'You got it, Mr. Bullard.'
Mandrell looked up from the cell site manual. 'Chait's in Hoboken, New Jersey.'
'Everything's go,' Bullard said. 'The Chinese will be there on time.'
'Location?' Chait asked.
'The primary, as discussed. The park.'
Mandrell grasped D'Agosta by the arm. 'Chait just changed cell sites,' he said.
'What's that mean?'
'He's moving.' Mandrell thumbed through the manual, looking up the new site. 'Now he's in the middle of Union City.'
'Mass transit wouldn't move that quickly,' said Pendergast. 'He must be in a car.'
Bullard was speaking again. 'Remember. They'll be expecting a progress report in exchange for the payment. You know what to give them, right?'
'Right.'
Pendergast pulled out his own phone, dialing quickly. 'Chait's on his way to a meeting. We've got to get a unit dispatched, triangulate on his location.'
'I'll be expecting a report immediately after the meeting,' said Bullard.
'I'll be back to you within ninety minutes.'
'And Chait? No fuckups, you hear?'
'No, sir.'
There was a click; a hiss of static; and the computer beeped once again to signal the connection had been broken.
'Cell site's changed again,' Mandrell said, looking at the screen.
D'Agosta turned to Pendergast. 'Within ninety minutes, he said? What the hell does that mean?'
Pendergast closed his phone, slipped it back into his pocket. 'It means their meeting will take place before then. Come on, Vincent-we haven't a moment to lose.'
{ 35 }
D'Agosta blew past the exit helixes of the George Washington Bridge and merged onto the express lanes, driving like hell. As the New Jersey Turnpike divided and the traffic began to thin a little, he seated the emergency bubble onto the dash, turned on its flasher, and began cranking the siren. Veering west onto I-80, he stomped hard on the pedal. The big engine of the pool sedan responded and they were soon rocketing along at a hundred miles an hour.
'Refreshing,' murmured Pendergast.
The secure car-to-car frequency crackled into life. 'This is 602. We've got a visual on the target. It's a TV van with a satellite dish, call letters WPMP, Hackensack, moving west on 80 near exit 65.'
D'Agosta pushed his speed to one twenty.
Pendergast unhooked the mike. 'We're just a few miles behind you. Hang back in another lane and keep out of sight. Over.'
Everything had come together with remarkable speed. Pendergast had initiated a federal tail on Chait's cell signal, requisitioned a government vehicle, and put D'Agosta behind its wheel. The West Side Highway had been mercifully free of traffic, and it had taken them only ten minutes to clear Manhattan.
'Where do you think we're headed?' D'Agosta asked.
'Bullard mentioned a park. For now, that's all we know.'
Out of the corner of his eye, D'Agosta noticed that, despite the speed, Pendergast had unbuckled his seat belt and was crouching forward. Now the agent was scratching his nails on the floor mat, rubbing his palms rapidly against it. D'Agosta had seen the man do strange things before, but this beat all. He wondered if he should ask, decided against it.
'Target leaving freeway at exit 60,' the radio squawked. 'Following.'
D'Agosta slowed. Another minute, and he peeled off at the same exit.
'Target proceeding north on McLean.'
'They're heading into Paterson,' D'Agosta said. He'd never actually set foot in the city, though he'd passed it on the freeway countless times: a red-brick working town whose best days were probably about a hundred years gone. It seemed like a strange destination.
'Paterson,' Pendergast repeated speculatively, wiping his dirty hands on his face and neck. 'Birthplace of the American Industrial Revolution.'
'Birthplace? Looks more like death's door to me.'
'It's a city with a vigorous history, Vincent. Some of the historical neighborhoods are still quite beautiful. However, I'm banking on the fact that those are not where we're headed.'
