Rules of Betrayal

80

Manhattan was an island of commuters. Each day some 5 million people left their homes throughout New York, Connecticut, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania and crossed one of the major bridges and tunnels to reach their places of work. Access to the island was gained by automobile, bicycle, bus, and ferry. But by far the largest number came by train. Of the three major stations that served Manhattan, Grand Central was the largest, with forty-four platforms servicing sixty-seven tracks on two levels and covering more than forty-seven subterranean acres.

The police cruiser screeched to a halt at the security entrance on Vanderbilt Avenue. Jonathan opened the door and climbed out, Danni and the others following. Two transit policemen waited. “You the guys that just called?”

“Take us to the Roosevelt tunnel,” said Jonathan. “As quickly as possible.”

“The Roosevelt tunnel? You sure?”

“Yeah,” said Jonathan. “Let’s move it.”

The calls had hit like a one-two punch during the drive in from the airport. The first had come from Benny’s contact at the Secret Service fifteen minutes earlier. “Rashid is scheduled to speak at the United Nations tomorrow. His jet was due in to Teterboro in New Jersey at seven this morning, but it didn’t show.”

“Did they know where he was flying in from?” demanded Jonathan.

“Germany,” said Benny. “He’s booked into the Presidential Suite of the Waldorf Astoria.”

“He’s with Haq,” said Danni. “No question.”

Bob from DHS’s phone rang five minutes later, and his pallor went from winter wan to half dead. “Traffic control at Grand Central got a call last night regarding a diplomatic request to use the Roosevelt platform.”

“Where’s that?” asked Jonathan.

“Back in the thirties, a special tunnel was built for Franklin Roosevelt so he could get in and out of the terminal without people seeing him struggling with his leg braces. The tunnel leads to a platform directly below the Waldorf Astoria. The idea was that FDR would get off the train and be able to access the hotel privately and get into his car in their garage.”

“Below the Waldorf?” said Jonathan. “That’s it, then.”

“Who made the request?” asked Danni.

“The embassy of the United Arab Emirates, on behalf of Prince Rashid,” replied Bob. “Homeland Security cleared it automatically.”

The transit police led the way across the main concourse and down the east flight of stairs toward the lower level. The time was eight-fifteen, and the terminal was at its busiest. Trains arriving from Connecticut and Westchester County disgorged hundreds of passengers every five minutes. The floor teemed with commuters heading in every possible direction.

“Wait here,” said one of the policemen. “I got my best team coming in.”

“We don’t have time,” said Danni. “Let’s move.”

Bob from DHS was already out of breath. “You sure about this?” he asked.

Jonathan nodded.

“Take my piece.” Bob handed Jonathan his gun. “I’m assuming you know how to use it. Now go. I’ll make sure the CT guys find you.”

The transit cops led the way down the stairs, making a sharp right and continuing to the end of the walkway, then passing through a set of doors and entering a restricted area, out of bounds to the tens of thousands of regular commuters. A lone unlit platform extended into the distance.

A four-car train sat parked at the siding. At that moment, muzzle flashes lit the windows, accompanied by muffled gunshots. Jonathan took off, Danni close behind and Benny following at a distance. A lone figure leaped from the back of the passenger car. A tall, formidable silhouette ran across the tracks, a hitch visible in his stride.

“It’s Haq,” said Jonathan, pointing.

A train pulled into the station on the closest track, blocking Haq from view. Jonathan jumped down from the platform and ran across the tracks, narrowly beating the locomotive. He turned to see Danni beside him. The area beyond them stretched into an endless gloom. “There!” he said, spotting the fleeing figure.

“He’s got something on his shoulder,” said Danni, running beside him, the raised tracks and uneven wooden ties turning their path into an obstacle course. Without the weight of the warhead to carry, Jonathan and Danni gained ground quickly.

Twice Haq turned to look over his shoulder to gauge their position. The second time, his eyes met Jonathan’s and he slowed, recognizing him. The Afghan jumped onto a platform and headed toward the station. In seconds he was caught up in the crowd, one figure among dozens.

A policeman stood at the end of the platform. He had seen Haq running and raised his hands. “Stop!” he shouted. “You!”

A gunshot rang out and he fell. For a moment the crowds parted. Haq’s back was a plain target. Jonathan heard an earsplitting blast by his ear and saw Danni squeezing off several rounds. But then Haq was gone again, heading toward the staircase that led to the main level.

“He’s going into the main concourse,” said Jonathan, breathing hard.

Danni kept at his side as they dashed up the marble staircase to the broad, cavernous space. He slowed at the top of the stairs, searching the crowd for Haq’s dark head, the bag slung over his shoulder. He heard a shot and, directly beside him, a cry. He turned and saw Danni crumple to the floor, a hand to her neck, blood coursing through her fingers. “Go,” she said, mouthing the words.

Jonathan hesitated, torn, then continued on. He glimpsed Haq heading to the center of the concourse. The sound of the gunfire was absorbed by the vast spaces. Only those directly near it responded, some cowering, others shouting. But their panic, like the gunfire, dissipated and was lost.

And then the crowds parted. Jonathan was offered a clear line of sight. He saw Haq unslinging the bag, drawing out the silver canister. An enormous American flag hung from the ceiling directly overhead. Jonathan raised the pistol, hesitating. There were too many people. An iron fear gripped him, and his arm steadied. Placing the sights on Haq’s back, he fired three shots, slowly, accurately. Squeezing, never yanking.

Haq spun and fell to his knees, the warhead still in his clutches. With one hand he pried open the cover. Running, Jonathan fired again, and Haq slid to the ground. The canister rolled away. Jonathan snatched it up, opening it as he’d seen the physicists do inside the hangar at Islamabad airport. A pinlight glowed green. The LED showed the word “manual.” He eyed the red button and yanked his hand away. Carefully he closed the cover and held the canister tightly under his arm.

Jonathan stood over Haq. “It’s over.”

The Afghan’s black eyes stared back, straining to remain focused, still brimming with hatred and determination. “Never.”

Haq’s eyes opened wider and his head fell to the floor. He glared at Jonathan, his eyes lifting to the massive American flag hanging above him. And then he was gone.

Jonathan slipped the warhead into its leather bag. This was New York, and a crowd had formed around him. Someone asked Jonathan if the dead guy had stolen that thing from him. He heard police shouting to move out of the way. Turning, he looked directly into Emma’s face. She was dressed in black slacks and a trench coat, her hair pulled back into a ponytail, looking no different from any other woman in the station. “You’re okay,” he said.

Emma nodded. “You stopped him.”

“Yeah.”

Emma stepped closer and put her arms around him. “Thank you, Jonathan,” she whispered in his ear.

“I love you,” he said, and a moment later something sharp jabbed his neck.

Instantly the world grew blurry and Jonathan felt himself fading away, darkness pressing in. He watched Emma take the leather bag from him, but he could do nothing to stop her. His body no longer obeyed his commands. His legs buckled, and Emma lowered him to the ground. She put her face to his and kissed him lightly. “I know,” she said.

Jonathan blinked, and when he looked up again, she was gone.