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 are, 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
