The Navigator narrowed the gap until it was aggressively tailgating the taxi, although it could have easily passed. Gideon hung back. Despite the obviously new condition of the vehicle, the license plate light of the Navigator was burned out, the plate itself dark and unreadable.
Moving into the left lane, Gideon accelerated briefly to get a view inside the SUV through the windshield, but this late at night it was hopeless and he eased back, dropping behind once again, his sense of apprehension increasing.
The taxi, tailgated by the Navigator, accelerated, but the Navigator kept pace; the taxi then braked slightly and slowed, but the Navigator did the same, still refusing to pass.
This was not good.
The Navigator now crept forward until its massive chrome bumper touched the rear bumper of the cab — and then it accelerated with a roar, shoving the cab forward and sideways. With a terrific squeal of rubber the cab swerved, then recovered, fishtailing as it veered into the left lane. The Navigator swung in behind it and accelerated again, trying to ram it.
To avoid being hit, the taxi swerved back into the right lane and tried to slow down, but the Navigator, in a deft maneuver, swung in behind and rammed it again, this time with real force, and again the taxi driver had to accelerate to correct the deflection. The sound of his horn wailed across the wide avenue.
The Navigator jumped forward to ram the taxi again, but the cabbie swung into the left lane and then slewed around the corner onto East 116th Street, heading east. Here, in one of the main commercial districts of Spanish Harlem, there was suddenly more activity, the broad boulevard lit up and thronged with people despite the hour, the bars and restaurants open.
The Navigator made the turn with a howl of rubber and Gideon followed, the limo going into an awkward four-wheel power slide. Heart pounding, he accelerated after them. The Navigator’s driver wasn’t trying to force the cab to pull over; he was trying to kill its occupants by causing an accident.
The taxi accelerated in an attempt to outrun the Navigator. The two vehicles shot eastward on 116th, weaving in and out of traffic, provoking a furious blaring of horns, screeching tires, and yells. Gideon followed as best he could, sweaty hands slick on the wheel.
They tore past Lexington and approached the bright cluster of lights where 116th crossed Third Avenue. As they drew near at over seventy miles an hour, the light turned orange. Gideon braked the limo hard; there was no way they were going to make it. Suddenly the Navigator swung out and accelerated down the wrong side of the street, coming up alongside the taxi. Just before the intersection it swerved and gave the taxi a brutal sideswipe. With a billow of smoke the taxi slewed sideways through the intersection, clipped an oncoming car, flipped into the air, and went flying into a crowd outside a Puerto Rican lechonera. There was a dreadful sound, like the smack of sheet metal into meat. Bodies rag-dolled through the air, tumbling about the intersection. With a final shuddering crash the cab shattered the glass façade of the restaurant and came to rest with a death rattle and a burst of steam. Cooked meat came cascading out from racks and trays that had been on display in the window: roasted sides of pork, trays of cracklings, and spits of suckling pigs, all tumbling over the smashed taxicab and rolling about on the sidewalk.
There was a split second of terrible silence. And then the intersection exploded into an eruption of screams and shrieks as the crowd fled. To Gideon, looking on in horror, they resembled ants on a burning log.
He had pulled the limo over just before the intersection, and now he leapt out and ran toward the accident — just as a northbound city bus came roaring up Third Avenue, going at least fifteen miles over the speed limit. Halting at the crosswalk, Gideon watched helplessly as the bus blew on through; the driver, suddenly seeing bodies in the intersection, jammed on the brakes, but it was too late and he was unable to stop. The massive wheels thudded over several of the prostrate bodies, smearing them on the asphalt, and then the driver lost control. The bus skidded with a great shriek of burning rubber. Gideon watched helplessly as the careening bus T-boned a car on the far side of the intersection and came to rest on its side, the engine bursting into flame. Windows and the rear door of the bus were bashed open by screaming people and they spilled out, falling to the pavement, clawing and treading over one another in an attempt to get away.
Gideon looked around wildly for the Navigator. Then he spotted it, stopped partway down the next block. But the vehicle paused only for a moment: with a roar it tore off down 116th and swung south on Second Avenue, disappearing.
He sprinted across the intersection to the taxi. It lay upside down, its front partly inside the restaurant. Bodies were everywhere, some moving, some still. Gasoline ran over the sidewalk in a dark stream, moving down the gutter toward the burning bus — which exploded with a terrific roar, the force jumping the bus into the air. The flames mounted up, two, three, four stories, casting a hot lurid glow over the hellish scene. Hundreds of people from surrounding buildings were opening windows, craning necks, pointing. The air seemed to be alive with noise: screams and shrieks, pleas for help, agonized wails, the endless horn of the bus, the crackle of flame. It was all Gideon could do to keep a clear head.
Dropping to his hands and knees, he peered into the wrecked taxi. The driver’s side was totally mangled and he could get a glimpse of the cabbie, his body literally merged into the twisted metal and glass of the car. He scrambled around to the passenger rear side and there was Wu. The man was alive; his eyes were wide open, and his mouth was working. When he saw Gideon, he reached a bloody hand out to him.
Gideon grabbed the door handle, tried to open it. But the door was far too mangled to budge. He got down on his belly and reached inside the broken window, grasping the scientist by both arms. He hauled him out and onto the sidewalk as gently as he could. The man’s legs were horribly mangled and bleeding. Half dragging, half carrying Wu away from the spreading fire, he found a safe place around the corner and laid him carefully down. He took out his cell phone to call 911, but already he could hear, over the cacophony, sirens converging from every direction.
He vaguely became aware of a huge crowd of people behind him, rubberneckers keeping at a safe distance, watching the unfolding scene with prurient fascination.
The scientist suddenly grasped Gideon with a bloody hand, balling up the fabric of his chauffeur’s uniform in his fist. He had an expression in his eyes that was lost, puzzled, as if he didn’t know what had happened to him. He gasped out a word.
“What?” Gideon leaned closer, ear almost pressed to the scientist’s lips.
“Roger?” the man whispered in heavily accented English. “Roger?”
“Yes,” said Gideon, thinking fast. “That’s me. Roger.”
Wu said something in Chinese, then switched back to English. “Write these down. Quickly. Eight seven one zero five zero—”
“Wait.” Gideon fumbled in his pockets, extracted a pencil and a scrap of paper. “Start again.”
Wu began gasping out a list of numbers as Gideon wrote them down. Despite the heavy accent, his voice was thin, precise, punctilious: the voice of a scientist.
87105003302201401047836415600221120519715013
51010017502503362992421140099170520090080070
04003500278100065057616384370325300005844092
060001001001001
He halted.
“Is that it?” Gideon asked.
A nod. Wu closed his eyes. “You know…what to do with those,” he rasped.
“No. I don’t. Tell me—?”
But Wu had lapsed into unconsciousness.
Gideon stood up. He felt dazed and stupid. Blood from the scientist had stained his chest and arms. Fire trucks and police were arriving now, blocking the avenue. The bus was still afire, clouds of acrid black smoke roiling up into the night air.