Текст книги "Panic"

Автор книги: Nick Stephenson

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Chapter 42

Leopold knew he was about to wake up when he dreamed that he was dreaming. He understood that he was lying on a bed, that he was on his back and that he couldn’t move. For what seemed like days he had slept in a state of near-consciousness, dreams flickering in and out in a procession of terrifying scenes and painful memories. He did nothing to disturb them, made no effort to stir until the sound of a familiar voice washed over him.

“Leopold? It’s time to wake up now.”

He knew Mary’s voice. It always surprised him how soft she could be at times. He pushed the thoughts out of his mind and concentrated instead on pulling himself back to the waking world. He felt his eyes slowly grind open – they felt a little stuck – and then the light hit him.

He was in the hospital; that much was obvious. He was in a private room, but he wasn’t alone; there were four other people there. Leopold squinted and the room came back into focus. Standing beside his bed were Mary, Jerome, and Christina. At the other end of the room, inspecting the contents of the bookshelves, was Albert. He turned and grinned before bounding over to the bed.

“Leopold! Thank God you’re okay. You had us worried there for a moment!” said Albert, practically bouncing up and down.

“Speak for yourself,” said Mary, smiling. “I knew he was tougher than he was making out. All those tears were just for dramatic effect.”

“Good to have you back,” said Jerome, his face as imperceptible as ever.

Leopold grunted and sat up in the bed, wincing slightly as he felt his shoulder. The pain was subdued, but most definitely there.

“The doctors stitched you up,” said Jerome. “The bullet went straight through and didn’t catch the bone, so there shouldn’t be any complications.”

Leopold nodded and looked over at Christina. She was wearing a hospital nightgown that covered her arms and legs. She smiled back at him, but it was forced.

“Don’t worry, I’m fine,” said Christina. “At least physically, anyway. Jerome told me about my dad.”

Judging by the redness of her eyes, she had been crying for a long time.

“The doctors said my injuries were only superficial,” she continued. “They said the cuts were clean and the stitching was professional, so they decided to leave them alone. Just gave me some painkillers. They said I had traces of morphine in my system, so they couldn’t give me anything stronger. Still itches like hell, though.”

She rubbed her arm absent-mindedly. “I have to check out today, so I wanted to come by and say thank you. You know, for everything. For getting me out of that… place.”

“Are you sure you have to leave today?” asked Mary, putting her hand on Christina’s shoulder.

“Yes, I’m sure. It’s my father’s funeral this afternoon and I have to be there. I’m sure you understand.”

Mary nodded and smiled sympathetically. Christina thanked her and turned to Jerome.

“And thank you for everything you’ve done, too. I know I wouldn’t be alive today if it weren’t for you. For all of you.”

The bodyguard mumbled something in reply, and Christina left the room, as more tears began to well in her eyes.

“How long have I been in here?” asked Leopold.

“Two days,” replied Jerome. “You lost quite a lot of blood.”

“And Stark?”

“Nowhere to be found. He got away.”

Leopold frowned and lay back down in the bed. They had been so close. No matter, they had Christina back, which was all that really counted in the end. He knew she would be okay, eventually. If the details of Senator Logan’s corruption ever went public, they would no doubt be covered up by his estate. It was pretty easy to get a gag order when your family knew all the judges. No point in fighting them. Let the authorities finish the job.

Leopold relaxed a little at the thought of handing this case back. He had found Christina, which was what he was being paid for. He would give the FBI everything they needed to link Stark to the murders, and give them Logan and the charity scammers on a silver platter. All that was left to do now was rest and recover.

“Are you well enough to go home?” asked Mary.

“Yes, I think so. Jerome, can you bring the car? I’ll handle the paperwork.”

Jerome nodded and left the room.

“I suppose you’ll be getting back the precinct now?” asked Leopold.

“Yes. I think my boss is finally going to be off my ass now we’ve managed to give the FBI something. Hopefully this will keep him happy for a while. I don’t think I can manage too many more graveyard shifts.”

Mary leaned over and kissed him softly on the cheek, and then walked out the door, leaving Leopold and Albert alone in the room.

“Albert, I’m sorry about everything that’s happened. We should never have gotten you involved.”

“Are you kidding? The last few days have been the most fun I’ve had in of my whole life. I used to spend all my time indoors sitting at a computer, and now I actually have something interesting to tell my kids one day! If I ever have kids. I bet I will, though. The ladies love an action hero.”

Leopold smiled and held out his hand. Albert shook it vigorously.

“Thank you. If you ever need anything, anything, just let me know.”

“How about not shaking me so hard?” replied the consultant, grimacing. “Stitches, remember?”

“Oh, sorry.”

He let go and bowed awkwardly instead, making Leopold laugh out loud. Albert grinned again and left the room, closing the door behind him quietly. The consultant lay in the quiet room alone and exhaled deeply, feeling the pain in his shoulder start to recede once more. He closed his eyes and drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

Chapter 43

Jerome picked him up from the hospital in the ’66 Shelby Cobra, and Leopold listened to the eager growl of the huge V8 engine as they rode through town. Not as comfortable as the Mulsanne, which was scrap metal by now, but more exciting than the town car gathering dust in the garage. Leopold figured Jerome wanted to blow off steam.

At the apartment, the consultant went straight into the living room and slumped in one of the armchairs near the fireplace, grabbing the bottle of scotch from the coffee table and pouring himself a healthy slug. The liquor hit the back of his throat and he closed his eyes, feeling the heat of the alcohol swell in his chest. He turned on the television and flicked over to the news channel, hoping to find out whether the last few days had hit the headlines yet. He didn’t have to wait long.

Jerome brought over coffee and they both sat and watched. The newsreader was touching his ear as the breaking news came in. They cut to a video of Christina, dressed in black, getting out of a polished limousine at one of the city’s many cemeteries, surrounded by journalists and reporters. She looked dazed and exhausted. Several reporters jabbed oversized microphones in her direction, but she kept her head down and pushed through. Leopold hadn’t expected such a large crowd.

The news anchor was back again and was talking excitedly, reporting that they had just received official confirmation that the President of the United States would attend the funeral. Leopold sat up in his chair.

The video feed switched to a hastily compiled video montage, displaying photographs of the President and Senator Logan together at various public and private events over the years. The news anchor mentioned that the two men had been good friends and that the President always took the time to honor his friends and loved ones. The news anchor was laying it on a little thick. Election year.

A black-and-white photograph of the Commander in Chief and Senator Logan shaking hands filled the screen as the anchor spoke. In the picture, the number fifty-three hung in an enormous banner behind the two men, and there was a half-eaten cake with candles on a large table in the foreground. It was the same photograph Leopold had seen nearly three days ago at the senator’s house. The same photograph Stark had apparently been so interested in.

Realization abruptly shot through Blake’s tired mind. “Jerome, fetch the car,” said Leopold, getting to his feet. “We’ve got about twenty minutes to get to that funeral before we have two more dead bodies on our hands.”

Chapter 44

Jack Stark crouched atop the hill, his position covered by the thick foliage that grew around the private mausoleum, and peered through his binoculars. He was dressed in combat fatigues, the camouflage pattern perfectly blended in to his surroundings. The colonel opened the pack he had carried up with him and pulled out his rifle, an M99 Barrett with a custom scope. The rifle was high-caliber and designed for longer range work, but it was still just as effective at shorter ranges.

The Barrett used solid brass rounds and propelled them at three times the speed of sound, keeping the bullets supersonic for nearly a mile and a half. Stark didn’t need to worry about range or being spotted; at this distance, the round would hit its target a full second before the soundwaves did, so a silencer wouldn’t be necessary. More accurate that way.

The rifle itself was made from matte black steel and was around fifty inches in length when assembled, most of that length in the barrel. The weapon was single-shot bolt-action, which made for greater accuracy and reliability than a semi-automatic but resulted in a delay while the next round was loaded into the chamber. No matter, there was only one target Stark cared about, and the mechanics of a bolt-action were somehow more satisfying. More brutal. Stark smiled at the thought.

He pulled out the bipod, barrel, trigger assembly, bolt assembly, and butt plate and carefully assembled the weapon, securing it in place. He lifted the weapon and positioned himself near the edge of the bushes, where he set the rifle down so that the muzzle just protruded from the leaves, still partially obscured from sight. He rested his right elbow on the soil and squeezed the trigger with his index finger. The empty Barrett responded with a satisfying deep metallic thunk resonating from the breech.

Stark took out a single round and loaded it into the chamber, secured the bolt in place, and placed five more on the ground to his right, tips facing up. He attached the rifle scope, flipped open the lens cap, and looked through the sight. He adjusted the scope to his requirements and replaced the cover. He smiled with satisfaction. The perfect killing tool. And if the plan went as it was supposed to, he wouldn’t even need to fire it.

Chapter 45

The Shelby Cobra screamed out of the garage and tore down the street, wheels spinning furiously in an attempt to gain traction and put the engine’s five-hundred horsepower to good use. Jerome sat in the driver’s seat, his right foot planted to the floor.

“Are you going to tell me what this is all about?” said the bodyguard, not taking his eyes off the road as they barreled forward, the tires finding the grip they needed.

“The President,” said Leopold. “That was Stark’s target all along. Stark knew the senator and he were close, and knew that the President would be at the funeral.”

“How’s he going to take out the President in a public place? He’ll never get close enough.”

“Think about Christina’s injuries. Why would someone cut into a person’s flesh, only to stitch it up again? The doctor said that there were traces of morphine in her system, that she wouldn’t have felt a thing the whole time. The cuts weren’t torture.”

“So what were they?” asked Jerome, shifting gear as they rounded a corner.

“It first caught my attention when she said the cuts were irritating her,” said Leopold. “I could see the swelling when we first found her, but assumed it was an infection. The only other thing that would cause a reaction like that would be a foreign body, placed underneath the skin.”

“Let me guess – like micro-explosives?”

“Exactly. Judging by the number of deeper cuts, Christina could have as many as six explosives implanted underneath her skin. All Stark has to do is wait for her to get within a few feet of the President, and then trigger the detonator. The blast would be strong enough to vaporize both of them,” said Leopold.

“Stark could pull that off from a distance with a cell phone. All he’d need would be a clear line of sight to keep an eye on his target.”

“Yes. Which means he has to be at the cemetery. We need to get there before the President arrives and gets too close to Christina.”

“Can’t you call this in?” asked Jerome, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

“And who’s going to believe me? By the time I get through to the right people and convince them I’m not some wacko, it’ll be too late.”

“Fair point”, replied Jerome. “Looks like we’re on our own. I’ll need directions.”

“The funeral is at Green-Wood Cemetery,” said Leopold, his voice raised over the noise of the engine. “That’s in Brooklyn. Must be a family plot or something, seeing as they stopped taking bodies years ago. Nothing the right connections can’t fix.

“It’s at least thirty minutes in this traffic.”

“We don’t have much of a choice. Just floor it.”

The bodyguard smiled and revved the engine to five-thousand rpm. He shifted down from fifth gear to third and the Cobra surged forward, reaching seventy miles per hour within two seconds. Leopold felt the force of the acceleration slam him into the back of his seat as Jerome crossed over into the bus lane and the slow NYC traffic fell behind.

Ahead, a public bus pulled out onto the road, coming up quick. The bodyguard swore and wrenched the wheel to the left, merging with the rest of the traffic and narrowly avoiding a blue pickup that was a few feet behind them. The driver of the pickup sounded the horn angrily and Jerome swerved back into the empty lane with a screech of rubber as they flew past the bus, escaping a rear collision with a white SUV ahead. As they cruised ahead, Leopold turned and saw the driver of the SUV stare at them, slack-jawed. He waved back, cheerily.

He flicked on the radio and eventually found a station reporting on the funeral details. The reception was fuzzy, but he could just about make out the news reporter over the static. The President was on his way and due to show up in less then ten minutes. Jerome gripped the wheel tighter and kept his right foot down.

After a couple of minutes they reached Manhattan Bridge, a two-lane highway that spanned the Hudson river and connected Manhattan Island with Brooklyn. The traffic ground to a halt at the intersection, forcing Jerome to slam the brakes. From where they sat, Leopold could make out a line of cars spanning the entire bridge, none of which was moving.

The bodyguard swore again and pulled out onto a pedestrian crossing, forcing several bystanders to jump out of the way. From here, Leopold could see that one of the bridge’s lanes was closed due to maintenance, marked by a line of orange traffic cones.

“Hold on,” said Jerome.

Jerome revved the engine again and released the clutch, sending the car hurtling forward in a cloud of burnt rubber. The traffic cones were scattered to the side as they surged forward, bouncing off the bodywork of the vehicles lined up in the other lane.

“I don’t see any holes in the road,” said Jerome.

“They usually close off one of the lanes to keep the maintenance guys safe while they work on the support systems.”

“Good. I wasn’t looking forward to what might happen if there were any chunks missing out of the bridge.”

Leopold grinned in agreement. Hitting so much as a pothole at this speed would wreck the suspension send them spinning out of control. The radio cracked again. The President had arrived.

Jerome urged the car forward, squeezing every last drop of speed out of the giant engine. As they crossed the halfway point, Leopold spotted a flash of blue light reflected in the rear-view mirror, followed shortly by the sound of a police siren.

“Dammit, looks like we’ve attracted too much attention,” said Leopold, glancing back in his seat.

The flashing blue lights of the police car stayed reassuringly far behind as they sailed over the Manhattan Bridge. As they entered Brooklyn, the traffic began to merge into both lanes again and Jerome had to swerve to avoid a collision. He turned onto the expressway and put his right foot to the floor, passing the other cars and sweeping from lane to lane to avoid the vehicles in front.

The blue lights were getting closer now. Leopold knew the patrol car would have radioed ahead for backup by now, but there wasn’t much anyone could do to them while they stayed on the expressway, other than track their progress. Once they hit the suburbs, things would be a little more challenging. The radio announced that the President’s car was pulling up. They weren’t going to make it.

Jerome didn’t slow down as they hit the exit for Green-Wood, swerving the car in a tight turn onto Third Avenue and into the rough industrial areas that surrounded the picturesque cemetery. The blue lights of the police car had vanished now, lost in the maze of streets and bustling traffic, but Leopold knew there would be more waiting.

As the Cobra charged down Twentieth Street, the grassy mounds of the Green-Wood cemetery rolled into view, peaking above the black iron fence that rose ten feet or so above the sidewalk and wrapped around the entire park. The lawns were littered with headstones, most of which were old and crumbling, and the swaying branches of oak trees were visible in the distance. Christina would be toward the center of the cemetery somewhere, where the expensive plots were kept. The radio presenter announced that the President was getting out of his car.

Jerome wrenched the car onto Fifth Avenue with a shriek of spinning rubber and executed a wide turn without dropping the engine speed, fishtailing slightly as he span the steering wheel to compensate. The entrance gates to the cemetery were close by. That’s when Leopold saw them coming.

Ahead, not more than fifteen hundred feet, a strip of flashing blue lights rushed toward them. The sirens cut through the noise of the traffic, a cacophony of high-pitched wails that bounced off all the buildings around them. Leopold saw the three squad cars screech to a halt and half a dozen police officers spill out onto the street, dragging a heavy chain of traffic spikes across the road behind them, before taking up positions behind their vehicles. The spikes were between the Cobra and the entrance gates, and there was no way to avoid them.

“We have to keep going,” said Leopold. “We won’t make it on foot. Hopefully the wheels will hold out long enough to get us within range. If we’re lucky, the Secret Service will get the President to safety as soon as they see us coming.”

“And if they don’t, how close do you need to get?”

“I need to be within fifty feet of Christina to block the explosives’ ability to receive a signal. I’ll get the program ready now; pass me your cell phone. I’ll need to keep mine as a backup.”

Jerome handed over his cell phone, and Leopold activated the same program they had used to gain access to the Columbia computer networks. The phone would broadcast a scramble signal that would block any wireless transmissions within a fifty-foot radius, including the detonation signal that Stark would try to send. As long as the cell phone had power and Leopold could get close enough, the colonel wouldn’t be able to trigger an explosion.

The Cobra approached the traffic spikes and Jerome slowed down slightly. The police officers held fast behind their vehicles, handguns drawn. Leopold braced for impact. The Cobra hit the spikes at fifty miles per hour, and he heard the loud pop as the front tires were shredded, followed by another pop as the rear set were torn apart. The car veered from side to side as they lost traction and Jerome just managed to keep them out of a spin. They were just a few meters from the gates now, and the bodyguard put the car into a low gear and urged the car forward, sending sparks flying from the bare wheels beneath them. The sound of screeching metal was all Leopold could hear as the rims struggled to grip the asphalt.

He watched as Jerome wrenched the steering wheel sharply to the left and right, giving the wheels some extra grip, and the Cobra lurched forward, grinding its way toward the heavy metal gates that led into the cemetery. The speedometer reluctantly hit twenty miles an hour, and the bodyguard coaxed the crippled speedster down the wide paths that led into the center of the park, leaving the bewildered police officers behind. Thanks to the number of pedestrians in the area, Leopold knew it was unlikely the authorities would follow by car. That would at least buy them some time.

Less than a minute later, they pulled up near to a large crowd of mourners, all dressed in dark colors and standing with their backs to the road. The sea of people was huge, and their attention seemed to be focused elsewhere, so nobody noticed the battered Cobra approach, screeching to a standstill just a few dozen feet away from the edge of the congregation.

A few town cars were parked nearby and Leopold could see that one of them carried the flag with the Presidential seal. He looked around for any sign of disruption, and his heart leapt as he realized they might not be too late. They both flew out of the car and ran into the mass of people, pushing their way through the throng in an attempt to reach the procession in the center of the crowd.

Leopold took the lead and finally caught a glimpse of the casket, carried on the shoulders of the pallbearers a hundred feet ahead.  A few seconds more, and he could make out Christina, sat close by and holding a large bouquet of white flowers. Just a little further, and he could see the President walking slowly toward her. He sat down on an empty chair and put one hand on her shoulder. This was the moment that Stark would be waiting for.

They were still too far away, out of range of the scrambler. Leopold made one final, desperate attempt to claw his way through the thickening crowd. No use. He took the cell phone out of his jacket pocket and hurled it forward, praying it would land within range. That’s when he heard the explosion.