The World Beneath

Chapter 14

Ozan checked his watch, again, and ordered a refill on his coffee. He’d been here for half an hour already. His contact, a man he knew only as Johnny Tops, was late. The diner was doing a brisk business this early — the waitress bringing eggs and meat to table after table. Ozan was having coffee and toast.

He held the back of his wrist to his brow. His skin felt hot and damp — feverish. If Erol’s forehead felt like that, Ozan would make him stay in bed all day and watch cartoons. No cartoons for Ozan.

Stifling a curse, he shook two aspirin into his hand, chewed them, and swallowed the sharp crumbs. The bitter taste made him grimace, but he’d heard that the painkiller worked faster if you chewed it, and the headache and fever had to go away right now.

A man took the seat across from him, baseball hat pulled low across a square, doughy face. The body connected to that head was wiry and tough.

“Morning, Tops.” Ozan gestured to the waitress for an additional menu.

“I’m not staying,” said Tops with a strong Brooklyn accent. “But I got something for you.”

Ozan slid an envelope with four hundred-dollar bills across the greasy table, payment for whatever Tops was delivering. Tops slapped a manila envelope into his hand as he stood to walk out.

The middle-aged waitress arrived with a menu and the coffeepot, filling Ozan’s cup before bustling off.

The envelope contained reports. Ozan skimmed the pages, learning that the police had named a person of interest in the murder of Subject 523 — a millionaire named Joe Tesla. Ozan chuckled. So the tall, awkward man was a millionaire out for a stroll around the tunnels of New York City in the middle of the night. He read further. Apparently, the man had a house down there, but he’d missed a social call from both NYPD officers and agents of the CIA.

Ozan took a slow sip of lukewarm coffee. The CIA? Dr. Dubois must have called in reinforcements, worried that Tesla knew something. Whatever it was, the reclusive millionaire wouldn’t last long once he was caught.

He’d have taken him out if that damn train hadn’t arrived, and the man jumped across the tracks. He hadn’t expected him to act so rashly. After the train had passed, Ozan had followed him up onto the platform, but the crowds had been too thick to do anything to him. Knowing where the man lived, that would eliminate that problem.

Time to pay the man a visit at home.

An hour later, Ozan leaned against the side of the tunnel to catch his breath. He should leave the tunnels, leave Tesla to others. Catching Tesla wasn’t technically part of his mission, and he didn’t think that Tesla had received papers from 523.

Ozan didn’t want to quit. A force he couldn’t explain drove him on. Maybe it was stubbornness. Or maybe Tesla was a gift to him. According to the report, the man was unable to go outside because of a mental condition. Which meant that he hid out in the tunnels, the perfect target for a game of cat and mouse. Ozan loved to play, although he rarely let himself indulge in those kind of games. This time, the temptation was irresistible.

He’d return to the murder scene to see if he could pick up Tesla’s tracks from there and follow them through the tunnels to find his house. Like everyone, Tesla was a creature of habit. His habits would betray him.

Ozan should have approached him right off, dragged him deeper into the tunnels, but the dog had made things unpredictable. Plus, Erol loved dogs. How could Ozan look Erol in the face if he killed a dog?

But this, this would be fun. Tesla was smart; he was clever. The way he’d jumped in front of the oncoming train and used it for rolling cover to escape was ballsy. And, since the guy couldn’t leave the tunnels, Ozan could take his time. He only needed to bag him before law enforcement did, and he intended to use them as hunters used beaters — tools to flush out his quarry and drive it straight toward him.

Ozan slowed and studied the murder scene, his crime scene, from a distance. Floodlights turned night into day. Police and crime scene people walked ponderously back and forth as if their very deliberateness would solve the crime. But he’d been careful, and clever. They’d never catch him.

Hot and cold poured over Ozan in waves, and his head pounded with pain. So much for the chewed-aspirin theory. He ignored the pain and soldiered on like the soldier he had once been, staying as far from the crime scene as he could while he searched for the dog’s prints. Tesla’s dog was probably the only dog in these tunnels. His ears strained to hear the rumble of an approaching train. He didn’t want to end up smeared across the tracks.

Dizziness swept over him. He slumped against the stone wall until it passed. Then he pushed himself upright again and tripped over a broken train tie leaning against the side of the tunnel. Anger took over. He swore and savagely kicked the tie.

“Hey!” called a voice behind him.

Ozan whirled to face the speaker. No one had gotten that close to him without him noticing in a long time. He must be sicker than he thought.

“Police,” said the shadow between him and crime scene. “You’re not allowed down here.”

He should run. Even sick, he was a fast runner. He could get a quick lead. But the officer, too near already, kept coming. Ozan shouldn’t tempt fate by confronting him. He shouldn’t even be here at all. He should run.

But his head hurt, his muscles felt weak. It’d be easier to deal with this guy right here. If the guy wanted to cause trouble, he’d show him trouble. Why should he be the one who ran away? An alarm bell clanging in his fevered brain told him that this line of thinking was very wrong.

He ignored it.

Instead, he lifted a piece of broken train tie. Solid and heavy, its weight felt right in his hands. The tarry smell of creosote drifted up from the wood.

“I’m sick,” Ozan called to the man who had disturbed him.

He lowered the tie so that it was hidden by his leg. Just in time, because the policeman shone a flashlight at him, right in the eyes. Damn bastard. Ozan held his arm over his aching eyes to shield them from the bright light. He managed a weak smile and held up his other hand to show that he had no weapons. Just an innocent guy.

The train tie leaned against the back of his calf. He couldn’t use it yet. Where was the second cop? Usually they ran in pairs.

“Keep your hands where I can see them.” The cop was young, Ozan saw that now. He had almond-shaped brown eyes, so like Erol’s, and short black hair. Chinese? “We’re going to need you to step this way.”

He’d said “we.” Where was the other one?

“Of course, Officer,” Ozan called. The meeker he was, the closer he’d be able to get.

The flashlight stayed pointed at his eyes, and Ozan kept one arm up as the policeman moved closer. A telltale vibration under his feet told him what to do next.

“You do look a little under the weather,” said the cop. “Would you like us to help you get to medical care?”

Careful not to telegraph the movement with his eyes, Ozan swung the broken piece of wood like a bat, catching the unprepared man on the temple. The man collapsed backward onto the tracks. The thunder of an oncoming train covered the sound of his fall.

Ozan kept a tight hold on the piece of train tie and ran, ducking left into another tunnel, heading for the darkest parts, even though he didn’t have a light.

From behind him came the shrill screech of brakes. Simple physics told him that the train wouldn’t stop in time to avoid the man on the tracks. The young cop was dead. If the blow hadn’t killed him, the oncoming train had. His partner would stop to check, though, and Ozan’s lead would grow.

He settled into a quick trot. He could get out of the underground system through a broken access door about a half-mile away, where he’d entered. After a quarter of a mile, he dropped the train tie. No one would ever search this far afield, even if they thought the cop had been murdered. The cop’s death would likely be blamed on impact with the train. Ozan was probably in the clear. So close to the scene of 523’s murders, though, he couldn’t take that for granted. And he had to come back for Tesla.

He cursed himself for his inattention and recklessness. He counted off his mistakes in his head. First, the policeman should never have gotten so close to him without being noticed. There was no excuse for leaving himself vulnerable. Second, he should have had an escape route planned for every second that he spent down here. That was standard procedure, and he’d violated it. Third, he should have run instead of provoking a confrontation, or he could have played off the man’s offer of medical help. He most likely would have gotten away without having to kill a man. The train had been a lucky coincidence, and he couldn’t depend on coincidence. At least he had done everything necessary to get home safe to Erol. Erol needed him.

Still, Ozan had made a long list of mistakes, and he never made mistakes.

What was wrong with him?