“If I were Florence Nightingale, I wouldn’t be here. We’d be in different centuries.” Smith locked the door and scanned the empty room as Marty checked the front window. “Fill me in. Tell me everything that happened.”
Marty dropped the window shade and described the four strangers, their weapons, and their attempts to break in. Meanwhile, Smith strode through the house, checking locks on doors and windows, and Marty followed in his rolling gait. The drapes and curtains were drawn, and the rooms were shadowy with sunlight and dust motes. The place was empty, and as secure as any ordinary house could be. Which was not very.
At last Marty finished his story with a stream of speculations.
“You’re right,” Smith said soberly, “they’ll start searching the neighborhood soon.”
“Swell. Just what I wanted to hear.” Marty grinned weakly. It came out as a macabre grimace, but it was a brave try.
Smith squeezed his friend’s shoulder, trying to keep the urgency from his voice. “How did they know about us, Marty? Did you tell anyone?”
“Not in a quadrillion years.”
“Then they had to have followed me, but I don’t see how.” He quickly went through all the precautions he had taken to shake pursuit since he had left Frederick. “They couldn’t have put a transmitter on the Triumph this time.”
That was when he heard it … a noise that rose above the ambient sounds of the city. At first he could not place it. Then he knew what it was, and how they had followed him. His throat tightened. He strode to the front window, raised the shade, and looked out and up.
“Damn!” He slammed his fist against the wall.
Marty joined him, staring up at the helicopter hovering low to the south on a straight line with the pair of bungalows. As they watched, it banked in a sweeping turn north and came back around toward the house where he and Marty hid. Smith remembered hearing a chopper earlier when he had driven away from Marty’s house.
He cursed and slammed the wall again. That was the answer—the Triumph. He knew he had shaken them before he pulled off the Interstate at Gaithersburg—there had been no way they could have bugged the Triumph that time. But how many restored—but battered from last night—’68 Triumphs could there be in the area? Not many, and probably not another on the interstate from Frederick to Washington early this morning. One of those choppers he had seen while eating breakfast in Gaithersburg that he had thought was monitoring traffic could have easily been something else entirely. All they had had to do was guess he would go into Washington and watch the Interstate for a Triumph. A license check would confirm it.
Pick him up at Gaithersburg. Follow him into Washington.
His Triumph had nailed him. Dammit!
Marty’s voice was severe. “Okay, Jon. We don’t have time for your bouts of anger. Besides, I don’t want any holes in my walls unless I put them there. Tell me what you’ve figured out. Maybe I can help.”
“No time. This is my area of expertise, right? You used to have a car. Do you still have it?” He had been falsely secure in his Triumph. Now his enemies would be falsely secure in relying on it to track him. Everyone had blind spots.
Marty nodded. “I keep it at a garage near Massachusetts Avenue. But Jon, you know I never go out anymore.” He wandered into the next room and looked nervously out the window. He still carried his remote and the sheaf of papers as if they were talismans against danger.
“You do now,” Smith told him firmly. “We’re going to go out of here the front way, and—”
“J-J-Jon! Look!” Marty jabbed the remote like a pointer out the back window.
Instantly Smith was beside him, his Beretta in his hand. Two of the strangers had come through the hedge and now trotted toward the bungalow where Marty and Smith hid. The men were low to the ground, running with the careful urgency of men on the attack. And they were armed. Smith’s pulse pounded. Beside him, Marty was rigid with fear. He put a hand on Marty’s shoulder and squeezed as he crouched beside the window.
He let the pair get within fifteen feet. He slid up the window, aimed carefully, and fired the Beretta at each man’s legs. His brain was rusty with years of inaction, but his muscle memory overcame the rust as smoothly as an oiled machine.
The two pitched forward onto their faces, moaning with pain and shock. As they crawled for the cover of a pair of old buckeye trees, Smith hurried to the living room.
“Come on, Marty.”
Marty followed close behind, and they both looked out the window. As Smith had feared, the second pair was in front. One was the same burly man who had led the ambush two days ago in Georgetown. They had heard the shots, and the burly man had dived to the grass and pulled a Glock from his jacket. He landed hard on his chest, but held on to the Glock. The other man’s reaction was thirty seconds too slow. He still stood on the brick path, his big old U.S. Army Colt .45 halfway up toward the house.
Smith missed his leg. But before the man could stumble back for the safety of the street, Smith’s second shot drew blood from his shoulder and sent him sprawling.
Marty watched worriedly. “Good shooting, Jon.”
Smith thought fast. His unexpected shots had put the two in the backyard out of action. But in the front, the leader was uninjured, and the second man had been only nicked. They would be careful now that they knew they faced lethal opposition, but they would not go away.
And the helicopter would send reinforcements.
His voice tense, Smith asked quickly, “Does your tunnel work from this end?”
Marty looked up. He nodded, understanding. “Yes, Jon. It’d be illogical if it didn’t.”
“Let’s go!”
In the bedroom, Marty pressed his remote control. The box bed swung silently out of the way, exposing the trapdoor. Another electronic command opened it.
“Follow me.” Holding his papers and the remote tightly, Marty slid into the brightly lighted shaft with its ladder that went through a crawl space and down into the concrete underground tunnel. As soon as he landed, he lurched out of the way.
A few seconds later, Smith’s feet touched down next to him. “Impressive, Mart.”
“Useful, too.” He pressed a button on his remote. “This closes the trapdoor and puts everything back the way it was.”
The two moved quickly along the bright tunnel. Finally they reached the other end, and Smith insisted on going up first. As he emerged into the small bathroom of Marty’s home bungalow, he had a shock: A fifth man was crossing the hall into the living room.
Smith’s pulse hammered. He listened. Then he realized the man was heading toward the bathroom.
He dropped back into the shaft. “Close it up!”
His round face anxious, Marty electronically closed the trap and lowered the bathtub. Seconds later they heard the man enter the bathroom, followed by the sound of a stream falling into the toilet.
Smith quietly told Marty what he wanted him to do.
Chapter Nineteen
Beretta ready, Smith climbed up to wait on the top rung of the metal ladder. He took a deep breath as the trapdoor unlocked. But it was still weighted in place by the tub. As he raised his Beretta, the tub swung up against the wall, the trap sprang open, and the entire bathroom plus a section of the hall and living room came into view. Smith repressed a grim smile. The situation was better than he had hoped.
Ahead was the back of the man at the toilet. The guy’s jaw dropped. Staring into the mirror, he had seen the bathtub rise like a white apparition into the air behind. The guy was not only stunned, he was exposed. He did not even have time to zip.
But he was a professional. So, fly hanging open, he grabbed his weapon from where he had laid it on top of the toilet tank and spun around.
“Good. But not good enough.” With a mighty swing, Smith slammed his Beretta into the man’s knee. He heard bone crack. The man dropped to the floor, groaning and clutching the knee. His weapon skidded toward the door.
Smith leaped up through t
he trap, snatched the gun, and grabbed the walkie-talkie from the back of the toilet tank. Now the man could not shoot or call for help.
“Hey!” the man bellowed. Pain stretched his narrow face. He tried to get up, but the crushed knee shot disabling pain, and he fell back onto the floor.
“Oh, my,” Marty said as he clambered out. He hurried past him and into the hallway.
Smith followed, locking the bathroom door.
Marty wondered, “You didn’t shoot him?”
He pushed Marty forward. “I crippled him. That was enough. It’ll take three or four operations to repair that knee. The way he is, he can’t hurt us and he’s not going anyplace. Come on, Mart. We’ve really got to move.”
As they crossed Marty’s computer-filled office, he stopped for a moment, his face forlorn. He sighed, then he followed Smith to the frontdoor cage, which had been shot open.
Smith cracked open the front door and peered out. The gray van still stood in the driveway. He was tempted to hot-wire it, a skill he had learned from Bill Griffin as a teenager, but the helicopter still swung back and forth over the bungalows.
“Mart, we’re going to Massachusetts Avenue and your car. Grab your meds.”
“I don’t like this.” Marty stumbled back to his desk, picked up a small black leather case, and returned to Smith at the front door. “I don’t like this at all.” He shuddered. “The world is full of strangers!”
Smith ignored his complaints. Marty might fear people he did not know, but Jon figured he was far more afraid of dying. “Stay close to buildings, walk under trees, anything to hide. No running—that’d attract attention. With luck, the chopper up there won’t spot us. If it does, we’ll have to lose it when we reach your car. To be safe, I’m going to try to disable the van out there.”
Marty suddenly raised a finger. He grinned from ear to ear. “I can handle that!”
“From here? How?”
“I’ll fry its computer.”
Smith never doubted Marty where electronics were concerned. “Okay. Let’s see you do it.”
Marty hunted in his desk drawers and produced a leather case about the size of a large camera. He aimed an aperture through the front doorway at the side at the van. He opened the lid, twirled some dials, and punched a button. “That should do it.”
Smith stared suspiciously. “I didn’t see anything happen.”
“Of course you didn’t. I used TED to destroy the on-board computer that controls engine functions.”
“What the hell is TED?”
“Transient electromagnetic device. It works on RF—radio frequency. Think of static electricity, but stronger. I built this one myself and made it even more powerful than the usual. But the Russians will sell you an industrial-strength one. It comes in a briefcase and costs a hundred thousand dollars or so.”
Jon was impressed. “Bring that thing along.” He stepped outdoors. “Let’s go.”
Marty stood motionless just outside his doorway. He stared, stunned at the blue sky and green grass and moving traffic. He looked overwhelmed. “It’s been a long time,” he murmured and shivered.
“You can do it,” Smith encouraged.
Marty swallowed and nodded. “Okay. I’m ready.”
Smith in the lead, they ran from the porch and along the high hedge to where it joined the side hedge. Jon pushed through, and Marty followed. At the street, he stepped out and linked his arm with Marty’s. They were just two convivial friends strolling along toward the avenue two blocks ahead.
Behind them the helicopter hung over the pair of bungalows. Busy Massachusetts Avenue was ahead. Once there, Smith hoped they could disappear among the throng of pedestrians flocking to the magnificence of Embassy Row and the other historic buildings and institutions between Dupont and Sheridan Circles.
They did not make it. As they reached the second block, the chopper roared closer. Smith glanced over his shoulder. The helicopter was sweeping toward them.
“Oh, my.” Marty saw it, too.
“Faster!” Smith ordered.
They ran down the side street, the helicopter following so low it was in danger of trimming the trees. The draft from the mighty blades blasted their backs. Then shots exploded from the chopper. Marty gave a little scream. Bullets kicked dirt and concrete around them and whined off into the air.
Smith grabbed his arm and shouted, “Keep running!”
They pounded on, Marty flailing like a combination of robot and rag doll. The helicopter passed over and battled to bank and come back.
“Faster!” Smith was sweating. He pulled on Marty’s arm.
The helicopter had completed its turn and started back.
But then Smith exulted. “It’s going to be too late!” They tore onto Massachusetts Avenue and plunged in among the crowds. It was Friday afternoon, and people were returning from long lunches, making plans for the weekend, and heading toward appointments.
“Oh, oh.” Marty cringed against Smith, but he kept walking. His round head swiveled, and his eyes were huge as he took in the multitude.
“You’re doing great,” Smith assured him. “I know it’s tough, but we’re safe for a while here. Where’s your car?”
Panting nervously, Marty told him, “Next side street.”
Smith looked up at the helicopter that had made its turn and was now hovering over the crowds and moving ahead slowly, trying to single them out. He studied Marty in his customary tan windbreaker over a blue shirt and baggy chinos.
“Take off your windbreaker and tie it around your waist.”
“Okay. But they still could spot us. Then they’ll shoot us.”
“We’re going to be invisible.” He was lying, but under the circumstances it seemed the wisest course. Hiding his worry, he unbuttoned his uniform blouse and slipped out of it as they hurried along. He wrapped it around his garrison cap and tucked the bundle under his arm. It was not much of a disguise, but to eyes searching from a helicopter for two people in a crowd below, it might be enough.
They walked another block, the chopper closing in on them. Smith looked over at Marty, whose round face was miserable and sweating. But he offered a forced smile. Smith smiled back, even though he pulsed with tension.
The helicopter was closer. Suddenly it was almost above them.
Marty’s voice was excited. “This is it! I recognize the street. Turn here!”
Smith watched the chopper. “Not yet. Pretend to tie your shoelace.” Marty squatted and fussed at his tennis shoes. Smith bent and brushed at his trousers as if he had gotten dirt on them. People hurried past. A few threw annoyed glances at them for impeding the flow.
The helicopter passed over.
“Now.” Smith pushed through the crowd first, creating a path for Marty. In a dozen feet, they were on a narrow side street that resembled an alley. Marty led him to a three-story, yellow-brick building marked by a wide garage door. There was an attendant’s kiosk, but no cars were going in or out. Smith did not like the flat roof. The chopper could land up there.
Marty presented his identification to a stunned attendant who had clearly never laid eyes on the owner of the vehicle in question. “How long you taking it out for, Mr. Zellerbach?”
“We don’t know for sure,” Smith told the man, saving Marty from having to talk to the stranger.
The attendant scoured the ownership papers once more and led them up to the second floor, where a row of stored cars waited under protective canvas covers.
When he whipped the cover off the next-to-the-last one, Smith stared. “A Rolls-Royce?”
“My father’s.” Marty grinned shyly.
It was a thirty-year-old Silver Cloud, as gleaming as the day it had cruised out from under the hands of the long-forgotten craftsmen who built it. When the attendant started it up and rolled it carefully out from the row, its original Rolls-Royce engine purred so softly Smith was not sure it was actually running. There was not a squeak, squeal, knock, or rattle.
“There you a
re, Mr. Zellerbach,” the attendant said proudly. “She’s our belle. Best car in the house. I’m glad to see she’s going somewhere at last.”
Smith took the keys and told Marty to sit in the backseat. He left his uniform blouse off but put on his cap so he would look more like a chauffeur. Behind the wheel, he studied the dashboard instruments and gauges on the whorled wood and examined the controls. With a sense of awe, he slid the clutch into gear and drove the elegant machine out of storage and onto the side street. Almost anywhere in the nation the Rolls would stand out as glaringly as his Triumph. But not in New York, Los Angeles, or Washington. Here it was just one more expensive car carrying an ambassador, a foreign dignitary, an important official, or a CEO of some kind.
“Do you like it, Jon?” Marty asked from the backseat.
“It’s like riding a magic carpet,” Smith said. “Beautiful.”
“That’s why I kept it.” Marty gave a satisfied smile and leaned back like an overweight cat against the seat, comforted by the close walls of the car. He set his papers and his black medicine case beside him and gave a little chortle. “You know, Jon, that guy in the bathroom’s going to tell the others about my escape route, but they’re never going to figure out how to make it work.” He held up the remote control with a flourish. “Zounds! They’re screwed!”
Smith laughed and glanced at the rearview mirror. The chopper circled helplessly a block away. He turned the grand machine onto Massachusetts Avenue. Inside the Silver Cloud, there was hardly a sound despite the heavy traffic.
He asked, “Are those papers printouts of what you were able to download?”
“Yes. I have good news, and I have bad news.”
Marty described his cybersearch as they passed Dupont Circle and glided north, through the city to I-95 and onto the Beltway. As Marty talked, Smith remained tense and alert for anyone following. He had the constant sense they could be attacked again from any point at any time.