Tyler, anxiety mounting, repacked the duffel and slung it over his shoulder, locking up the closet. He would ask one of Coopersmith’s guys to deliver the duffel to the second dining car, requesting it be locked up behind the counter where it would also be under the constant watch of a bartender. The mechanical closet was bait now—Tyler believed Alvarez would return for the duffel at some point. But did its being hidden in the train’s final car hold significance? A person couldn’t jump from a train at nearly two hundred miles an hour. Or could he?
Tyler inspected the sleeping bag more thoroughly: it wasn’t a sleeping bag at all but a thin, extremely lightweight synthetic material. He pulled it out further—yards of parachute cord. It was a parasail, a controllable parachute.
Tyler knew at that moment what Alvarez had in mind. The man was going to separate the train in two. The front half would derail. Then he’d parasail off the back to freedom.
Tyler quickly caught up to Coopersmith and his two men, who were all gathered around the maintenance closet to car seven.
Coopersmith saw him coming and said, “He shanked this lock. Superglue, I think. Filled the hole. Can’t get a key in.” He faced Tyler and apologized, “So maybe I was wrong about his having a set of keys.”
“The stabilizers?”
“For this car, they’re controlled inside the closet. Yes.”
“Could tampering with a single car derail the train?”
“No,” Coopersmith answered. “Too many redundancies built in.” He added, “At worst, he fries three separate boards and the override kicks in and disengages the engine.”
Glancing frontward, sensing he’d missed his chance at Alvarez, Tyler said, “You’ve got to get inside this closet while I keep looking for him.”
“Hell, we’ll never get this door open. The French built these things like brick shit houses. They didn’t want anyone messing with the gear.”
Tyler repeated, “You’ve got to get in there.”
“We should stop the train,” Coopersmith abruptly decided, elbowing one of his workers aside and headed for the ceiling-mounted emergency brake.
Tyler accepted that if they stopped, Alvarez at least could not derail the train. He followed on the chief’s heels, his mind whirring.
Coopersmith broke the glass barrier and reached for the emergency brake. Tyler grabbed hold of the man’s forearm. He asked, “What if that’s what he wants us to do? Panic us? Make us hit the brakes?”
Coopersmith stared at him angrily, keenly aware of Tyler’s hand restraining his forearm.
Tyler went on, “What if hitting the brakes will roll the car? What if he’s rigged it to do that? How can we be sure?”
Coopersmith’s eyes seemed to shift in their sockets. His hand remained on the brake as he clearly debated leaning his weight into it, his brow beaded with sweat.
Tyler said, “What if we get the driver to just cut the engine and let it glide to a stop?”
“At these speeds, with no brakes, you’re talking miles for this baby to come to a full stop.” His hand remained clutched to the emergency chain. “Listen, if he’s screwed with the stabilizers, if he knows what he’s doing, this thing could still roll at thirty, forty miles an hour on a straightaway. It could injure, even kill people. That’s a big chance to take.”
“What if we uncoupled these rear cars on the fly?” Tyler suggested. This was exactly what he thought Alvarez had in mind, and he wanted to test its feasibility on Coopersmith.
The big man shook his head. “Can’t be done. There has to be slack, no tension, in the coupling.” He added, “But I see your point, if we could get the guests back of here before trying to slow the train, that’s a hell of an idea.”
“What are the mechanics of this? Help me out here.” He dug into Alvarez’s duffel bag and produced the come-along, a hand-operated winch. “Could I take enough pressure off the coupler with one of these to uncouple two cars?”
Coopersmith took his hand off the emergency brake, stunned. “That was part of his plan? But why would a terrorist want to uncouple the cars?”
“In order to escape.”
Coopersmith nodded, picking up on the thought. “Uncouple nine, yeah, and watch as the train runs off without you.” Coopersmith hurried to the front of the car, opened a box, and picked up the phone that connected to the locomotive. “This is Coopersmith,” he said. “Maintenance Crew Chief. Listen up. We’ve got a situation back here.”
Coopersmith hung up, looking bewildered. He told Tyler, “The driver won’t do it. Won’t disengage.”
“He’s got to!”
“Says he’s not stopping the train based on a door being glued shut. He wants Goheen making the call.”
As if on cue, a woman’s voice came over the public address system, announcing that Goheen’s press conference would now take place in the press car and would be carried live on the in-seat videos in all cars, for those interested.
“Goheen is not going to stop this train,” Tyler realized aloud. “Not after that. He’s not going to move his guests. He’s not going to do anything.”
Coopersmith, still reeling from the driver’s refusal, mumbled, “I should have told him something different. Should’ve handed him a lie.”
Tyler glanced at his watch. “How soon can you get this door open?”
“We could drill it. Jig it around the lock. Ten… fifteen minutes.”
“Make it five,” Tyler urged.
Tyler stared at the small door that had been jammed shut. The train was set to derail—he knew this beyond all doubt. He couldn’t ignore this closet, but at the same time, he pondered at its obviousness. What if it was nothing but a diversion? He asked Coopersmith, “You said each car separately tracks its own location?”
“Yeah.”
“Speed. Direction.”
“Right.”
“And the stabilizers react accordingly,” Tyler said.
“Which is what keeps it on the tracks.”
Again, Tyler felt the pressure of the approaching river crossings and Goheen’s upcoming press conference. Time was running out. He shut his eyes and tried to focus. He tried to see the train’s design in his head. “The guidance systems must report to each other.”
“Of course.”
“And to the locomotive.” Tyler continued, “So our guy not only knocks out the guidance on a couple of the cars but does something so the driver never knows about it.”
Coopersmith shook his head. “A server in the locomotive constantly monitors the data lines. Anything goes south, the engine does an auto-shutdown. We checked those systems again at Penn Station, full data port checks. Everything was go.”
“But if he knew that would be your last inspection, it would explain why he risked boarding. Right? He did whatever he did while under way so as to avoid detection.” Tyler suggested, “With the sabotage in place, he disconnects car nine and rides it to safety.”
Coopersmith stood absolutely still, drained of color. “Who the hell are you?”
Tyler replied, “You’ve got to inspect all the data cable, the guidance systems, the server in the locomotive, anything that’s part of the control of these stabilizers.”
At that moment, a repeat announcement about the press conference was made.
Tyler said, “Whatever we do, we’ve got to be fast.”
CHAPTER 36
Alvarez froze at the sight of Jillian. Had Goheen or O’Malley identified her, managed to lure her here? Coercion? False promises?
In her eyes, he saw concern and fear. Upon his making eye contact, she immediately looked away. She appeared either angry or under guard or both. He turned back, took two steps, and through the vestibule spotted the man he believed was a federal agent coming at a run up car six. To his right, Jillian had now turned her back on him.
He stepped into the dining car. The lavatory’s indicator read Vacant. It described how he felt. Her being here started him on a new train of thought: she somehow represented a future; his G
oheen vendetta pointed to no future whatsoever, only a past of grief and anger and a need for revenge. Could he drop all that for a woman he hardly knew?
He went into the lavatory dizzy with anxiety. He pulled the door shut and threw the lock.
A knock came almost immediately. This, despite the Occupied sign. The fed, he thought, pondering violence or surrender. And he had come too far to surrender.
“Please,” came Jillian’s muted voice through the door.
Alvarez reached for the lock. Was he being set up? Were they using her? His fingers found the cool metal lock and twisted. The door opened a crack, and Jillian slipped inside.
She pulled the door shut and deftly locked it, the two of them standing in the cramped space. She looked stunning: the velvet dress, her hair up. Her eyes shone. “I didn’t believe them,” she said, staring at him.
He opened his arms and they embraced, and briefly he felt peace. “How?”
“I couldn’t bring myself to tell you, at the restaurant or the apartment.”
“Quickly,” he urged.
“When I saw the article in the paper, I called the police to say I’d seen you.” She seemed to be fighting to hold herself together. “Later, this man came. With the railroad. He said that if I took this trip, if I rode this train, I might save hundreds of lives. I told him you wouldn’t, couldn’t possibly, do what he said you were planning to do.”
“But you came,” he said, standing her up, releasing the embrace. “You didn’t believe that.”
“So why are you here?”
“Yes. It’s interesting, isn’t it?”
“It’s over, Bert. It has got to be over.”
“No one’s getting hurt. No one but this bastard and his company.”
A heavy pounding on the bathroom door. They both tensed. Alvarez pointed to his lips and then to Jillian. He wanted her to answer.
“Busy!” she called out.
“No problem. Sorry.” A male voice. The fed he’d seen? One of Goheen’s guards? By coming in here with him, by her answering, she might have just saved him. Or trapped him. He couldn’t be certain of anything.
“I can’t expect you to understand,” he whispered.
“So many lies.” She considered this. “So many lives.”
“The lies started with them.”
“Listen to you!” she exclaimed.
He checked his watch. “Any of the cars behind the dining cars will be safe.” He added, “Go there now.”
“No.” She stared at him. “I won’t.”
In the near silence, Alvarez became aware that there was no rhythm to this bullet train, no cadence. They had robbed train travel of its soul. They had robbed him of his soul.
He checked his watch. “You have to decide if you’re turning me in or not. I’m on a tight schedule.”
“I won’t be in the back cars,” she affirmed. “Whatever you do, you do it to me. This is not a solution—whatever it is, it is not that.”
“It’s not your battle.”
“There is no battle. Your family is dead. None of this will help.”
Alvarez burned with resentment but spoke gently. “You compare us as if we’re the same.” He waited. “You have a decision to make,” he said flatly.
Jillian glared, turned around, and unlocked the door.
CHAPTER 37
Wearing a hand-tailored blue suit and a red, white, and blue tie, William Goheen stood at the front of the press car at a small lectern before an improvised cluster of microphones and a slightly inebriated audience. Dateline was one of seven video cameras taping to run the event that evening. Installed into each seat back was a small liquid crystal screen that showed Goheen’s face as slightly pink.
Goheen offered a second hearty welcome to his honored guests. There would be even more food and drink right after the presentation. He won a light round of applause for that, which should have told him something about his audience.
“Before I take your questions,” he said, flanked by two attractive women from public relations, “we’d like to show you a short video on the F-A-S-T Track’s innovative technology and futuristic features. We have this information for you on pass-outs as well. They’re available in the catering car, along with some T-shirts and brochures we thought you’d enjoy. It’s only about five minutes. We’ll run it now.”
Behind Goheen and to his left, O’Malley stood facing the camera’s glaring lights wearing sunglasses, looking completely out of place. He wore a curly wire in his right ear and a scowl on his face.
One of Goheen’s aides spoke into her cell phone, and everyone’s attention fell to the video screens. Anticipation mounted as the screens remained black. Some sparkles suggested tape might be running, but no image appeared. No sound.
A perfectionist, Goheen prided himself on presentation, a hallmark of Northern Union Railroad. This short press conference had been rehearsed several times, the equipment checked repeatedly. Sloppy performances had no place in his camp. He merely turned his head to send his people scampering to solve the problem.
Before his assistants had moved ten feet, a man’s blackened silhouette appeared on the small screens, as well as on the larger monitor set up to Goheen’s right. When this man spoke, his voice sounded electronically altered—like an imitation of a robot. “Welcome passengers of the F-A-S-T Track test run. If security personnel manage to stop this video, it is you, the passengers, who will suffer for it. Demand this video be played to its conclusion. As of this moment, your continued safety lies with me. I have a list of demands for Mr. Goheen.”
One of the two PR women frantically hoisted a cell phone to her mouth. O’Malley, his face suddenly ashen, had stepped around Goheen to view the screen. Goheen glared down at him from the podium with all the fury a man could muster.
The voice continued. “If these demands are not met, this train will derail in exactly seven minutes.”
Panic erupted. The next few seconds of video were lost to all but those closest to the monitor, among them, Goheen and O’Malley. “If the train slows more than ten miles an hour, it will derail automatically. Mr. Goheen, I trust I have your attention.”
The passengers roared out complaints—one of the more drunk shouted, “This is not funny!”
A full third of the reporters had their mobile phones out, already speed-dialing.
“First and foremost,” the voice said from the television monitor, “William Goheen and Keith O’Malley must confess their crimes of fraud and cover-up and assume responsibility for the three deaths in Genoa, Illinois, which resulted directly from their decisions… ”
Goheen looked as if he’d seen a ghost.
As the video began, Tyler, making his way up car six, watched Alvarez’s silhouetted profile in silence. As on airplanes, each seat had a headset, without which there was no sound.
Without using radios, he’d been alerting Coopersmith’s men to start checking data cable and to recheck the guidance systems. But now he shouted for them to turn on the sound, and one of the men jumped up and did just that. The sterile, synthesized voice came across, making its accusations and announcing that the train was set to derail. The hundreds of mannequins, all seemingly watching their screens, lent it a surreal feeling.
The electronic voice declared, “CEO William Goheen, and Northern Union’s chief of security, Keith O’Malley, have perpetrated a crime against all customers and shareholders of Northern Union Railroad by diverting funds budgeted for regularly scheduled maintenance and later falsifying documents to affirm that that maintenance was carried out. These diverted funds, in fact, ended up as part of the F-A-S-T Track budget, the result of which is unsafe and poorly maintained rail lines, and crossings, nationwide.”
Tyler recalled the sight of the derailed train outside of Terre Haute. To his knowledge Alvarez had never killed anyone in a derailment, but perhaps that was all about to change.
He collected the two men and explained their assignments, at which point one of them—Raoul, as
per the name stitched into the coveralls—told him that security was a step ahead. “The guy just now got through inspecting the coupling.”
“What guy?” Tyler’s head was reeling.
“The security guy!” Raoul said, restating the obvious.
“Before or after the video started?” Tyler asked. O’Malley might have rallied his troops within seconds of the video starting.
“Before,” Raoul answered. Again stating it as if Tyler should have known. He said, “The video, it just started now.”
“Show me!” Tyler thundered. Had he guessed wrong about the crash test dummy? Could Alvarez have been disguised as a security guard? Wouldn’t O’Malley’s guys have caught that?
If the sabotage was now in place as the video claimed, and with the train already up to speed, there was nothing he could think of that could still be done. So then Goheen had to capitulate to whatever demands were made. But from what he knew of the man, Tyler did not see that happening.
Could he and Coopersmith somehow still prevent this from happening?
The silhouette on the video announced, “Mr. Goheen, I offered you many opportunities to reveal the truth of what happened at Genoa. You declined, putting everyone here at risk. And yes, at last, I even solicited your daughter—as repugnant as that may have been—and again you refused. You are undeserving to be called a father. It was a title I cherished. As you and your guests will now see, you failed in even this regard. You could have prevented all of this. I’m sure the press is eager to ask you some questions.”
Raoul indicated the small LED screen mounted to the bulkhead where a partially clothed woman transformed herself in a mirror. Gretchen Goheen turned and looked toward the camera and said, “I’ve never been asked this. Usually, it’s to add something more—a certain look, you know?”
A man, his back to the camera, slowly disrobed her, first removing her bra, then dropping to his knees and pulling down her underwear. The camera caught it all, missed nothing.
There was a discussion of payment.
“Your credit card was charged when I confirmed you were in the room,” a naked Gretchen Goheen said. The tape had been poorly edited. “Let’s not talk business.” Another edit, and the scene repeated, “Let’s not talk business.” Over and over, this naked woman said the same few words into the camera, a man kneeling in front of her, eye level with her crotch.
Parallel Lies Page 31
