At that same moment, Dieter Hoffman was racing into the Grand Central Terminal after leaving his supposedly disabled cab once more at the curb, this time along Vanderbilt Avenue, west of the terminal. His eyes scanned the crowd, especially the escalator to the old Pan Am Building. He saw no sign of Voorster, or of the two gunmen.
Of all the places in Grand Central that made the least sense for a hunted man to be, the information kiosk of Grand Central was it—but that was precisely where Dieter Hoffman spotted Jacob Voorster, standing with his briefcase in hand. Dieter began moving toward him, relieved at seeing Jacob and half amused at his stance, which indicated frustration. Caution caused Dieter to slow his pace and take time to let his eyes wander along the sides and to the far end of the terminal, where his glance flickered across the faces of several people standing there. His eyes snapped back to two of them who looked familiar, and his heart leaped into his throat as he realized who they were.
Dieter’s senses came to full alert. These men were killers. They had not yet sighted their target, but it was obvious they soon would. They were professionals, so they might try to kidnap the Dutchman quietly at gunpoint, rather than kill him here. That meant there was a chance to warn Voorster.
Dieter knew he was in the line of fire as well, but he broke into a run nevertheless. He wanted to yell, but the noise might alert the gunmen. Just in case they had noticed him too, he altered course to the south side of the kiosk to confuse them. Dieter let the structure’s bulk mask him as he slid to the side of it and reached around, grabbing at Jacob Voorster’s sleeve just as the two Germans spotted Voorster.
At first, Jacob Voorster was shocked and off balance as Dieter literally dragged him around the side of the kiosk. But he quickly recognized the cabby and allowed himself to be tugged toward him.
“The gunmen! They’re here, and they’re coming for you!” Dieter gasped to Jacob, whose eyes flared in fright as he turned and saw the two killers now running toward them.
There was no time. To dash in the clear across the terminal floor would give them an open shot, with no policemen in view to prevent it. To hide behind the kiosk was useless. There was nowhere else to go.
“When I hit them, run as fast as you can to the nearest exit.”
Dieter left Jacob behind the kiosk and began moving at a rapid pace toward the two men like an ordinary passenger in a hurry, his head down. He was little more than an obstacle. As expected, they parted slightly to let him pass.
Dieter knew he had to time it just right, and he let instinct guide him. As they approached, he dropped to his knees and lunged forward with his arms out, catching the legs of both men as they charged forward, bringing them down hard on their faces.
He heard the sound of a heavy metal object hit the floor and skitter across it. A nearby passenger gasped as she saw it was a gun.
Dieter clambered to his feet before either of the killers could regain theirs. He kicked the side of the taller man’s face with every ounce of strength he had, connecting just above the cheekbone and behind the eye. He could feel bone break and flesh tear as the man’s head snapped to one side.
Dieter then turned toward the other one, who was crawling for his gun. Dieter, realizing the killer’s intention, closed in on the weapon too, intending to kick it across the terminal and out of harm’s way.
To Dieter’s utter surprise, the gunman reached out at the last second and yanked the cabby’s legs from under him. Dieter had no time to raise his hands to protect his head from crashing against the marble floor when he fell. Everything faded as he lay helpless on the terminal floor.
The killer got to his feet and scooped up his gun, verifying in a split second that Dieter was unconscious. There was no need to shoot the man. Hundreds of people were looking, and his accomplice, if not dead, was incapacitated as well. His neck appeared broken.
He whirled, looking for Voorster, wildly casting his eyes around the terminal. He spotted a police officer approaching from the vicinity of the south entrance. In the distance to the right he saw Voorster disappearing into the portal for track number 32. The assassin pocketed his gun and broke into a dead run toward the same portal. He looked back briefly, and saw the policeman leaning over one of the downed men by the kiosk.
There was still a chance to finish the job!
Jacob kept a death grip on his briefcase, realizing too late that he had missed finding an exit. He raced with all his might down the ramp between two waiting commuter trains in the great dark expanse of the terminal beneath the old Pan Am Building. He expected to hear bullets whizzing past his head at any second.
His eyes scanned ahead, taking in everything as quickly as possible. Commuter trains sat on either side of the platform, both of them with their doors open. Jacob darted in the second car of the train on his left.
The noise of a door opening behind him startled Jacob, and he turned just in time to see a conductor leaning out of the train on the opposite side from the platform. The man had opened the door to examine something on the adjacent track. Jacob moved instantly. The conductor didn’t see him until he had brushed past, leaping out the open door into the gravel and dirt between the tracks.
The conductor yelled at him, startled. Jacob was sure the commotion would draw the gunman’s interest, but he couldn’t wait to see.
An oncoming train was less than a hundred feet away. If he timed it right, he could lose the gunman by appearing to go one way while darting another. The headlight was high off the track. He hoped it would blind the gunman and obscure his own desperate move.
Something pinged and whizzed above him. Then another bullet slammed into the concrete wall next to him.
He’s shooting at me!
He would jump in front of the train when twenty feet remained.
NOW!
Jacob leaned low and darted to the left across the track, his right foot clearing the rail easily. His left shoe caught, however, and his entire body began to rotate downward. He grasped for balance as he felt himself rolling to the right, losing sight of the oncoming lead car as he fell.
The lights of the train seemed directly above him now, bearing down on him as time dilated and everything seemed to slow.
The huge oncoming machine was mere feet away. Jacob could see the operator looking down at him, half-standing in the control cab. He knew the man wouldn’t be able to throw on the brake until it was too late. With one final effort, Jacob gathered his feet and legs under him and pushed with every ounce of energy he had, leaping to the right of the oncoming car. The right edge of the lead car brushed his feet and ankles as the trunk of his body cleared the edge of the track. The impact was mild and spun him into the gravel. Somehow he hung on to his briefcase. Jacob jumped up in an instant and darted in the opposite direction of the moving train, moving up the long black tunnel from which the train had come.
He could hear the cars screeching to a halt beside him as more shouts echoed behind. On impulse, he turned and crouched between the rails halfway underneath the edge of the train and looked back. His heart sank at what he saw.
The gunman hadn’t been fooled! He was now on Jacob’s side of the train, moving in his direction.
Jacob instantly crawled under the car to the other side of the track, resuming his dash to the relative safety of the feeder tunnel. He ran for what seemed like ten minutes, frequently glancing back. He ignored the increasingly distant shouts and the reflection of a bright electrical flash behind him before stopping in a small recessed doorway and listening. There were no more sounds of footsteps, but, looking back, he could see bright lights intermittently reflecting on someone coming his way.
Jacob turned and examined the door. It was ancient and wooden, and it smelled. He tried the handle, astounded when it responded. He pushed the door open slowly, trying to minimize the creaking sound. Then he turned and closed it behind him.
The sound of a male voice from the darkness caused him to jump in fright. He banged his elbow on the wall, almost dropp
ing his briefcase.
“This is my hidey-hole, brother. But I guess there’s room.”
A foul stench of urine and rotting food permeated what looked like an old utility shed. The room was dimly lit, and a large man lounged along the opposite wall, regarding him carefully from beneath a frayed gray watch cap.
“I’ve …” Jacob hadn’t realized he was panting for breath, his words coming hard. “Someone’s … chasing me … with a gun. Is there a way out of here?”
“A gun? Lordy, my man, when you brings trouble, you brings trouble.”
“Is this a closed room?”
“Nawsir. There’s a way out. Hold on. I’ll show you.”
“He’s not far …”
The homeless man got to his feet far more quickly than Jacob would have expected. He then motioned for Jacob to follow, and disappeared into a passageway that at first appeared to be a dead end. It wasn’t. The man continued to lead Jacob through several foul-smelling passageways before showing him a rusted metal ladder, slick with seeping moisture from above.
“Okay. Climb up here and shoulder open the manhole cover, and you’ll be out in a alley behind the station. You can get yo’self a cab there. Don’t hang around here.”
“Thank you … thank you,” Jacob said huskily, looking the man in the eye and resting his free hand momentarily on his shoulder. He felt he should say more.
“Ain’t no problem, brother. Have a nice day, as dey say.”
Jacob clutched his briefcase securely to his chest. Then he began climbing. When he reached the manhole cover, he found it much harder to move with one hand than he had expected. But he finally shoved it up and to one side, and as promised, he climbed into daylight in an alleyway four blocks north of Grand Central.
Jacob Voorster stopped to dust himself off, then began running westward. He had to get away and find a phone.
35
Monday, March 27, 3:00 P.M.
Grand Central Station, New York
Elizabeth had bypassed the commotion by the main kiosk in Grand Central and descended to the next level down, moving to the bookstore where she was supposed to meet Jacob Voorster. She looked in every corner for a man with a briefcase and a gray overcoat. Creighton joined her a few minutes later, looking grim.
“Elizabeth. That mess upstairs? I think it involves our man.”
They ascended to the main level and walked over to the kiosk where the police who were handling the investigation were located.
Creighton took an officer aside and spoke earnestly with him for a few moments before returning to Elizabeth.
“He says the man over there on the floor was carrying a gun with a silencer. He’s dead. Looks like a broken neck. The other guy sitting up and holding his head is a cabdriver who tackled the dead guy and one other.”
“The two gunmen Mr. Voorster mentioned! The two from the courthouse!”
Creighton nodded. “There’s also been an accident on one of the tracks. The policeman doesn’t know who, but someone touched the electric rail and fried himself. And this gunman’s accomplice was seen running down to the platforms behind us.”
“Oh God, if that’s Voorster down there, we’ve got to get his briefcase. He said he had a report, Creighton! That’s the key to everything!” Elizabeth’s eyes were wide. Creighton nodded and returned to the officer.
It was twenty minutes before the body of the dead man was pulled from the tracks. They found no briefcase, and little ID. The word was relayed to Creighton that the man had died with a gun in his hand. Witnesses said he’d been shooting at another man, who’d disappeared behind one of the trains. That was as much information as Creighton could muster before federal investigators arrived and began clamping down the lid on any additional revelations.
“Then where is Voorster?” Elizabeth asked, tears of frustration hovering at the corner of her eyes. “He’s carrying our salvation, and he’s gone!”
“Do you have your cellular phone?” Creighton asked.
She nodded.
“Make sure it’s on, and call Bill Phillips. If our Mr. Voorster called him once, he’ll no doubt call him again.”
Monday, March 27, 3:00 P.M
Clipper Fifteen, on approach to Kennedy Airport
Brian Murphy called for another increment of flaps and ordered the gear down as he settled Clipper Fifteen smoothly onto the glideslope for an instrument approach to Kennedy. The switch to tower and final landing clearance went as scheduled. Brian taxied off when he reached the end of the runway after an almost perfect touchdown.
The crew wore artificial smiles at the gate until all the passengers had disembarked. Then they cornered the station agent to hear the latest word on their company’s fate.
“You see those men in trench coats through the terminal window?” she asked.
They nodded.
“They’re all equipped with repossession papers. I understand the sheriff will be out here to seize this airplane at five-oh-one P.M. exactly.”
“Any word from the legal team?” Brian asked. It had been three hours since he’d talked to Elizabeth. Maybe they’d been able to get a delay.
She shook her head. “I’ve heard nothing.”
The crew was scheduled for a layover in New York. None of them wanted to go to the hotel until they knew what was going to happen. They reboarded the aircraft, deciding to wait for the outbound aircrew. They were fully aware that there might not be an outbound flight, despite the scheduled presence of the mayor and other dignitaries who were supposed to arrive at around 5:30 P.M. for the 6:00 P.M. departure of the round-the-world inaugural flight.
Brian left the others in the forward section of the plane and wandered back, wondering what he would do if the company folded. He was deep in thought when he glanced down at a particular row of seats near the tail of the aircraft. He realized he was looking at the video camcorder case of the man he had talked to during the flight.
The case was distinctive and easy to identify.
Wait a minute, didn’t that fellow say he was getting off in New York? Brian thought. He reached down and snapped open the case, finding the camera and one extra battery still inside.
Brian closed the case and carried it to the rear, where the caterers were working, loading the galley for the flight to London.
He watched the caterers briefly and started to turn away, when something familiar about one of them caught his attention. He peered at the man more closely, thinking he’d seen him before—and recently.
With a shock, Brian remembered where he’d seen the caterer before. He was the passenger Brian had talked to, the one who owned the camcorder—the one he was holding right now!
“Hey! You there! Excuse me!” Brian saw the man’s head snap up and his smile fade rapidly as he recognized the four stripes of the captain he had spoken to on the way in from Seattle.
“Yes?”
“Didn’t you just come in on this flight? Isn’t this camera yours?”
“I wish it was, mate,” the man in the catering coveralls said, “but I can’t afford one.”
The accent was Australian, but it sounded false. Brian knew Aussies too well to buy the flawed inflection. Yet he still wasn’t sure he’d identified the man correctly.
Before he could make a move, the man straightened up suddenly and turned his back to Brian. He simultaneously dropped something in the wastepaper slot of the galley.
“I think I’ve got it fixed,” he said as he slid the cart back into position and turned on the internal heater.
One of the other caterers was arranging empty carts in the front of the truck body as it sat extended vertically at the level of the 747’s doorway. Brian walked across the narrow metal bridge and tapped him on the shoulder.
“Have you ever seen that guy in the galley before?” Brian asked in a low voice as he gestured toward the airplane where the man was standing at the door.
“No, but he said he’s one of our repairmen. He didn’t come in with us.”
“Quite all right, mate.” The man looked at the other caterer in the back of the truck, gauging whether he’d been fingered as an unknown. He knew the Kennedy catering operation from previous surveillance. There were too many employees for them all to know each other. “Okay if I ride back with you guys?”
The caterer hesitated, then shrugged. “Sure.”
Brian took the camcorder around the corner into the galley and opened the case again. Then it hit him.
The battery! When he had seen the case opened in flight, there had been two batteries. Now there was one.
He pulled out the remaining battery and slipped it into his pocket. Leaving the camcorder and case in the galley, Brian returned to the rear door. The driver had lowered the safety railings and was preparing to disengage the truck from the aircraft before lowering the lift-body. The passenger-cum-caterer was standing on the platform just inside the truck body when Brian waved him forward.
“Excuse me. One more thing.”
The man walked forward, stopping on the bridge, which was now bare of its protective railings. Brian pulled the rectangular camcorder battery pack out of his pocket and held it up. He watched the man’s expression freeze as he calculated what Brian was going to do with it.
If this is a bomb, Mr. Saboteur, you’re not going to want it to hit the ground, are you?
“You left this behind.”
Brian tossed the battery to the man, low and outside.
The man’s eyes followed the battery in flight, calculating its trajectory as he realized it might hit the body of the truck. He began to move, lunging for it. The battery sailed through the door and off to one side of the truck as the man clawed after it before realizing that he had leaned too far and was falling. He reached for a handhold, but it was too late. His lower abdomen came down hard on the edge of the bridge and left him dangling over the thirty-foot abyss to the concrete below. He hung there momentarily, until gravity inexorably pulled him off.
Phoenix Rising Page 41
