“Last time, put it down,” Talanov commanded from the top of the car.
Turquoise Girl slowly held out her hand and showed Talanov the phone. Then, stepping from between the vehicles, she slowly swung her outstretched arm toward Talanov, which enabled him to see the screen.
Why was she moving so slowly?
Talanov heard someone shouting about a man with a gun but he did not take his eyes off Turquoise Girl. He motioned for her to lay the phone down, and Turquoise Girl bent slowly forward, as if placing the phone at her feet.
An instant later, a deafening blast ripped the Monocle apart.
Talanov saw the flash of the explosion a millisecond before the shock wave punched him off the roof of the car and down onto the hood of a neighboring car, where he tumbled headlong down onto the pavement, where he lay dazed and blinking, his ears ringing, unable to comprehend what had just happened. Each passing second sounded like a kettledrum in his head until finally, with debris floating in the air around him like confetti, he groaned and rolled onto his side, picked up the Glock, and climbed unsteadily to his feet. Behind him, what was left of the Monocle was a raging inferno.
Talanov looked to where Turquoise Girl had been standing. She was gone. Stepping into the main aisle of the parking lot, he turned a full circle looking for her. Which way had she run? Hearing sirens in the distance to his left, he instinctively began searching to his right, where many car alarms were blaring. Two rows ahead, he saw her, leaning against the side of a van, her eyes on her cell phone, dialing.
Talanov raised the Glock to shoot just as Turquoise Girl saw him and froze. They locked eyes, Talanov with his finger curled around the trigger and Turquoise Girl with her finger poised over her phone.
Don’t use it unless you have to.
Talanov knew he should fire, but Diane’s words kept running through his mind.
The seconds stretched.
Suddenly, another explosion from the Monocle sent a fireball thundering into the sky. When Talanov ducked to his knees, Turquoise Girl sprinted away.
Climbing to his feet, Talanov ran after her.
Turquoise Girl sprinted across the street into Lower Senate Park, where crowds of spectators and cyclists had gathered beneath the trees to watch the burning restaurant. Police had now arrived at the Monocle, and a fire truck was not far behind. Sirens and horn blasts filled the air.
Running up to a group of women cyclists, Turquoise Girl punched one of them to the ground, grabbed the woman’s bike, jumped on, and began pedaling toward Union Station, where four lanes of traffic coursed like a swollen river around the Columbus Circle fountain.
Talanov paused in the street to shoot, but there were too many spectators in the way. Several of them saw him raise his gun and ran the other way.
Lowering the Glock, Talanov sprinted over to the group of cyclists, who were now gathered around the woman Turquoise Girl had punched to the ground. “Federal agent,” he said. “I need one of your bikes to chase down that woman.”
An athletic brunette in an aerodynamic helmet handed Talanov her Cannondale. “It’s pink but it’s fast,” she said.
Talanov stuck the Glock near the small of his back and hopped on the bike. It had a lightweight frame that was angled and sleek.
He handed the brunette his phone. “Find the icon of a pig and dial it,” he said. “It’s a speed-dial button that will connect you with a man named Wilcox. Tell him to phone Diane and warn her about a second bomb under her vehicle. Tell Wilcox I’m in pursuit of the woman with the detonator.” To one of the other cyclists, who was wearing a Bluetooth earpiece. “You with the Bluetooth, follow me.” To the brunette: “Give Bluetooth’s number to Wilcox and tell him she’ll feed him live updates on where we are.”
“You got it,” said the brunette. She touched the icon of the pig and put Talanov’s phone to her ear.
“Okay, Bluetooth, let’s go,” said Talanov. “When Wilcox phones—”
“Live updates. I got it.”
Cutting across the park, Talanov and Bluetooth raced after Turquoise Girl, who reached the sidewalk and turned left. When Talanov reached the sidewalk, he heard Bluetooth call out, “Wilcox is on the line. He’ll track us on GPS. Said a chopper was on the way.”
Talanov waved and raced across Delaware Street, gaining on Turquoise Girl.
Up ahead, Turquoise Girl saw a small break in the oncoming traffic and used it to cut across both lanes to the other side, where she merged in with traffic flowing along Massachusetts Avenue. Increasing her speed to match that of the traffic, she threaded her way between cars until she reached the right-hand side of the street.
The maneuver caught Talanov and Bluetooth by surprise and they had to slow down and wait for a similar break before they could do the same.
Ahead was a busy intersection. The light was green and Turquoise Girl raced through.
The light changed to amber but Talanov and Bluetooth raced through after her.
Suddenly, Turquoise Girl swung left into the flow of traffic again. The car behind her honked and reluctantly made room. Two cars back, Talanov and Bluetooth did the same. Turquoise Girl raced between the lanes of cars, inches away from the vehicles on each side of her before cutting right into the bike lane again. Talanov and Bluetooth did the same. Increasing her speed, Turquoise Girl waited for a break between cars, then cut back into the narrow gap between both lanes of westbound traffic. Talanov and Bluetooth did the same.
All three bicycles were racing single file between the two lanes of traffic on each side. Cars on their left and cars on their right, just inches away. Turquoise Girl was out of her seat now, hunched over, pedaling furiously.
How long can she go on like this? Talanov wondered. He was keeping up with her for now, but she was showing no signs of letting up. Push harder, he told himself while his legs burned and sweat ran down his face.
Ahead was a low median that divided eastbound from westbound traffic. The median was low and no wider than a sidewalk. Before reaching the median, Turquoise Girl cut between two cars at the last moment and shot across all lanes of oncoming traffic. The result was a massive pileup of cars that skidded and crashed into one another.
Caught between the two lanes of westbound traffic, Talanov was unable to follow. So he increased his speed, merged left between the moving cars to the inside edge of the street, then yanked up on his handlebars and with a pump of his legs, jumped his bicycle over the median. He bounced hard when he came down, wobbled and almost fell, then regained his balance before weaving his way through the pileup and back the other way, head down, pedaling as fast as he could.
But when he looked up, Turquoise Girl had vanished.
Talanov looked left, across the street. No Turquoise Girl. She wasn’t straight ahead of him, either, which meant she had to have turned right down a side street.
The first street he came to angled back at a forty-five degree angle. When he passed by it, he looked. No Turquoise Girl. A reverse angle like that would have meant a significant slowing, so instinct told him she had gone to the next corner, which was a ninety-degree turn to the right.
Following his instincts, he turned where he hoped Turquoise Girl had turned. Straight ahead was the Capitol towering majestically against the sky.
Talanov’s heart sank at what he saw, or, more accurately, at what he didn’t see.
No Turquoise Girl.
But if his instincts were right – and that’s all he had right now – then she had to have turned onto this street and found a place to hide and catch her breath and then dial the number she knew she must dial.
Skidding to a stop, Talanov jumped off the Cannondale. His heart was pounding and he was on the verge of collapse. Where was she? Across the street was a parking lot, with plenty of cars and plenty of people. And while a person dialing a cell phone in a parking lot would not attract attention, a winded woman crouching behind a parked car with a bicycle would, and Turquoise Girl would not risk that. She would choose another
place of concealment. But where?
He looked to his right. There were two brick buildings on the corner that had been renovated into what looked like apartments, then an alley, then another building of glass panels.
Talanov approached the alley, which was a descending concrete ramp that accessed the rear of a brick building. Parked at the bottom of the ramp was a black pickup truck, after which the alley took a ninety-degree turn to the left. If he were Turquoise Girl, he would choose an alley like this.
When Bluetooth pulled up beside him, Talanov put a finger to his lips, and using hand signals, told Bluetooth to remain in the street while he checked the alley.
Pulling out his Glock, Talanov crept down the ramp to the black pickup and peeked inside the cab. No Turquoise Girl. He then crept alongside the pickup until he saw her sitting with her back against the wall, arms on her knees, panting, her cell phone in one hand, her bicycle laying on the pavement nearby. When Talanov stepped into the open, Turquoise Girl jerked with surprise.
She hurriedly began dialing her phone.
Talanov lifted the Glock and fired.
Shock was the first look on Turquoise Girl’s face when the bullet tore through her shoulder. Then the pain hit and she screamed and dropped the phone in order to grab her shoulder. Seeing Talanov coming toward her, she grabbed for her phone.
Talanov arrived first and kicked it away.
“Who paid you to kill Gustaves?” asked Talanov, kneeling beside her.
Turquoise Girl glared at him but said nothing.
Talanov grabbed her wounded shoulder and squeezed. Turquoise Girl cried out.
“Who paid you to kill Gustaves?” Talanov asked again. “I know she was your primary target because you placed a secondary bomb beneath her vehicle. In fact, you wanted me to notice you in the Monocle, didn’t you? You wanted Gustaves in her car.”
A defiant glare was Turquoise Girl’s reply.
“The question is, who paid you? Who told you we would be there?”
Turquoise Girl spat in Talanov’s face.
With a thoughtful sigh, Talanov stood and wiped his face. “I’m sure they promised you protection,” he said. “I’m sure they told you they had sympathetic judges and prison guards on their payroll, and maybe they do, not that I think they had any intention of letting you live once Gustaves had been assassinated. But, hey, if you want to take your chances with people you know are killers, that’s fine with me. If, on the other hand, you’d rather cooperate with me, I’ll make sure you get a new identity in a secure facility beyond their reach.”
Turquoise Girl did not reply.
“Gustaves is safe,” Bluetooth called out from the street. “They found the other bomb and it’s been disabled. The police will be here shortly.”
Talanov waved, then looked back at Turquoise Girl. “What’s it going to be?”
Turquoise Girl did not reply.
“Suit yourself,” said Talanov as the wail of sirens grew louder. “But I can tell you right here and now, you will not last a week in prison. Whoever recruited you will have you killed, to keep you from talking, and once the police have taken you into custody, my offer is gone.” He looked toward the approaching sirens, then back at Turquoise Girl. “Last chance.”
“How do I know you’re telling the truth?”
“Because you’re still alive.”
Turquoise Girl thought for a moment. “He said you noticed things,” she said, scooting over to the wall and leaning against it. Blood was oozing through her fingers and her turquoise top was covered with blood. “He said you would find the bomb and rush Gustaves from the restaurant.”
“Who said that?”
“Some guy on the phone.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. He never said.”
“What’s your name?”
Turquoise Girl hesitated.
“Do you want my help or not?” asked Talanov.
“Saya Lee.”
“How do you spell it?”
Saya told him.
“How did he first make contact with you?”
“At a young socialists rally at NYU. He slipped a cell phone into my purse, then called me that night to say he saw me at the rally and wanted to talk about changing the country. So we talked a while and he asked if I was from China. I said my parents were but that I was born here. He then asked if I still had family in China, and I said I had some cousins and some uncles and aunts. He seemed really interested in that, which I thought was weird. Anyway, he then asked if would be willing to help a group of progressives create a better America, so I said sure. He then said to keep the phone with me at all times, that he would call me again soon with more information.”
“And you dutifully obeyed,” said Talanov, “which is how he discovered where you lived and who you were, plus all kinds of other details. He then called a few days later and recited personal information about you and your family, after which he made a series of threats that he said he would carry out unless you agreed to do what he said.”
By now, Turquoise Girl was staring at Talanov with disbelief. “How do you know this?” she asked.
“Do you still have that phone?”
Turquoise Girl pulled it from the pocket of her jeans and handed it to Talanov, who stuck it in his pocket.
“When the police take you into custody,” said Talanov, “tell them your lawyer is on the way and that you’re not saying anything until she is present.”
“So you really are going to help me with a new identity in a secure facility?”
“Don’t mistake this for kindness,” answered Talanov. “You’re a killer as far as I’m concerned, and if I had my way, you’d be dead right now. But I gave you my word that I’d help you if you helped me, and I’ll keep my word. Provided you continue to cooperate. If you don’t, I will make sure you’re put back in the system, where they will kill you.”
“Who are you?”
“Your only hope of staying alive,” answered Talanov, pulling Turquoise Girl to her feet and leading her into the open. “Remember, talk to no one except your lawyer. She will know what to do.”
And after laying the Glock down on the pavement in plain sight for the arriving officers, Talanov raised his hand in the air and walked Turquoise Girl out of the alley.
CHAPTER 11
Three hours later, after furnishing statements to the police and the FBI, Talanov was seated in the back seat of a limousine speeding along George Washington Memorial Parkway, headed south. Sitting across from him were Gustaves and Wilcox, with Grady and John in the front seat.
“No casualties, thank God,” said Wilcox. “The Monocle will need a major facelift, but at least nobody was killed.”
“Thanks to you, Alex,” added Gustaves. “I didn’t get a chance to say it before, but thank you for saving my life. I shudder to think what would have happened if that second bomb had gone off.”
Talanov smiled and nodded.
“Witnesses are calling you a hero,” said Wilcox, reading from a list of social media posts. “Others are calling you a cowboy, a badass, an old dude, and I especially like this one: the Bicycle Bandit. But get this: Amy 61691 thinks you look like Hugh Jackman. Are you kidding me? You don’t look anything at all like Hugh Jackman, not that I’m jealous that people think you’re the badass even though I was the one who got people out of the restaurant while you fled the scene on a bicycle.”
“In pursuit of the person with the detonator,” said Talanov, “who happened to have stolen a bicycle and would have gotten away had I not chased her down . . . on a bicycle!”
“You chased her on a girl’s bike. And a pink one at that.”
“Bill!” Gustaves broke in. “Let’s focus here, okay?”
“It’s all right, Diane,” said Talanov. “Joking around is how we let off steam after something like this.”
“It was still a girl’s bike,” muttered Wilcox with a smirk of satisfaction.
“What tipped you off about the bo
mbs?” asked Gustaves.
“Instinct and vibe,” answered Talanov.
“How did you leap from something as subjective as ‘instinct and vibe’ to a bomb in a trashcan?”
“Instinct and vibe. Which I then tested by looking in the bathroom.”
“And the second bomb? How did you know about that?”
Talanov responded with one of those you-know-what-I’m-going-to-say smiles.
“Instinct and vibe,” said Gustaves with a chuckle. “You do realize there is no way to quantify any of that? No way to come up with some kind of an advanced training technique in the science of detection that we can circulate to our people?”
“That’s because detection at this level is an art. We study and train – yes – the ‘science’ part – but human behavior and observation of that behavior – especially the little things and how to accurately interpret those little things using instinct and vibe – is not something you can teach. It’s part instinct, part experience, and part gift, like the inbuilt navigation of migratory birds that cross oceans without ever having done it before.”
“See now why I recruited him?” said Wilcox. “He talks in metaphors that none of us understands but which we know says something important, even if we don’t know exactly what that is.”
“So, no clue as to who hired the girl?” asked Gustaves. “She didn’t give you a name?”
“No, and even if she had, I wouldn’t have trusted what she said. Drones like her seldom possess information so important. She did, however, give me this.” He fished out the cell phone Turquoise Girl had given him and handed it to Wilcox.
“Did you withhold that from the police?” asked Gustaves.
“No, I saved it for Bill. It’s a burner – obviously – with a call history that’s connected to what is no doubt another burner, although we may get lucky by tracing the number and finding where it was purchased, which may give us something, such as a credit card receipt, surveillance footage, or a counter clerk remembering something. Search for any traces on that number, too. Someone tracked its movements to find out who Turquoise Girl was, where she lived, and everything about her. That implies sophisticated hardware and software.”
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