by Larry Bond
Jing Yo parked the van in a cluster of cars near one of the doors, backing into a spot that allowed him to observe the loading dock and another service entrance on the side. He got out, planning to look in the nearby cars for spare IDs—a violation of security protocols so common that it was generally unpunished, especially at a place like the museum, where security was usually not a high priority.
The first car was locked. Not seeing anything that would make it worth breaking into, Jing Yo moved on to the second car. He was just opening the passenger door when a worker opened the service door at the side of the building and walked out.
The man stuck his hand into the pocket of his blue mechanics overalls and pulled out a cigarette. Cupping his hands against the light breeze, he lit up, took a puff, then began walking toward the two heating company trucks parked a short distance away.
Jing Yo watched. He expected that the man would get into the cab of the truck and drive off. Instead, the man went to the back of the truck and opened it, climbing in for some part or tool he needed inside.
Jing Yo left the car and circled back, angling toward the rear of the truck just out of view from the interior.
He would take him with his hands. Shooting would be too loud.
Jing Yo was almost at the back of the truck when the employee jumped out, the vehicle rocking on its shocks. The man looked at him in surprise. Jing Yo was surprised as well—the man was a Chinese-American, which for some reason Jing Yo hadn’t expected.
“I wonder if you have a cig,” said Jing Yo.
“Cig?” The man looked bewildered, and slightly annoyed.
“Cigarette?”
“Yeah, I guess I got one,” said the worker, digging into his pocket. “Damn things cost a fortune,” he added, taking the pack and shaking a cigarette out. “Here.”
It seemed odd to be complaining about your own sense of charity. Jing Yo took the cigarette, then watched the man pull out another for himself. The worker put his parts down—there were small pieces of electronics gear—and lit up. Then he handed Jing Yo the lighter.
“You work here?” asked the man.
“Yes.”
“Nice place, huh? Pay okay?”
Jing Yo shrugged. The other man laughed.
“Don’t worry. I’m not looking to take your job.”
“What are you fixing?” Jing Yo asked.
“The safety cutoff on boiler two is your big problem,” said the man. “You guys are lucky I found the parts in the truck. Boss wanted me to drive back to the warehouse. Forget that, man.”
“Don’t you need an access badge?” asked Jing Yo.
“You mean a card to get in? Nah—I stuck a doorstop in there. You’ll open it for me, right? If I need it.”
“Sure.”
“Have we met?” the man asked. “You look familiar. You live in Kew Gardens?”
Jing Yo shook his head. “I come from China,” he said in Chinese.
“Huh?”
If the man had answered him, or even shown some recognition of the language, Jing Yo might have spared his life. But the man’s ignorance of his ancestral language broke the small spell his Asian roots had cast.
Jing Yo stepped forward quickly and swung his left leg up in a hard kick that caught the worker in the chest, doubling him over. A chop on his neck sent him to the pavement.
Two kicks to the side of his head finished him.
Jing Yo picked him up and put him in his truck. The man was a little shorter than he, and the coveralls didn’t quite fall to his shoe tops. But they were roomy enough for him to move his arms easily, and gave him a good place to hide his pistol.
A toolbox hid the P90 submachine gun.
* * *
A woman called to him a few feet into the building. “Where are you going?”
Jing Yo turned abruptly, angry that he was being stopped. “Your heating system has difficulties,” he said.
The woman frowned at him. “I know it has difficulties,” she said. “When is it going to be fixed?”
“It may take a few hours.”
“A few hours? It was supposed to be fixed by nine. It’s a quarter past.”
Jing Yo stared at her.
“We have some important guests coming,” she continued. “You have to fix it quickly.”
“We need parts.”
“Get them. And get it fixed.”
The woman turned on her heel and stomped away in the direction she’d come. Jing Yo shifted the mental map he had constructed of the interior: she must be walking toward the staff offices, which he had thought were on the other side.
He went to the stairway door and opened it, as if going down to the basement. But he went up instead of down, coming out on the second floor.
He found himself in the middle of a display of rocket ships. A black man about his age wearing a tan turtleneck and faded blue jeans looked at him expectantly.
“I need to find thermostat,” said Jing Yo, his English failing as he tried to come up with an excuse for being there.
“All the thermostats are in armored cases,” said the man.
“Are there any on this floor?” asked Jing Yo.
“Out near the restroom, over there. Better hurry. There’s a hundred kids on their way into the building. And the first place they go is always the john.”
The left side of the hallway opened on the side of an atrium that rose to the top of the building. Standing by the rails, Jing Yo could see the front entrance. Two school buses were parked in front of the doors. Children were being lined up on the sidewalk.
The door opened. The kids were not nearly as disciplined as Chinese schoolchildren would have been. They spoke loudly and rudely. Their line was barely distinguishable from a mad jumble. The teachers seemed not to notice, talking to one another rather than herding their charges back in line.
Americans really were a doomed race.
The children were directed toward an auditorium at the left side of the atrium, just out of Jing Yo’s view. One peeled off and headed for the stairs. A second and third followed. Soon there were a dozen, running and laughing, heading for the restroom, as the man inside had said.
Shooting someone from here was simple. The P90 would make quick work of him.
Jing Yo wasn’t concerned with getting out. If he got out the way he came without any trouble, then he would. If not—what did it matter? Very possibly Mr. Wong or the government would arrange for his death even if he did escape.
It would be better to die sooner rather than later, rather than waiting to be tortured and questioned, forced to betray his country. If possible, he would die in a firefight. If wounded, he would end his suffering honorably.
“What are you doing up here?”
Jing Yo turned slowly. The woman who had accosted him downstairs was standing in the hall near the rocket exhibit.
“Thermostats,” he told her.
“What?”
“I have to check them.”
“Get moving. Senator Grasso is going to be here in half an hour. Do you even know who he is?”
“He’s a U.S. senator.”
She shook her head, disgusted, and stomped past him. Jing Yo resisted the urge to throw her over the railing. He went to the thermostat, pretending to look at it.
“She’s a bitch on heels, huh?” said the man he’d seen earlier in the rocket display.
Jing Yo didn’t understand the idiom, but realized he should agree. He tapped the thermostat as if he had just finished what he was doing, then began walking toward the stairway at the far end of the open space.
A uniformed guard was standing near the top of the landing as he came up. The guard, in his late sixties with a gray buzz cut and a trim belly, nodded at him. Jing Yo nodded back. The man didn’t have a gun.
He did have a radio, which might be useful.
Jing Yo went over to the thermostat, which was on the wall right next to the opening down to the atrium area. He opened his case and took out a screwdr
iver, then quickly closed it so that the submachine gun couldn’t be seen.
The screws on the thermostat were star-heads rather than conventional screw or Phillips heads. With the guard watching, he couldn’t fake working on the device without taking it apart. He dropped down to his knee to see if he had the right driver.
“Whatcha workin’ on?” asked the guard as he zipped his bag open.
Jing Yo turned to him. He was still over near the steps.
Stay there, old man, he thought.
“Heating system,” said Jing Yo.
“Thermostats are bad?”
“Just need checking.”
The guard took that as an invitation to come over. Jing Yo pulled a large screwdriver from the bag and zipped it closed quickly.
“These commercial systems a lot different than residential?” asked the guard.
“Different.”
“I used to do some work with a plumber,” said the guard. “Before I joined NYPD.”
“Mmmmm,” said Jing Yo.
He still didn’t have the right screwdriver in his hand. He looked at the thermostat.
“This one’s okay,” he said, pointing.
“How can you tell? Jump them and look for a spark?”
“Yes,” said Jing Yo, hoping that was the right answer.
“Nothing changes, huh? You don’t use a meter?”
Jing Yo had no idea what the proper answer would be, and certainly could not have identified the meter the guard was talking about.
He could grab him by the throat, clamp his hand over his mouth, and drag him somewhere.
Where?
The restroom must be nearby.
The guard gave him a quizzical look.
“Restroom?” asked Jing Yo.
“Just over there.” He took a few steps back and pointed.
Jing Yo took his tool bag and walked over to the men’s room. Inside, he waited near the door, hoping the guard would follow. But he didn’t. When Jing Yo came out, he was gone.
The nearby exhibition halls were empty as well. One was dedicated to exhibits on the human body; the other demonstrated how evolution worked. The displays were in glossy colors. The place looked more like a toy room than a science lab.
He went back out to the walkway over the atrium. The children had been sequestered inside the auditorium, joined there by a second group whose buses had just arrived.
As Jing Yo watched, a limo pulled up to the door, angling in front of the buses. Two men in suits came out from the area directly below Jing Yo, followed by the woman who had scolded him twice earlier. They waited at the door as a young man in his early twenties got out of the limo, holding the door open for another man.
Senator Grasso. Short, balding, with a round belly, Grasso swaggered as he walked the short distance from the car to the door.
Jing Yo unzipped his tool bag. The gun was right on the top, easy to grab.
“Senator, so pleased to see you,” said the woman, her voice easily carrying across the open space. Her tone was 180 degrees from the one she had used to address Jing Yo.
“Maria—so nice to see you again. How is my favorite museum administrator doing?”
The senator pulled her toward him and kissed her on the cheek. She didn’t resist.
“You know the chairman of our board, Dr. Giddes. And my assistant, Ralph Kinel.”
“Doc, Ralph—how are yas?”
The senator didn’t introduce his aide, who stood in the background.
“We have a lot of children here today,” said the museum director. “We thought you’d like to accept your award in front of them.”
“Oh-ho,” said the senator. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”
“The senator does have a busy schedule today,” said the aide. “He also needs to meet with some aides to the president after the presentation. If there is a room available.”
“Will my office do?” asked the director. “Let’s take a look.”
The director began leading them to the hall beneath the open walkway. The aide looked up and saw Jing Yo. He didn’t say anything, simply stared until Jing Yo stepped back from the rail, out of view.
If the senator had used the main entrance, so would the scientist. All he would have to do was wait.
29
Queens, New York City
The Grand Central Parkway looked more like a parking lot than a highway. Traffic on the RFK-Triborough Bridge was at a standstill, with two accidents eastbound, one just before the tollbooths and the other on the Queens side near the exit to the local roads.
“Are we going to make it?” Jablonski asked the driver, leaning forward.
“It’ll be close.”
“I’d better call. The only thing worse than being late is not telling Grasso we’re going to be late.”
Josh leaned against the door as Jablonski fished in his pocket for his phone. The aide had unfortunately decided to sit between him and Mara.
“Kevin, this is Will. How are you? Listen, we’re stuck on the damn Grand Central, in the middle of the Triborough. Where are you? … Oh, you’re at the museum already. How’d you get through the traffic? … Too late for us. Look, our driver isn’t sure we’re going to make it, so I thought I’d better give you a heads-up.… Uh-huh. It’s very important to the president that the senator speak to Josh. He wants the senator to hear about this firsthand, from the source. The horse’s mouth, so to speak.… That would fine. Fine. We’ll see you in the parking lot. Excellent.”
Jablonski killed the phone.
“We’re going to ride with the senator,” said Jablonski. “We’ll meet them at the parking lot. You and I will go with them to the UN.”
“What about Mara?” asked Josh.
“She’ll follow. The marshals will stick with us, right, guys?”
“I’d kind of like her there.”
“I’ll be with you at the UN, Josh. You don’t need me to talk to the senator.”
“All right,” Josh said, pushing closer to the door of the car.
* * *
Jing Yo glanced at his watch. It was exactly 11:08. Where was the scientist?
The view to the front door was perfect. Jing Yo went down on his knee, next to the canvas tool bag. He put his right hand on the P90, slipping his finger around the trigger.
He was ready. His mind was at peace. Every muscle was relaxed, his breathing slow and full. There was only one true Way, one true existence.
Laughter filled the atrium below. The children were coming out of the auditorium.
One true Way.
A car drove up outside. Jing Yo saw its tires in the glass. If he’d taken the grenade launcher from the truck, it would be over now.
No bother. It was only a matter of moments.
No one got out of the car. It was the senator’s limo.
A second car pulled up behind it.
Security? Had he been seen?
Adult voices filled the hall below. Jing Yo looked down. The senator was walking out, threading his way through the children.
Jing Yo would shoot the scientist and then the senator. He would try not to kill the children, but if they were there, there was nothing he could do.
One Way.
The senator veered to his left, toward the front of the building. He wasn’t going to the office. Something was wrong.
Jing Yo looked toward the door. A person got out of the car behind the senator’s.
The scientist—no, someone else.
“This way, Senator,” said the aide, ushering him out of the door.
It was a trick, thought Jing Yo, jumping to his feet. I’ve missed my chance.
* * *
Josh got into the back on the driver’s side; Jablonski slid in from the other end. After seeing so many movies and television shows featuring big politicos and businesspeople being ferried around in outrageously equipped limousines, the senator’s car was a real disappointment. There was no television in the backseat, let alone a computer or a bar;
it was little different than the backseat of the marshal car, a plain vanilla Chevy Caprice. Papers and files were piled on the shelf behind the seat, so high that Josh doubted the driver could see out the back window.
“The Triborough’s a mess,” Jablonski told the driver.
“So I hear. We’ll go over the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge. The Queensboro. It’s closer to where we’re going anyway.”
Josh felt his heart pounding. He looked at his hands. Sweat was pouring from the pores.
“Nervous?” asked Jablonski.
“I guess.”
“You’ll do fine. Just tell what happened. Your own words. Like at breakfast.”
The door on the other side of Jablonski opened. Senator Grasso climbed in, the car rocking with his weight. His aide got in the front seat.
“Billy, how goes the speechwriting?” said the senator as the car pulled from the curb.
“Just fine, Senator.”
“Do you actually write any speeches?”
“I’ve written a few.”
“Was Peaceful Vigilance yours?” Grasso was referring to a speech the president had made two weeks before, suggesting that America’s troops would stay at a high state of alert.
“I contributed a few lines.”
“Now I know you wrote it. Any time you’re being modest like that.” Grasso leaned over. “And you must be Dr. MacArthur, right?”
“I’m Josh MacArthur.”
MacArthur extended his hand. Grasso grabbed it and shook it vigorously.
“Any relation to the famous MacArthur?”
“A great-great-great-uncle.”
“That’s a lot of greats.” Grasso winked at Jablonski. “Good to meet you, son. Are you from New York?”
“Iowa, actually.”
“Looking for votes?” Jablonski asked.
“Always, Billy. Without you working for me, I have to get all the votes I can find. Why don’t you come over to us anyway? Working for that old fart can’t be that much fun.”
“He is the president.”
“All that means is you get to ride in a better airplane. Kevin?” Grasso turned to the front seat, where his aide was working his BlackBerry. “How are we fixed for time?”
