But his running route--like the apartment and the school--was too obvious a place to make her move. The easiest way to do this would be to grab him off the street as he was finishing his run, worn out and unfocused, but the bad guys would know this too. They would be prepared for her. The same was true for the walking portion of his journey to school. So it had to be the Metro. They would know the Metro was another possible option, but they couldn't cover every line, every stop, while also watching each leg of his commute.
There were cameras everywhere, but there was only so much she could do about that. When it was over, her enemies would have a million clear shots of what her face looked like now, three years later. Not much change, in her opinion, but they would still, no doubt, update her file. That was all they would be able to do, though. Her former position with the department had given her enough familiarity with the mechanics of snatching a target off the street to know that the difficulties were a lot greater than the average espionage TV series would lead one to believe. The purpose of the Metro cameras was to help catch a suspect after the crime. There was no way they'd have the resources and manpower to act on the coverage in real time. So all the cameras could tell them was where she had been, not where she would be, and without that information, the footage was useless. All the usual discoveries the tapes could help with--who she was, where she'd gotten her information, what her motive was--were things they already knew.
In any case, she couldn't think of a less risky option.
Today her name was Jesse. She went with a professional look--her black suit with the V-neck black tee underneath and of course the leather belt. She had another, more realistic wig; this one chin-length and lighter, a mousy blond-brown color. She held this back with a simple black headband and added glasses with thin metal rims that didn't make it look like she was hiding but still subtly disguised the shape of her cheekbones and forehead. Her face was symmetrical with small features; nothing stood out. She knew that as a general rule, people overlooked her. But she also knew she wasn't so generic-looking that someone specifically searching would fail to recognize her. She would keep her head down whenever she could.
She brought a briefcase rather than her tote; the wooden details from her shoulder strap snapped into place on the handle of the briefcase. It was lined with metal, heavy even when empty, and could easily be used as a bludgeon if necessary. The locket, the rings, but not the earrings. She would have to do a bit of manhandling, and the earrings wouldn't be safe. The shoe knives, the scalpel blades, the ChapStick, the various sprays... almost full armor. Today it didn't make her feel more confident. This part of the plan was far outside her comfort zone. Kidnapping wasn't something she'd ever imagined needing to do. In the past three years, she hadn't thought of a scenario that didn't boil down to either kill or escape.
Jesse yawned as she drove through the dark streets. She'd not been getting enough sleep, nor was sleep going to figure largely in the next few days. She had a few substances that would keep her awake, but the crash could be delayed for only seventy-two hours at most. She would need to be hidden very well when that crash came. She hoped it wouldn't be necessary to use them.
There were plenty of spaces available in the economy parking lot at Ronald Reagan. She pulled into one near the shuttle bus stop, where most people would want to park, and waited for the bus to arrive. She knew this airport better than any other. She felt a long-missing sense of comfort kick in--the comfort of familiar surroundings. Two other passengers showed up before the shuttle, both of them with luggage and tired faces. They ignored her. She rode the bus to terminal three, then doubled back on the pedestrian bridge to the Metro stop. This route took her about fifteen minutes at a brisk walk. Nice thing about airports--everyone walked fast.
She'd debated wearing boots with wedge heels, going for a different height, but then decided she would be walking--and possibly running, if things went badly--too much today. She wore the dark flats that were half sneaker.
As she joined the crowd heading down to the Metro platform, she tried to keep her face hidden as much as possible from the ceiling cameras. Using her peripheral vision, she searched for a likely group to join. Jesse was sure that the watchers would be looking for a lone woman. A larger group--any group--was a better disguise than makeup or a wig.
There were several clusters of people heading to the tracks with her as the first wave of rush hour began to crowd the escalators. She chose a trio, two men and one woman, all in dark business suits and carrying briefcases. The woman had shiny blond hair and was a good nine inches taller than Jesse in her high-heeled, pointy-toed pumps. Jesse edged her way around a few other parties until she was somewhat hidden between the woman and the wall behind them. Any eyes examining the new quartet would naturally be drawn to the tall blonde. Unless those eyes were specifically looking for Juliana Fortis.
Jesse's quartet moved purposefully through the crowd, claiming a spot near the edge of the platform to wait. None of the others in the group seemed aware of the small woman moving in tandem with them. There were too many close-packed bodies for her proximity to be noticeable.
The train raced into view, whipping past and then jerking to an abrupt stop. Jesse's group hesitated, looking for a less crowded car. She contemplated abandoning them, but the blonde was impatient, too, and she forced her way into the negative space of the third car they considered. Jesse pushed in close behind the woman she'd been following, her body pressed against both the blonde and another, larger woman behind her. She would be all but invisible between them, uncomfortable as the position might be.
They rode the Yellow Line up to the Chinatown station. There she left the trio and joined a new couple, two women who could have been secretaries or librarians in their buttoned-up blouses and cat-framed eyeglasses. They rode the Green Line together up to the Shaw-Howard station, Jesse's head cocked in the direction of the shorter brunette, pretending to be absorbed in a story about last weekend's wedding reception that hadn't included an open bar, of all the nerve. Mid-story, she left the secretaries on the train and melted into the crowd exiting the Metro. She did a quick U-turn through the densely packed ladies' room and then joined the crowd heading down to the tracks for the next train. Timing would be everything now. She wouldn't be able to hide inside the herd.
The shrill wail of the approaching train had Jesse's heart bouncing up into her throat. She braced herself; it felt like she was a sprinter crouched at the blocks, waiting for the gun to fire. Then she shuddered at the metaphor in her head--it was only too possible that a gun was actually about to fire, but this one would have real bullets and wouldn't be aimed at the sky.
The train shrieked to a stop, and she was on the move.
Jesse power-walked down the line of cars, elbowing through the flow of passengers as the doors whooshed open. Scanning as fast as she could, she searched for the tall frame with the floppy hair. There were so many bodies ducking past her, blocking her view. She tried to put a mental X through every head that didn't match. Was she moving too quickly? Not quickly enough? The train was leaving by the time she got to the last car, and she couldn't be positive he wasn't on it, but she didn't think he was. By her calculations of his last two arrivals, he was most likely on the next train. She bit her lip as the doors closed. If she'd blown this one, she'd have to try again on his next trip. She didn't want to have to do that. The closer the time got to Carston's plan being put into action, the more dangerous this would be.
Rather than linger in plain sight, she continued briskly toward the exit.
She did another circuit through the restroom, wasting a little time pretending to check the makeup she wasn't wearing. After counting to ninety in her head, she rejoined the stream of commuters on their way to the tracks.
It was even more crowded now. Jesse chose a spot close to a group of suited men at the far end of the platform and tried to blend in with the black fabric of their jackets. The men were talking about stocks and trades, things that seemed s
o far from Jesse's life that they might as well have been science fiction. The next train was announced and she got ready to walk and scan again. She stepped around the traders and examined the first car as it came to a stop.
Moving fast, Jesse's eyes ran through the next car. Woman, woman, old man, too short, too fat, too dark, no hair, woman, woman, kid, blond... The next car--
It was like he was helping her, like he was on her side. He was right beside the window, looking out, standing tall, with the wavy hair very much in evidence.
Jesse gave the rest of the occupants a quick once-over as she walked toward the open doors. Many business types--any one of them could have been hired by the department. But there were no obvious tells, no extra-wide shoulders that didn't quite fit into normal-size suit coats, no earpieces, no bulges under the jackets, no eye contact between riders. No one wore sunglasses.
This is the part, she thought to herself, where they try to bag us both and haul us back to the lab. Unless this is a setup, in which case Daniel and his innocent curly hair will be one of them. He might be the one to shoot me. Or stab me. Or they'll try to get me off the train to shoot me somewhere in private. Or they'll knock me out and throw me on the tracks.
But if the story is all true, they'll want us both alive. They'll probably try something similar to what I'm about to do to Daniel. Then they'll cart me off to the lab and my odds of ever walking out again are... less than encouraging.
A thousand other bad endings raced through her head as the doors closed behind them. She walked quickly to stand beside Daniel, sharing the same pole for balance, her fingers close below his paler, much longer fingers. Her heart felt like someone was squeezing it in a tight fist; it got more painful in direct proportion to her proximity to the target. He didn't seem to notice her, still staring out the window with a faraway look, a look that didn't change as they pulled into the darkness of the tunnel and he could see only reflections from inside the car. Nobody in the car made any move toward them.
She couldn't see any of the other guy in Daniel Beach, the one she'd seen pictures of in Mexico and Egypt, the one who hid his hair and moved with aggressive assurance. The abstracted man next to her could have been an Old World poet. He must be an incredible actor... or was it possible that he was legitimately psychotic, suffering from dissociative identity disorder? She didn't know what to do with that.
Jesse tensed as they neared the Chinatown stop. The train lurched into the station, and she had to grip the pole tighter to keep from swinging into Daniel Beach.
Three people, two suits and one skirt, exited the train, but none of them looked at Jesse. They all hurried past, moving like they were late for work. Two more men got into the car. One caught Jesse's attention--a big man, built like a professional athlete, wearing a hoodie and sweatpants. He had both hands in the front pouch of the hoodie, and unless his hands were the size of shoe boxes, he was carrying something in them. He didn't look at Jesse as he passed her, just went to the back corner of the car and grabbed an overhead strap. She kept him in the corner of her eye in the reflection, but he didn't seem interested in either herself or the target.
Daniel Beach hadn't moved. He was so absorbed in his distant thoughts that she found herself relaxing beside him, as if he were the one person on the train she didn't have to guard against. Which was foolish. Even if this wasn't a trap, even if he was exactly who she'd been told he was, this man was still planning to become a mass murderer in the very near future.
The athlete pulled a boxy pair of headphones out of his sweatshirt's big pocket and covered his ears with them. The cord led back down to the pocket. Probably to his phone, but maybe not.
She decided to make the next stop a test.
As the doors opened, she bent down as if to fix the nonexistent cuff on her pants, then straightened suddenly and took a step toward the door.
No one reacted. The athlete in the headphones had his eyes closed. People got on, people got off, but no one looked at her, and nobody moved to block her exit or suddenly brought up a hand with a jacket awkwardly draped over it.
If her enemies knew what she was doing, they were letting her do it her way.
Did that mean it was real or that they just wanted her to believe it was for now? Trying to think around their circles made her head hurt. She grabbed the pole again as the train started moving.
"Not your stop?"
She looked up, and Daniel Beach was smiling down at her--the perfectly sweet, guileless smile that belonged to the school's most popular teacher, to the Habitat for Humanity crusader.
"Um, no." She blinked, her thoughts scrambling. What would a normal commuter say? "I, uh, just forgot where I was for a minute. The stations all start to blur together."
"Hold on. The weekend is only eight or nine hours away."
He smiled again, a kind smile. She was more than uncomfortable with the idea of socializing with her subject, but there was a strange--possibly counterfeit--normality about Daniel that made it easier for her to assume the role she needed to play: Friendly commuter. Ordinary person.
She snorted a dark little laugh at his observation. Her workweek was just beginning. "That would be exciting if I got weekends off."
He laughed and then sighed. "That's tough. Law?"
"Medicine."
"Even worse. Do they ever let you out for good behavior?"
"Very rarely. It's okay. I'm not much for wild parties anyway."
"I'm too old for them myself," he admitted. "A fact I usually remember around ten o'clock every night."
She smiled politely as he laughed, and tried to keep her eyes from looking crazed. It felt both creepy and dangerous to be fraternizing with her next job. She never had any interactions with her subjects beforehand. She couldn't afford to look at him as a person. She would have to see only the monster--the potential million dead--so she could remain impassive.
"Though I do enjoy the occasional quiet dinner out," he was saying.
"Mm," she murmured distractedly. It sounded like an agreement, she realized.
"Hi," he said. "My name is Daniel."
In her surprise, she forgot what her name was supposed to be. He held out his hand and she shook it, tremendously aware of the weight of her poisoned ring.
"Hi, Daniel."
"Hi..." He raised his eyebrows.
"Um, Alex." Whoops, that was a few names back. Oh, well.
"Nice to meet you, Alex. Look, I never do this--ever. But... well, why not? Can I give you my number? Maybe we could have that quiet dinner sometime?"
She stared at him in blank shock. He was hitting on her. A man was hitting on her. No, not a man. A soon-to-be mass murderer working for a psychotic drug czar.
Or an agent trying to distract her?
"Did I scare you? I swear I'm harmless."
"Er, no, I just... well, no one has ever asked me out on a train before." That was nothing but the plain truth. In fact, no one at all had asked her out for years. "I'm at a loss." Also true.
"Here, this is what I'll do. I'll write my name and number down on this piece of paper and I'll give it to you, and when you get to your stop, you can throw it in the next trash can you see, because littering is wrong, and immediately forget all about me. Very little inconvenience to you--just that extra few seconds with the trash can."
He smiled while he spoke, but his eyes were down, focused on writing his information on the back of a receipt with a no. 2 pencil.
"That's very considerate of you. I appreciate it."
He looked up, still smiling. "Or you don't have to throw it away. You could also use it to call me and then spend a few hours talking to me while I buy you food."
The monotone voice overhead announced the Penn Quarter station and she was relieved. Because she was starting to feel sad. Yes, she was going to have a night out with Daniel Beach, but neither of them was going to enjoy it very much.
There could be no room for sadness. So many innocent dead. Dead children, dead mothers and fath
ers. Good people who had never hurt anyone.
"It's a dilemma," she answered quietly.
The train stopped again, and she pretended to be jostled by the man exiting behind her. The appropriate needle was already in her hand. She reached out as if to steady herself with the pole and grabbed Daniel's hand in a move designed to look accidental. He jerked in surprise, and she held on tight like she was trying to keep her balance.
"Ouch. Sorry, I shocked you," she said. She released him and let the tiny syringe slide out of her palm into her blazer's pocket. Sleight of hand was something she'd practiced a lot.
"No worries. You okay? That guy really knocked you."
"Yes, I'm fine, thank you."
The car started moving again, and she watched as Daniel's face quickly lost its color.
"Hey, are you okay?" she asked. "You look a little pale."
"Um, I... what?"
He glanced around, confused.
"You look like you're going to pass out. Excuse me," she said to the woman in the seat beside them. "Can my friend sit? He's not feeling well."
The woman rolled her enormous brown eyes and then looked studiously in the other direction.
"No," Daniel said. "Don't... bother about me. I'm..."
"Daniel?" she asked.
He was swaying a little now, his face dead white.
"Give me your hand, Daniel."
Looking bemused, he held out his hand. She gripped his wrist, moving her lips in an obvious way as she looked at her watch and pretended to count to herself.
"Medicine," he muttered. "You're a doctor."
This part was closer to the scripted version, and it made her more comfortable. "Yes, and I'm not pleased with your condition. You're getting off at the next stop with me. We're going to get you some air."
"Can't. School... can't be late."
"I'll write you a note. Don't argue with me, I know what I'm doing."
" 'Kay. Alex."
The Chemist Page 6
