Part 29 (1/2)

THIRTY-THREE.

PARKED FIVE BLOCKS away from Dupont Circle, Daggett waited nervously in the front seat of his car for the go-ahead. The face of the man in the backseat of the car parked directly across the street was hard to see, but as Daggett answered his car phone, hearing Pullman's voice reminded him of the size and importance of this operation. In less than three hours, Pullman and Mumford had placed over sixty agents into the field. Each platform of every stop on the Red Line was now covered, as was the Metro Center, where it joined up with the Orange and Blue lines. Tech. Services had equipped every one of these agents with communication so they formed an instant network across the city, and in some cases, into the suburbs. Fears persisted that the radio network might fail in certain areas, given the depth of the tunnels and the great distances involved. But as the minutes ticked down toward nine o'clock, communication vans with relay amplifiers were whisking across the streets of Was.h.i.+ngton to destination points established in four key areas. This city was WMFO's sole territory. The special agents, squad chiefs, and executive officers took great pride in their ability to throw a net across it in a matter of hours.

”We've got a green light,” Pullman said.

”We wait to see if he's going to produce the boy. We're agreed on that,” Daggett reminded. The FBI was world-renowned for its handling of kidnappings. For every one case the public heard about, there were twenty other successes that went unmentioned. Even so, Daggett suddenly wondered about putting his trust in the Bureau. He prayed to G.o.d it wasn't something he would regret the rest of his life.

”We're all of us down to a man with you on this, Michigan. It took great courage to do what you've done.”

”Or great stupidity,” Daggett said before hanging up the phone and starting the car. Pullman said the most idiotic things. He glanced one last time to his right, and this time he could see Pullman, face pressed near the gla.s.s, his right hand shaking a thumbs-up signal. Jesus, the guy was all John Wayne. The hand of fear reached inside Daggett, took hold of his guts, and twisted. He might have vomited if there had been anything left.

He travels down the gray intestine that is the elevator, the itineraries folded inside the pocket of his letter jacket. The smells tell him he is deeper; he has left the fresh air for the stench of machinery and man. He is repulsed by it. He turns his head and looks back up at what is now a tiny, ever-shrinking black hole at the top of the tunnel. The increasing heat makes him think of h.e.l.l. This is punishment for all his failure. Failure: he wears it like a waterlogged coat three sizes too big.

Nine o'clock on the dot. He tries to focus on the faces in the crowd. What crowd? It's pretty thin down here now that the rush is over. People are out eating dinner, home watching television, gone for an evening swim at the club. Families in the safety and security of their homes. The very people that he and the others are sworn to protect. But they aren't doing a very good job of it. For all the secrets, all the meetings, all the hardware and software, the expense accounts, the ciphers and fibers and fingerprints and videos, they have failed. Cheysson is at large. Kort is at large.

Kort is standing at the far end of the platform not forty feet away, staring at him. Smiling.

At first, Daggett can't believe his eyes. He thinks like a cop. Can't help it. The composite sketch isn't exactly right: the chin isn't quite as pointed, the ears stick out a little farther. He clears his throat for the sake of the microphone he's wearing. The signal he's made contact. He can picture the flurry of the resulting activity above on the street. Efficient b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, the Techies. He's glad for that.

He takes a few steps toward Kort, who raises his hand to stop him. It's a smart move. From here, a kill shot would be unlikely. On a moving target, next to impossible.

The string of round lights embedded in the concrete of the platform begin to blink in unison announcing the arrival of a train.

A train!

Kort's face twitches with recognition. He does the unexpected. With the simple motion of his index finger, he waves Daggett forward.

His eyes dart to the empty platform and Daggett can feel him calculating his timing.

They don't have agents on any of the trains; that was agreed upon by all. Too many innocent lives at stake, too much left to chance. That was why at this moment they were so carefully guarding the stations themselves.

Daggett prays Duncan will be on the train, his face purposely shown in a window.

They are within ten feet of each other now. Neither will survive a gunfight at this distance.

”The itineraries,” Kort says.

Daggett produces them but does not relinquish them.

”Duncan,” he says back to the man, holding on to his bait.

The train pulls in. Kort's eyes dance nervously between the itineraries and the train. The train slows.

”The itineraries,” he repeats.

Daggett shakes his head. ”My boy.”

Only then do Kort's eyes alert Daggett to trouble. It's a middle-aged man in blue jeans and old, beat-up running shoes. His windbreaker is unzipped and his hand is going inside, and Daggett can see it coming. He's either a plain-clothes or off-duty cop with a nose for trouble.

”We got a problem here, fellows?” He flashes his badge proudly.

Neither Daggett or Kort so much as flinch.

The train doors slide open.

”Hey! I'm talking to you!” The other hand goes deeper into the jacket.

”Nice try,” Kort says to Daggett.

”FBI!” Daggett shouts at the other man, reaching for his ID.

But the itchy cop mistakes the move and comes out with his gun. Daggett dives, reaching for his own weapon.

Kort kills the cop with two shots to the chest, the second of which lifts the man off his feet. The screams echo eerily in the cement tomb.

Daggett remembers later that as he comes to his feet all the train cars appear empty because every single pa.s.senger is now on the floor. For it's the train car where Daggett looks first. Only a split second later does he see Kort hopping off the platform into the darkness of the tunnel.

The tunnel? That's suicide. That wasn't in the plan! He shouts, ”The tunnel!” Knows the microphone will pick it up.

He leaves the relative safety of the platform and follows into the encroaching darkness.

The footing is bad. It's hotter than h.e.l.l in here. He can't see a thing. He has to slow down, it's so dark. The grayness of image is dying, sucked dry by the ever-increasing black. A few more yards and he stops to listen. He can hear the fast footfalls up ahead. He continues on, around a long, graceful curve of tunnel. When he is finally swallowed by near pitchblack, a match fires off at his knees. He screams and falls to the tracks, finger on the trigger.

It's a b.u.m. A f.u.c.king half-naked street b.u.m holding a match out as lighting.

The footfalls continue deeper into the darkness.

Daggett stuffs the gun away and hurries off. He had come within a split second of killing that b.u.m. His nerves are raw. He picks up his speed. He's losing Kort.

He pa.s.ses an area that smells of urine and excrement. He doesn't stop because he can still hear Kort running in the distance.

The next time he stops, the footfalls are gone.

It is not exactly silence. He can hear a train. Ahead of him? Behind? He's not sure. But no footfalls. He creeps forward cautiously, his gun back out and held in both hands. The grayness of image has returned: his eyes have adjusted. But it is no form of light. It is more a mosaic of hard shapes and vague edges. It is the crunching of dirt under his feet and the whine of that train, which is clearly growing closer.

The face shoots out from behind a black rectangle, and he is knocked entirely off his feet. His gun fires as he falls. He sees a bright yellow flash and realizes it was not his gun, but a gun being fired at him. He rolls inside the tracks, well aware of the existence of a third rail carrying enough electricity to turn him to dust. He rolls and he rolls. He hears two more rounds.

The earth begins to shake beneath him. The train is coming. The train! He explodes to his feet and charges off into the darkness, which, thanks to the approaching train, is growing ever more light. The tunnel continues its curve to the left. At a full run now, he catches up to the ever elusive image of Kort's back as he continues to fade around the huge curve. Like a sterile sunrise, a brightness fills the tunnel until Daggett is nearly blind with white light. He's lost him. One moment seen, the next, gone. He stops. Chest heaving. Hand held to block the approaching light, his face retained in shadow. He's terrified. The sound is overpowering. He wants to scream. The train barrels down on him.

At the last possible second, only yards in front of him, Kort breaks from the shadows and dives to clear the train. It is meant to be perfect timing. But he catches a foot .. . something wrong ... he falls ... An image that is all. A black blur in silhouette met by the stark white light and charging roar of several tons of train.