Dickens walked out of the room. He meant to call Claney. But he didn’t need to: Claney was waiting in the hallway. In a far corner, sat a pale William Bow, his eyes scared.
“We have problems,” Dickens answered Claney’s silent question as he unrolled his shirt sleeves. His shirt was splattered with blood. Dickens spat on his finger and tried to rub the spots off, but only smeared them over the once-white fabric.
“What did Agent Archer say?” he asked.
Claney didn’t answer. Purse-lipped, he watched Dickens rub the blood off his shirt.
“Sir?” Dickens looked him in the eye.
“Please stop,” Claney lowered his head pretending he was adjusting a thick gold ring on his finger. “The Feds won’t interfere. For the time being.”
Dickens clenched his hands behind his back. He didn’t want to embarrass the Congressman with his grated fingers and bloodied sleeves.
“You said, problems,” Claney reminded and shoved his hands deep in his pockets.
“The prisoner won’t talk.”
“Can’t you,” Claney turned to Bow, “can’t you use chemicals?”
“Impossible,” Dickens answered for the researcher. “The old fart will kick the bucket.”
“Old fart?” Claney’s saliva spattered Dickens’ face. “This, as you say, old fart has slaughtered half our force! Shelby’s on the loose again! TV channels start to doubt whether the person on their footage could have acted on his own. We won’t be able to fool them for much longer! And you…”
Claney shook his head and composed himself. “I don’t care how you do it,” he drawled. “He can die for all I care, but not before he tells us all he knows. Who helped him, where they hide, what they know. Don’t just sit here, Bow,” Claney stepped to the door. “Do your job. Give him a serum shot. The prisoner gave Binelli one, didn’t he?”
“Impossible,” Dickens remained calm. “The prisoner has a neurostimulator installed.”
“Pardon me?” Claney turned to him.
“A neurostimulator,” Dickens repeated. “They install this little thingy into the aorta. When it reacts with the truth serum, it bursts the artery before the victim can open their mouth.”
“What’re you going to do, then?” Claney stepped away from the door.
“Do a memory scan.”
“Bow?” Claney asked without looking at the researcher.
“Possible,” he answered.
“It’ll take time,” Claney glanced at his watch.
“We don’t need to do a full one,” Dickens suggested. “It’ll take eight hours or so.”
“And this neurostimulator, won’t it kill him?”
“It can’t,” the reasercher said.
“But we won’t get the full picture.”
“Don’t forget we have some answers already,” Dickens said.
The Congressman squinted waiting for him to go on.
“Shelby was assisted by some Maggie Douggan of the secretarial department,” Dickens came to Bow and motioned him to get up, then lifted his jacket off the back of the chair. “It’s possible Shelby has known her for some time. They could have met through Kathleen Baker. They’ve filmed the contents of her disk and smuggled it out of the building.” He put the jacket on and smoothed it out. “In order to infiltrate the building, they kidnapped Joe Binelli and extracted his computer password, then used his car to enter the premises.”
Dickens produced a watch from his trouser pocket and added as he clasped the bracelet, “And it was your order not to check his limo.”
“How many of them were there?” Claney disregarded the hint.
“Four. Two professionals.”
“Which is what?”
“The city war vets. Not your regular manpower: these are professional saboteurs. They have neurostimulators installed. They have skills. We used to train them during the war. I have reason to suspect that one is Max. We’ve worked him out twenty-four hours ago. He’s got a boxing club in Harlem. And he used to train Shelby all those years back. We kept tabs on him, but now he’s disappeared. I believe he was driving Binelli’s car. He could neutralize the parking area security. He could also unblock the gate when we announced code red. He then took care of the pursuing helicopter and the surviving men and helped Shelby and the girl to escape through the sewers.
“Find them all!” Claney couldn’t help himself. “Eliminate them!” He was about to leave the room when Dickens said,
“I don’t have enough men, sir.”
“How many-” Claney was losing his nerve, “how many do you need?”
Dickens looked at Bow.
“Three hundred would do it, I think.”
“How many?” Claney stepped forward to face him. “You have any idea what you’re asking for? This is—”
“You want me to find them?” Dickens stretched his lips in a grin. “I need to check the drains. I need to go over a few subway lines. The search area grows with every minute. Shelby and his accomplices are well-trained. They’re strong. And they’ve got what they came for.”
“And you, Dickens? Did you get what you came for? All you do is create more problems! The President’s gone back to DC so he’s out of our reach. We ad lib as we go. The whole plan is under threat, and we might have to start the Vaccination without even contacting our Pentagon friends. Just make sure,” the Congressman poked the air in front of Dickens’ face, “that we don’t have problems with the migrants.”
“Their Council is under control. We know all their plans.”
“We’ve gone too far! And you—”
“If Bow and his mnemotechs move it, I’ll get it done in six hours.”
“Six hours?”
“Yes, sir,” Dickens glared back at Claney. The Congressman paused.
“The lab is at your disposal,” Claney turned and strode out of the room.
They walked trying to figure out under which streets they were passing and which subway stations threaded nearby. Frank plodded following Max who carried a flashlight. Maggie trailed behind, all three of them exhausted.
First they had run hard along the drains. Then Max had turned off into some hole in the wall where they had to crawl over and under some sewage piping. The stench filled their nostrils. They were covered top to toe in something warm and sticky. Maggie had very nearly thrown up and Frank had stopped smelling anything at all. The coach explained to him that his nose receptors must have failed as happened sometimes.
Then they’d followed a tunnel along the mesh fence of a subway line. The fence reached the ceiling so they had to walk until they came to a gate facing a new drain entrance.
Frank had long lost any sense of direction. The coach barely spoke; only occasionally he warned them of obstructions on their way, suggesting a turn or a detour to avoid the obstacle.
A couple of times they’d hit a dead end. Then they’d come to a gate with a padlock. Max got out his gun, screwed the silencer on and shot the lock off. After that, they’d exited to another subway line.
Clenching her teeth, Maggie dragged her bare feet without complaint. Frank carried the attaché case and held her hand to make sure she didn’t fall, as she’d already done a couple of times. As they followed the coach in the dark, they couldn’t watch their step very well and could easily break an arm or a leg stumbling on some loose brick or pipe.
Frank was about to ask the coach for a breather when Max stopped. Shining the flashlight on the wall for fear of blinding them, he peered into their faces and said,
“Five-minute break.”
He moved the light underfoot waiting for them to sit down by the wall, then turned off the flashlight.
In the pitch-black tunnel, they could now hear the sounds of subway trains and the roar of the underground vent system.
“How long have we been going?” Frank asked.