landing.
Removing his tuxedo jacket and cummerbund, he tossed them into a nearby bin then grabbed the lip of the chute and climbed inside, positioning his legs in front of him.
He said a quiet prayer and let go.
The ride was short but exhilarating, a ten-second rush of adrenaline that ended with Tony flat on his back in an industrial-sized laundry bin that was already half full of dirty linen. Sitting up, he peeked over the top and scanned the area.
Typical commercial building subbasement, from what he could see, all cement, with ducts and pipes and fluorescent light fixtures, a couple of big industrial-sized sinks; quite a contrast to the beauty of the museum above. But this was only one room in a massive floor plan, with doors leading to other rooms, and Tony had no idea which way to go. Fortunately, the place seemed deserted, no white-coated servers or maintenance workers moving about.
Climbing from the bin, Tony grabbed a napkin and walked toward the sink.
“Okay, that was fun. And no broken bones, thank you very much. Where do I go from here?”
“You’re actually pretty close,” Karras told him. “Depending on how you’re positioned, there should be a door to your left, followed by a long corridor that eventually opens out into an old boiler room. You’ll find the sealed-off elevator to your right with the auxiliary hatch to the left of it. If anyone’s coming up, that’s where you’ll find them.”
“What’s going on upstairs in the courtyard?” Tony asked as he ran the napkin under water.
“The Prez is shaking hands and making small talk, but he’s making his way inside.”
Minutes mattered now.
Seconds.
“Is that running water I hear?” Max asked.
“Yeah. I’m wetting a napkin so I can wring it real tight. Makes a helluva whip if you crack a guy across the eyes with it.”
“Sweet,” Karras said.
“Yeah, if I don’t run across more than a rogue or two. Either of you heard from Jack?”
“Not a peep,” Max told him.
“Wonderful.”
What the hell is he up to?
Tony wrung out the napkin, twisted it tight, and looped it in his hand, ready to use if necessary. He located the door on his left and made his way to it. He turned the knob, opening it just a crack.
The corridor beyond was dimly lit, the ceiling and one wall lined with huge round plumbing pipes. As Tony moved into it, he wished they had figured some way to smuggle weapons into the place. He’d hate to run into a small army of terrorists while carrying nothing more than a wet napkin.
Quietly closing the door behind him, he worked his way down the corridor, following it as it curved slightly to the left. As he approached the mouth of the corridor, which opened onto the old boiler room, he heard the faint sound of a radio playing. An easy-listening station.
Someone was down here.
Edging to his right, Tony took cover behind a large plumbing duct and peered into the dimly lit room.
What he saw froze his heart.
A uniformed museum guard lay on the floor next to an old cage-style elevator. The doors to the cage were shut and secured with a thick chain and padlock. And just to the left of this was a small hatch in the floor. It had also been secured by a chain and padlock, but they lay discarded next to it and the hatch was hanging open.
This was not good.
Scanning the room and seeing no sign of a threat, Tony stepped from behind the duct and quickly moved to the guard. Crouching down, he grabbed the young man’s wrist and felt a faint throbbing.
Still alive.
Activating his com line, Tony said, “Jack, if you’re out there, we have a serious-”
Before he could finish, something solid hit him across the back of the head and he spiraled into darkness.
“We were warned you might show up here,” Forsyth said.
They had taken Jack through a hallway just off the museum foyer and sat him in a small square room with stiff-backed chairs and an interview table. One wall had a large window that looked into a room full of security monitors, two uniformed guards manning them. The two special agents hovered nearby, eyeballing Jack as Forsyth took a seat across the table from him.
“Warned by who?” Jack asked, although he had a pretty good idea.
“It was one of those trickle-down situations,” Forsyth said. “When I heard your name, I got very interested.
“We saw you arrive, watched you work your way from room to room, but the funny thing is, you seem more interested in casing the place than admiring any of the artwork.”
Jack didn’t explain. Not yet. “What’s the FBI doing here?” he asked.
“Everyone’s a little touchy after what happened downtown, Jack. You understand. And since the President refused to cancel this trip, the Secret Service asked us to lend a hand. So here we are.” He paused. “But the real question is, why are you here?”
Jack studied him carefully. He hadn’t liked Forsyth from the minute he met him at the bomb site nearly two weeks ago. He was an arrogant SOB, and after that press conference Jack knew the guy had participated in a cover-up. The question was, how deep did his involvement go?
Jack glanced at one of the security monitors and saw the President shaking hands with guests in the courtyard.
Time was running out.
“Nothing to tell me?” Forsyth asked.
“Not yet,” Jack said. He was still trying to decide if he could trust this man and, if so, what he should tell him. Tony and the others were still out there and he didn’t want to compromise what they were doing.
Forsyth shook his head. “I keep racking my brain, trying to figure you out. Considering your affection for Muslims, it makes some kind of crazy sense that you’re here to disrupt the evening’s proceedings. But I can’t imagine exactly what you were hoping to accomplish.”
“What do you think?”
“I honestly don’t know, Jack.”
Jack had been studying him closely. The man truly did seem confused. Jack decided to test him.
“You know why I’m here,” he said. “You know what’s going on. Hell, you’re part of it.”
Forsyth frowned. “Am I? That’s news to me. What am I a part of?”
“You’re working with Soren, Swain, and the others-”
The frown deepened. “What?”
Jack had one more stone to throw.
“And you’ve got Sara. What did you do with her?”
Now the frown turned into a look of complete incredulity. “Sara? Who the hell is Sara? You’re talking like a crazy man, Hatfield. Are you nuts? Has that been your problem from the get-go?”
Jack was beginning to think that maybe Forsyth was clean. Back at the press conference, he seemed to know-or at least, not want to know-that they were scapegoating the Constitutional Defense Brigade. He had to play along with that one, let the justice system work its magic.
But killing a President?
Jack glanced at the security monitors and saw that the President was moving toward a podium on a small stage as the guests applauded enthusiastically.
Returning his gaze to Forsyth, Jack studied him carefully, studied his eyes, then decided to take a leap of faith.
“All right,” Jack said, “listen to me very carefully. The President and everyone in this place is in danger.”
