a sandwich. He made a brief show of starting to open it, then allowed it to drop on the floor under his seat.
Was anyone watching him? No.
He reached for the package. Instead of retrieving it, he pressed it to the underside of the seat, securing it with loose strands of duct tape he had left in place for that purpose.
Duct tape was such useful stuff. It bound wrists, sealed lips, and affixed a package of death to its hidey- hole.
Before straightening, he rustled the paper sack as if stuffing the package back inside. Anyone who had glanced at his little drama would have seen a man drop his sandwich on the floor, retrieve it, and shove it back into the bag in disgust.
Everything was set.
Minutes from now, after the train had reached its northernmost point and turned around to head south again, after it had picked up riders at North Hollywood and Universal City, after it had reentered this long stretch of tunnel under the Santa Monica Mountains-when the cars were crowded with distracted, tired, intoxicated people, people who were heading home early, frightened by the media reports, jamming the train to full capacity-then there would be an outbreak of chaos.
He could imagine it in clear detail-the screams, the bleeding arms and legs cut by flying glass.
And all the while, the invisible, odorless fumes of VX fanning out, entering the intake ducts of the air- circulation system, traveling throughout the train, until all six cars were filled with gas.
A fully loaded train meant roughly one thousand people.
The ones in the central car would be first to die. But others in the adjacent cars would follow.
Not all of them, of course. Some would be far enough away to escape the worst of the fumes. They would inhale a nonlethal dose of the gas and escape onto the platform of the next station in time to rid their bodies of toxins.
Unless the train stopped in the tunnel, under the mountains.
That was possible. The trains were designed to cease operation automatically during an earthquake. There might be other emergency protocols, including one for a terrorist attack, that would initiate a shutdown of power.
He hoped so.
Because if the train did stop somewhere deep in the heart of the mountains, then no one- no one — would survive.
Mobius smiled, a calm, almost beatific smile that felt rare and beautiful on his lips.
It was all coming together. Everything was falling into place.
Tess bent over the corpse of Detective Jim Dodge, going through his pockets, feeling like a grave robber.
Well, there was no time for the respect ordinarily afforded the property of the dead. She needed a vehicle, and her bureau sedan was too badly damaged to be dependable. In Dodge’s pants pocket she found his car keys. She needed a cell phone also, and her own had been sacrificed back at the motel. She took Dodge’s phone out of his jacket.
She tried not to look at him. She wanted to believe he’d been unconscious the whole time. But she knew he hadn’t been. He’d died with his eyes open, and the duct tape binding his wrists to the headboard had been creased and twisted by the straining of his arms.
A phone rang-not the cell phone, but a landline. She answered and heard Larkin’s voice. 'Found the car.'
'So soon?'
'You were right about the Metro. LAPD found the Firebird illegally parked outside the Hollywood/Highland station.'
'You have to stop the trains. Get the passengers off.'
'I know that, Tess. We’re on it.'
'It has to happen now. He has nerve agent; he can take out an entire train-'
'Tess. Chill. We’re on it. You’re not the only brain in this outfit. Subway operators are under orders from the dispatchers to stop at the next station and empty the trains. Everybody out. All Red Line traffic shut down, all sixteen stations evacuated. LAPD’s coordinating it with the ROC-Rail Operations Center, the Metro’s command post.'
'Any idea which train he took?'
'There’s a couple that departed Hollywood/Highland at the right time. Could’ve gone east toward the center of town, or north into the Valley.'
'The Valley,' she said instantly. 'He’ll want as long a stretch of uninterrupted travel as possible.'
'In that case, he’s pulling into the Universal City station right now. And some friendly folks in blue are waiting for him. They’ve got Hayde’s DL picture, and they’ll be on the lookout.'
'Then we’ve got him?' Tess could hardly believe it. 'We’ve got Mobius?'
'If he’s on that train,' Larkin said, 'he’s fucked.'
The platform of the Universal City station slid into view. Mobius was already on his feet and heading for the exit.
The train stopped, the doors eased open, and his breath caught in his throat.
They had caught him. Somehow they had tracked him here.
Two LAPD police officers waited directly outside the train.
Only two. He might have a chance to fight back.
He tensed his body, then heard the loudspeaker reverberating through the station, and he knew he was safe for the moment.
'This is an emergency,' a recorded voice was saying in waves of amplified distortion. 'Exit the station immediately.'
Other cops were shouting above the loudspeaker’s repetitive message, telling the passengers that extra MTA buses were being requisitioned to get them where they needed to go. 'Head to street level and you’ll be taken care of,' the cops were saying.
He’d made it past the first hurdle, but there would be police at the main exit, checking every passenger. They might identify him. He couldn’t take the risk.
But he also couldn’t stand around on the platform, drawing attention to himself.
Things were getting unexpectedly complicated. But he would handle it.
Nothing worried him any longer. Not even Tess McCallum would be a problem now. She might have seen his license plate during the chase-but it didn’t matter.
He couldn’t be stopped. He had the power. A power he would unleash-soon-and with it, kill them all.
37
Tess hadn’t known what to expect as far as traffic was concerned. Of course she’d insisted at the ATSAC briefing that the city could cope with news of a crisis, but maybe she’d been wrong.
Or maybe not.
Because amazingly the freeways and the surface streets were clear. If anything, there was less traffic than usual for a Saturday night, and the drivers who were out here showed no signs of panic. They braked at stop signs and traffic lights, they signaled before changing lanes, they drove within the speed limit-or at least didn’t exceed the limit any more than on any other night.
At first she thought maybe they just hadn’t heard. They could have been at a party or a movie, insulated from the news. But idling at a red light, she clearly heard the radio from the minivan beside her, a newscaster’s voice talking about the threat of chemical attack. There was no anxiety in the newscaster’s tone or in the expression of the woman driving the van.
Down the street she saw a crowd of people gathered around a big-screen television in a bar. As she passed the plate-glass windows, she saw the image of Myron Levine switch to a basketball game. Someone had changed the channel.
