by Mark Alpert
“Hold on, I’ll call up the street map.” Monique clicked on an icon that put labels on each of the buildings and streets. “It’s in Pittsburgh. The coordinates are centered on this building right here.” She tapped a point on the screen and squinted to read the label. “The address is 5000 Forbes Avenue. Newell-Simon Hall.”
David recognized the name. He’d visited the building once before. “That’s at Carnegie Mellon. The Robotics Institute. Where Amil Gupta is.”
Monique tapped a few more keys and found the institute’s Web site. She clicked on the page that contained the list of faculty members. “Check out the phone numbers,” she said, looking over her shoulder at David. “Everyone has a four-digit extension beginning with seventy-eight.”
“What’s Gupta’s extension?”
“His personal line is 7832. But he’s the director of the institute, right?”
“Yeah, for the past ten years.”
“Look at this. The extension for the director’s office is 7800.” She beamed in triumph. “Those are the last four digits in Kleinman’s sequence.”
She was so exhilarated by their success that she pumped her fist in the air. But David just stared at the faculty list on the laptop’s screen. “Something’s wrong,” he said. “This can’t be the right message.”
“What are you talking about? It makes perfect sense. If Einstein really did come up with a unified theory, he probably told Gupta about it, too. Kleinman was telling you to go to Gupta to safeguard the theory. It’s obvious!”
“That’s the problem. The message is too obvious. Everyone knows that Gupta worked with Einstein. The FBI knows it, the terrorists know it, there’s a whole goddamn chapter about it in my book. So why did Kleinman go to all the trouble of devising this complicated code if that’s the only thing he wanted to say?”
She shrugged. “Shit, you’re asking the wrong person. I have no idea what was going through Kleinman’s head. Maybe this was the best plan he could think of.”
“No, I don’t believe it. Kleinman wasn’t stupid.” He grabbed the sheet of paper with the sixteen numbers. “There’s got to be something else hidden in this sequence. Something we’re missing.”
“Well, there’s only one way to find out. We have to talk to Gupta.”
“We can’t call him. I’m sure the feds have tapped his phone by now.”
Monique turned off her laptop and closed the screen. “Then we have to go to Pittsburgh.”
She took the laptop to the kitchen counter and zipped it into a leather carrying case. Then she found a small overnight bag and began filling it with various items from the kitchen cabinets and drawers: a battery charger, a Totes umbrella, an iPod, a box of SnackWell’s. David watched her in alarm. “Are you crazy? We can’t just show up at Gupta’s house! The FBI probably has the place under surveillance. Unless they’ve already shipped him off to Guantánamo.” Or unless the terrorists have already tortured him to death, he thought. “Either way, we won’t get anywhere near him.”
Monique zipped up the overnight bag. “We’re two smart people, David. We’ll figure out a way.” Holding the bag in one hand and the laptop case in the other, she headed out of the kitchen.
David followed her into the living room. “Wait a second! We can’t do this! The police are already hunting for me! It was a miracle that I even got out of New York!”
She stopped in front of the vandalized fireplace and rested her bags on the floor. Then she picked up the revolver from the mantelpiece and flicked open the cylinder. The vertical crease had reappeared between her eyebrows, and her mouth was a tight grim line. “Look up there,” she said, pointing her gun at the two red swastikas on the ceiling and the words NIGGA GO HOME. “Those assholes broke into my house—my house!—and wrote this shit on my walls. You think I’m gonna let them get away with that?” She scooped up the bullets from the mantelpiece and began dropping them, one by one, into the cylinder’s chambers. “No, I’m gonna get to the bottom of this. I’m gonna figure out what’s going on here and then I’m gonna make those motherfuckers pay.”
David focused on the revolver in Monique’s hands. He didn’t like the looks of this. “That gun’s not going to do you any good. They’ve got hundreds of agents and thousands of cops. You can’t just shoot your way through.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not planning to start any gunfights. We’re going to be sneaky, not stupid. No one knows you’re with me, so the FBI won’t be looking for my car. You just keep your face hidden and we’ll be all right.” She inserted the last bullet into its chamber and closed the cylinder. “Now I’m going upstairs to get some clothes. You want me to get you a razor from Keith’s shaving kit?”
He nodded. He couldn’t argue with her anymore. She was like a force of nature, unyielding and unstoppable, bending the whole fabric of spacetime around her. “What are you going to tell Keith?”
Monique picked up both bags with one hand and carried the gun in the other. “I’ll just leave him a note. I’ll tell him we had to go to a conference or something.” She went to the foyer and started climbing the staircase. “He won’t get too upset about it. Keith’s got three other girlfriends he can spend time with. The boy has amazing stamina.”
He nodded again. So her relationship with Keith wasn’t that serious. David found, to his surprise, that he was quite pleased by this fact.
SIMON WAS TEARING DOWN ALEXANDER ROAD, just half a mile from Einstein’s house, when he saw the flashing lights in his rearview mirror. It was a blue-and-white patrol car from the Princeton Borough Police Department. “Yob tovyu mat!” he cursed, slamming his fist against the steering wheel. If this had happened just a minute earlier, when he was on Route 1, he would’ve simply stepped on the gas—his Mercedes was an SLK 32 AMG, which could easily outrun any American-made car—but now he was on the local streets and there was too great a chance of getting trapped. He had no choice but to pull over.
He stopped on the shoulder of a deserted stretch of road, about fifty meters from the entrance to a county park. No houses or stores nearby and no traffic on the street. The patrol car stopped about ten meters behind him, leaving its headlights on, and just sat there for several infuriating seconds. The officer inside was probably radioing a description of Simon’s vehicle to his dispatcher. Finally, after half a minute, a brawny man in a blue uniform stepped out of the police car. Simon tilted his side-view mirror so he could examine the officer. A young fellow, twenty-five years old at the most. Muscular arms and shoulders, but a bit pudgy around the waist. Probably spends most of his shift sitting in his car, waiting for drunk undergraduates to speed by.
Simon rolled down his window as the officer approached the Mercedes. The young man rested his hands on the driver’s-side door and leaned in to the car. “Mister, do you have any idea how fast you were going?”
“One hundred forty-three kilometers per hour,” Simon replied. “More or less.”
The officer frowned. “This isn’t a joke. You could’ve killed somebody. Give me your license and registration.”
“Certainly.” Simon reached into his jacket. He had a forged driver’s license but no registration for the Mercedes, which he’d stolen from a dealership in Connecticut two days before. So instead of grasping his wallet, he pulled out his Uzi and shot the officer in the forehead.
The man tumbled backward. Simon started the Mercedes and peeled off. In a few minutes some passing motorist would notice the body and within half an hour the Princeton police would be searching for his vehicle. But that was all right. He didn’t plan to stay in town very long.
KEITH WAS DREAMING ABOUT MONIQUE’S CORVETTE. She’d brought the car into the shop and told him it was running hot, but when he lifted the hood he saw the engine was missing. That guy David Swift was curled up where the engine block should have been. Keith turned to Monique to ask her what was going on, but she playfully darted behind him.
He felt a hand on his shoulder. This was real, not a dream. A hand gripped his shoulder a
nd gently rolled him onto his back. Must be Monique coming back to bed, he thought. Probably wants a little loving. She was a good lay but needy as hell. “Ah, Mo,” he groaned, keeping his eyes closed. “I told you, I gotta wake up early.”
“You’re not David Swift.”
The unfamiliar voice jolted him awake. He opened his eyes and saw the silhouette of a bald head and a thick neck. The man’s hand had shifted to Keith’s throat and was now pressing down hard, pinning him to the bed. “Where are they?” he asked. “Where did they go?”
The fingers curled around Keith’s windpipe. He lay there, immobile, too terrified to resist. “Downstairs!” he rasped. “They’re downstairs!”
“No, they’re not.”
Keith heard a rustling in the darkness and saw a quick flash. It was a long straight blade reflecting the bluish light of dawn that was coming through the bedroom window.
“All right, my friend,” the man said. “We’re going to have a little talk.”
Chapter Six
KAREN PACED INSIDE AN INTERROGATION ROOM AT THE FBI offices in Federal Plaza. First she walked past the steel door, locked from the outside. Then she passed a mirror that ran almost the whole length of the wall, most likely a one-way mirror allowing agents on the other side to view the interrogations. Finally she marched by a blue-and-gold sign with a picture of an eagle and the words FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION—PROTECTING AMERICA. Several chairs surrounded a metal table in the center of the room, but Karen was too agitated to sit. Instead she circled the room at least fifty times, dizzy with fear and outrage and fatigue. The agents had taken Jonah away from her.
At 5 A.M. she heard footsteps in the corridor outside the locked door. A key turned in the lock, and a moment later the agent who’d arrested her stepped into the room. Tall, blond, and muscle-bound, he still wore that ugly gray jacket with the shoulder holster bulging underneath. Karen remembered his name as she charged toward him: Agent Brock. The bastard had handcuffed a seven-year-old boy. “Where’s my son?” she demanded. “I want to see my son!”
Brock stretched out his hands as if to catch her. He had cold blue eyes. “Whoa, slow down! Your son’s all right. He’s asleep in one of the rooms down the hall.”
Karen didn’t believe it. Jonah had screamed like a banshee when the agents pulled him out of her arms. “Take me there! I need to see him right now!”
She tried to move around Brock to get to the door, but the agent sidestepped in front of her. “Hey, I said slow down! You can see your son in a minute. I have to ask you a few questions first.”
“Look, I’m a lawyer, all right? I may not practice criminal law, but I know this is illegal. You can’t hold us here without charges.”
Brock grimaced. He obviously didn’t care for lawyers. “We can file charges if that’s what you want. How about criminal child neglect? Does that sound legal enough for you?”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about your ex-husband’s drug habit. And how he financed it by selling cocaine to his students at Columbia. He did most of his dealing in Central Park just after he picked up your son from school.”
Karen just stared at him. It was the most ludicrous thing she’d ever heard. “That’s insane! The worst thing they do in the park is play with Super Soakers!”
“We have surveillance videos showing the transactions. According to our sources, Swift has been running this business for years.”
“Jesus Christ! I would’ve known if David was dealing dope in the park!”
Brock shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. One thing’s for sure, though: the Family Court will want to find out whether you were involved, too. They may decide to take custody of your son until they investigate the matter.”
Karen shook her head. Brock was lying. As a corporate lawyer, she earned her keep by negotiating merger agreements, and she could usually tell when the other side was bluffing. “Okay, prove it. Show me those surveillance videos.”
Brock moved a step closer. “Don’t worry, you’ll see them on the news tonight. You see, your ex-husband wanted to expand his business, so he started working with the Latin Kings. I assume you’ve heard of them?”
She looked askance. “You’re saying that David made friends with a bunch of gangsters?”
“The Latin Kings control the drug trade in Upper Manhattan. They’re also the fuckers who killed our agents last night. They shot three agents who were doing an undercover buy from Swift and another three who were part of the surveillance team.”
Karen let out a disgusted snort. The story was absurd. Anyone who knew David would recognize that immediately. But why was the FBI concocting this bullshit? What were they trying to hide? Stepping away from Brock, she moved toward the metal table and sat down in one of the chairs. “All right, Agent Brock, for the moment I’ll take your word for it. What do you want from me?”
He pulled a notebook and pencil out of his jacket. “We need information on your ex-husband’s contacts. Particularly anyone who lives in New Jersey.”
“New Jersey? Is that where you think David is?”
Brock scowled. “Let me ask the questions, okay? We’ve already got the names of his colleagues at Columbia. Now we’re working on a list of friends, acquaintances, that kind of thing.”
“I’m not the best person to ask. David and I have been divorced for two years.”
“No, you’re definitely the best person. You see, Swift is a fugitive now and he’s probably looking for a friend to help him out. A very close friend, if you know what I mean.” He cocked his head and gave her a knowing look. “Does he have any friends like that in New Jersey?”
Karen shook her head again. How pathetic, she thought. Brock was trying to play on her jealousies. “I have no idea.”
“Come on. You don’t know anything about his love life?”
“Why should I care? We’re not married anymore.”
“Well, what about before your divorce? Did David ever fool around? Take any late-night trips across the George Washington Bridge?”
She looked him in the eye. “No.”
Brock stood in front of Karen’s chair. He rested one hand on the edge of the table and leaned over, bringing his face within inches of hers. “You’re not being very cooperative, Karen. Don’t you want to see your son?”
Her stomach clenched. “Are you threatening me?”
“No, not at all. I just wanted to remind you about the Family Court. Unless we give them a favorable report, they may assign your son to foster care. You don’t want to lose him, do you?”
Brock’s face was so close that Karen could smell his mouthwash, a sickly spearmint odor. For a second she thought she was going to vomit. But instead she pushed her chair back and got to her feet. She brushed past Brock and headed straight for the one-way mirror at the other end of the room. She tried to peer through the glass but all she could see was her own reflection. “Okay, assholes,” she said, addressing the mirror. “Have you figured out yet who you’re fucking with?”
In the mirror she saw Brock coming toward her. “No one’s there, Karen. It’s just you and me.”
She pointed her index finger at the glass. “Amory Van Cleve. Does the name ring a bell? He knows half the lawyers in the Justice Department, and he’s not going to be pleased when I tell him what you’ve been doing to me.”
Brock was just a few feet behind her now. “All right, enough of this. You better—”
“Get this asshole out of my sight!” Karen shouted, pointing at Brock but keeping her eyes on the mirror. “If he’s still here by the time I count to ten, Amory’s gonna lower the boom. You hear me? He’s gonna talk to his friends at Justice and make sure all of you go to jail!”
For about five seconds the room was silent. Even Brock shut his mouth as he waited to see what would happen. Then Karen heard footsteps in the corridor again. The door opened and an older woman in a white blouse and reading glasses stepped into the room. “Are you all right, honey?”
she drawled. “I heard some shouting and I thought—”
Karen spun around. “Don’t even start!” she yelled. “Just take me to my son!”
DAVID AWOKE IN THE LOW-SLUNG passenger seat of Monique’s Corvette. Groggy and disoriented, he gazed out the windshield. The car was traveling on an interstate through a lush, hilly landscape, vivid green in the morning light. A herd of brown cows stood in a wide sloping meadow next to a big red barn and a newly plowed field. It was a lovely thing to see, and for a long moment David just stared at the calm, motionless cattle. Then he felt a dull ache in his lower back, no doubt caused by all the running he’d done the night before, and he remembered why he was speeding across the country.
He shifted in the uncomfortable bucket seat. Monique was looking at the road ahead, one hand on the steering wheel and the other rummaging inside a box of vanilla crème SnackWell’s. Before she’d left her house, she’d changed into a white peasant blouse and khaki shorts, and now she also wore a pair of earphones for her iPod, which rested in her lap. Her head bounced ever so slightly in time with the music. At first she didn’t notice that David was awake, and for a few seconds he watched her from the corner of his eye, staring at her gorgeous neck and long, cocoa-colored thighs. After a while, though, he began to feel like a voyeur, so he yawned to get her attention. He stretched his arms as far as he could in the Corvette’s cramped interior.
Monique turned to him. “Finally!” she said. “You’ve been out for three hours.” She pulled off her earphones and David heard a raucous snatch of rap music before she shut down the iPod. Then she offered him the box of SnackWell’s. “Want some breakfast?”
“Yeah, sure, thanks.” As soon as David took the box, he realized he was ravenous. He stuffed two of the cookies into his mouth, then grabbed three more. “Where are we?”