesla was trapped underground in New York City, how he had uncovered evidence of a terrible series of experiments. The image changed to show the doctor’s briefcase, one of the yellow biohazard stickers standing out brightly.
He staggered back, crutch dropping to the ground unheeded as he read his own name.
Around him people had stopped moving. They stared at the Jumbotron. A man with a red hat held up his phone to film it. They knew. Everyone knew.
Tesla was giving Dr. Dubois all the blame. But he hadn’t done it alone.
A hand cupped his elbow and steadied him. “Dr. Dubois?”
Agent Marks looked down on him.
“I...yes. Let’s get off the street,” said the doctor.
Marks’s phone beeped, and he pulled it out of his pants pocket.
The doctor gripped his remaining crutch.
A flicker of surprise passed across the agent’s face.
“What?” The doctor fought to keep panic from his voice. “What?”
“Nothing at all.” Marks handed him his dropped crutch. “Let’s get inside. We have a lot to talk about.”
The doctor’s galloping heart slowed. They would be able to find a solution.
Marks draped an arm across his shoulders. Something stung the doctor on the side of his neck.
His heart convulsed inside him, and he fell to the dirty asphalt.
“This man is having a heart attack!” called Marks. “Someone call 911.”
He’d never survive the wait for the ambulance. Pain radiated out from his chest, down his arm, but it wasn’t from a heart attack. He tried to reach the spot where Marks must have injected him, but his arm wouldn’t move.
Darkness crowded around the edges of his vision.
The last thing he saw was Tesla’s earnest face, with the doctor’s name printed beneath it. His own damning name.
Chapter 49
December 15, 6:42 p.m.
Gallo House
Joe climbed up an old-fashioned stepladder to place an antique star ornament atop his Christmas tree. He’d discovered a box of Victorian decorations in the attic and brought them out. Hand-blown glass balls, cut-tin shapes, and heavy lead tinsel glittered from every branch. The homey smell of pine filled the room. He bet it looked very much as it had for the first Gallo Christmas. He placed the star atop the tree awkwardly with his left hand. His right arm was healing nicely, but he didn’t trust it to hold the fragile glass.
The fireplace crackled cheerily. He’d cleared off the mantel and covered it with pine boughs and holly. Two stockings hung there. A red one with Joe stitched on it and a larger, yellow one, emblazoned with Edison.
“Does this star look straight?” Joe asked Vivian. She was across the room, eying the tree.
“Mostly.”
Joe climbed down and scrutinized the angle himself. Crooked.
A warm nose nudged the back of his knee. Joe grabbed a doggie treat off the corner of the mantel. Edison cocked his head, looking festive in a Santa Claus hat. It had been given to him by the residents of the Carrie Wilbur Home for Adults with Special Needs. After taking over Erol Saddiq’s bills, Joe had set up an animal therapy program at the home. Andres would be taking Edison there weekly.
The hat slipped to the side when Edison tilted his head and brushed it against his inverted plastic collar. He was healing without complication and was already outrunning Joe during their morning tunnel jogs. Joe was healing more slowly. His ankle had become infected and took two courses of antibiotics to start healing.
“He loves it!” said a breathless voice from one of the wingback chairs. It was Celeste, on Skype, beaming at the dog. Even though she would deny it, her hair looked perfect.
“Of course he does,” said a deep voice with an Eastern European accent. “He is a dog.”
Andres balanced a bowl of popcorn on his knee. He had plugged his iPad into Joe’s speaker system and Estonian Christmas carols played softly in the background. At least Joe thought that they were Christmas carols—they could have been lullabies or funeral marches, for all he knew.
Andres had insisted that they create garlands of popcorn and cranberries. Joe had tried until he’d poked himself under the thumbnail with a needle for the third time. Vivian claimed she hadn’t heard that much swearing since she’d left the Army.
Joe’s cell phone blared Jingle Bells, and he hurried to silence it, but not before Celeste gave him a mocking look for having a holiday ring tone.
He’d barely answered before the man on the other end launched into a complicated question.
“Hang on.” Joe glanced around the room. “I have to take this, but it won’t take long. It’s work.”
Taking the stairs two at a time, he went to his upstairs office to get his laptop. He’d gone back to work the last time that Pellucid had asked him. It felt good to be using his brain again, solving problems, setting up systems to catch bad guys.
Making a difference.
It didn’t take him long to answer the programmer’s questions, but he hesitated for a moment, thinking back to a conversation he’d had with Vivian when she’d first arrived at the party. He hadn’t seen her since the night that she’d knocked out the agents and held the elevator for him.
He’d put a mug of warm mulled wine in her hand and taken a sip of his own.
“Why didn’t you release the encrypted page?” she’d asked. “The one that you said linked the doctor to the CIA? They got off scot-free.”
“I know,” Joe said. “And I would have released it, damn the consequences, except for one thing.”
Her voice sounded skeptical. “What was that?”
“The encrypted page was blank.”
Her eyes widened. “It was a bluff?”
“It kept them from shooting us when the elevator got to the top floor,” he said. “And it’s still keeping them cautious.”
She’d grinned and clinked her cup against his. “Well played, sir.”
Joe smiled, remembering, and turned to return to the party, but before he could go back downstairs, his phone rang again.
“I’m sorry to disturb you so late.” Joe recognized the voice. Dr. Samuels.
His heart skipped a beat. “Yes?”
“The test results are in.”
“And?” Joe asked.
“We’ve definitely established that you do not have toxoplasmosis.”
Joe could tell that more news was coming. “That’s good.”
“Some of the results seem to indicate that you might have been dosed with certain experimental substances that may have triggered your agoraphobia.”
“You mean, someone did this to me on purpose?”
“We don’t know.”
When Joe ended the connection a minute later, he stood in his darkened office, staring at the drapery covering a window that opened to nowhere.
Who would poison him?
He had to know.
THE END
Acknowledgments
Putting down Joe Tesla’s adventures took a lot of help. Thanks goes first to my wonderful writing group who, as always, helped make the story shine: Kathryn Wadsworth, Judith Heath, David Deardorff, Karen Hollinger, and Ben Haggard. You guys are so talented at writing and editing. I’m proud to know you.
Thanks also to my writer friends, who provided advice and sanity checks—Andrew Peterson, James Rollins, Sean Black, Kelli Stanley, and CJ Lyons. Writing can be a lonely journey, and I’m grateful for the way stati
ons you guys provide.
The book would not be what it is without the care of my agents, Mary Alice Kier and Anna Cottle, and my copy editor, Joyce Lamb; plus a shout-out to Kit Foster for the great cover. I received advice about the workings of the subway itself from Joseph Brennan. I’m sure I’ve managed to sneak some errors in despite his help, but that’s not his fault.
And last, and most important of all, thank you to my husband and son for being kind, supportive, and thoughtful while I slipped away to my underground world. I’ll be topside again for a while, but then I have this idea…
About the Author
Thank you for reading “The World Beneath.” I hope that you enjoyed the story!
I’m REBECCA CANTRELL, the award-winning and New York Times bestselling thriller author of this book. My other novels include the Order of Sanguines series, starting with The Blood Gospel and the award-winning Hannah Vogel mystery series, starting with A Trace of Smoke. My husband, son, and I just left Hawaii's sunny shores for adventures in Berlin, Germany.
If you’d like to find out more about my novels, visit my web site at http://www.rebeccacantrell.com/ I have them all listed there, in order, plus some extra content about researching them and the worlds in which they take place. To purchase them for your Kindle, please go to the next page.
If you’d like to receive advance notice of my upcoming books, please sign up for my newsletter at www.rebeccacantrell.com. I put it out a few times a year, and I promise never to sell or trade your name.
Or, if you want to see what I’m up to day to day, you can find me on Facebook and Twitter.
Also by Rebecca Cantrell
Mystery/thrillers in the award-winning Hannah Vogel mystery series set in 1930s Berlin:
A Trace of Smoke
A Night of Long Knives
A Game of Lies
A City of Broken Glass
On the Train (short story)
Gothic thrillers in the Order of the Sanguines series (written with James Rollins) set in ancient and modern day times and following the adventures of an order of vampire priests.
The World Beneath (Joe Tesla) Page 23
