He reached the top of the steps and glanced over his shoulder.Nobody was tailing him—not yet, anyway. He took a quick breath as the thickglass doors slid aside with a whisper.
His boot heels struck the lustrous marble floor of the plaza andechoed against the arched ceiling. Three levels tiered outward in alldirections. On the main floor, giant benches stood like pews in some grandcathedral, alternately facing one another. Automated ticket kiosks lined thefar wall, and beyond them sat gates to the rails where most of the trains sleptpeacefully through the night. The second tier held restaurants and souvenirshops, purveyors of the plastic crap tourists were so fond of. Banks oflockers, leased up to a month at a time, were located on the third level, alongwith the security station and its surveillance crew.
He restrained his eyes from wandering upward.
And he kept himself from walking too fast, striking the marble toohard, echoing too loudly. He had a right to be there, same as anybody else—eventhough none of them cared to exercise it tonight, by all appearances. Therestaurants were dark and silent; the shops had closed their electric security gates,pulsing white at regular intervals. Only one of the twenty-odd ticket kiosksahead of him glowed active. The others were dim, out of service.
He passed between the benches that loomed up like sentries oneither side of the center aisle, their backs too high to tell if anyone wasseated or sprawled out until he'd already stepped past each one. Empty—all ofthem.
I'm at my own funeral. And nobody showed up.
Not the sort of thing to think about if he wanted to stay focusedon the job at hand: looking cool and collected to his hidden audience.
There were eyes watching him: digital cameras hidden in a silkplant here, a ceiling fixture there. Up in the surveillance center, someovergrown rent-a-cops probably kicked back with a pot of bad coffee and agrease-soaked box of donuts. Those doughboys were sure to be watching thevidscreens—their only source of entertainment.
Don't look up. Don't look around. You need tobe out of town by morning for a business trip. Make your way to the kiosk likeyou've done it a million times. The touchscreen is simple to navigate. Even achimp could do it. Let the scanner read your ident tag. The ticket drops intothe tray. Reach in and take it. Good to go.
All part of the plan. He stuffed the ticket into his pocket andyawned. His fingertips brushed the plastic edge of the locker keycard as hefaced the invisible congregation.
Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today toremember Harold James Muldoon...
The closest pew would do. Big, solid, built out of syntheticmaterials to look like oak. He staggered toward it and surrendered to anothergaping yawn. The benches were designed to be uncomfortable, of course; thepurpose of this place was to travel, not stay put. But he tipped over as soonas his rear end made contact. His arm, half-bent, made a good enough pillow,and he curled his legs up behind. He could feel the camera lenses focus on him,and he imagined the donut-munching security officers eyeing the monitors for afew moments before losing interest.
Muldoon's ticket was for the next train, expected to arrive inthirty minutes. He would relax there a while, even as his heart raced, thumpingan anxious pulse deep into his bowels. Adrenaline surged and receded inbursts—he recognized it for what it was. He had to control it, force himself tofocus on something else besides the moment at hand.
In a few minutes, he'd pretend to wake up with a start. Can'tfall asleep, I'll miss my train! He would wander around, looking for therestroom. Explore the second tier, find it boring, head up to the third. Locatethe locker and retrieve the item. Head back down to take a seat on the bench,rub at his eyes, make his utter exhaustion look convincing. That part will beeasy.
If only it had all gone according to plan.
An hour passed in the lifeless station. One train came and wentwith a mild rush of stale air. No passengers had disembarked or boarded, andthe massive steel serpent had continued its nearly silent journey elsewhere. Onhis bench, Muldoon snored and drooled, dead to the world, with one leg slippingoff the edge and dangling awkwardly. Numb, due to lack of circulation. Neverfun waking up to that.
But he didn't wake up, not even when a woman in black steppedthrough the sliding glass doors with heels that struck the marble floor in apurposeful staccato. She had a reason for being there, but it wasn't to buy aticket.
More than an hour remained before the station would come alivewith support staff arriving to wake the sleeping kiosks, restaurants and shops.But for now, everything was still and quiet save for the sound of herfootsteps.
The woman approached Muldoon as if she'd already known he would bethere waiting for her. She stood over him, watching him. Her black dress huggedher figure but bared her ivory-skinned arms from the shoulders down to long,white-gloved fingers. She carried a small handbag and held it close to her hipwith one hand. A wide-brimmed hat with black lace obscured her facial features,draping them in shadow.
"Wake up, Mr. Muldoon," she said quietly.
He snorted, eyes jerking open with a start. He sat up too fast andhad to brace himself, head swimming, mouth and chin wet. Was I drooling? Hewhirled to check the massive analog clock on the far wall.
"You've missed your train," she said.
Only then did he focus on the woman standing before him.
"Yeah. I noticed." He winced at a sudden cramp near hisleft kidney.
Good thing I wasn't really planning on goinganywhere.
"Do you make a habit of sleeping in public places likethis?"
"Every now and then, yeah." He glanced up again
