by John Purcell
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The search was even more tedious than anticipated. The longer it went on, the happier I became that we’d left the Three behind.
Mr. Wu was convinced that the second complex was connected to the White House by underground rail. Any secret rail line would have originated somewhere within the Metro system itself, probably in parallel with it. It made sense to search for some sort of connecting passageway, one that might have been walled off after construction.
Mr. Wu left no stone unturned. We started at the nearest Metro station, Metro Center, and went on from there, first south, to Federal Triangle, then north, to McPherson Square. We even backtracked to Farragut West and Farragut North. Mr. Wu was meticulous about covering every square inch of every station, no matter how unpromising, and he was careful not to rush me, urging me to take all the time I needed, hoping that some small detail would trigger my father’s memories.
As we searched, I told him everything I knew about Trip’s bunker, starting with the secret entrance in the Map Room and ending with its approximate location, beneath Metro Center. None of this seemed to surprise him.
In the end, we emerged from the Metro empty handed, but that didn’t discourage him. He led me back to the White House, disguised as Gutenberg again, eager to attack the problem from the other end. We spent another tedious hour exploring the subbasement and then the basement, ending up at last on the ground floor.
By then, school was underway and a number of the inner rooms were filled with children. Mr. Wu seemed unconcerned about skipping these.
He led me toward the north side of the building. “I assume you’ve heard what happened at the bowling alley.”
“Yes, from Hofmann, the art teacher. He was actually there.”
“What do you make of it?”
If Mr. Wu hadn’t been disguised as Gutenberg, I would have turned the question around. Instead, I said, “The GR was looking for something, possibly the same thing we’re looking for.”
“But why the bowling alley? It seems an unlikely spot.”
“Maybe that was its appeal.”
As we approached the doorway, I could see that the alley was still a shambles.
Mr. Wu said, “On the other hand, it’s got one thing going for it.”
“What’s that?”
“Location. We’re at the foundation’s northernmost point, right under the Portico. There’s nothing behind that wall but dirt, dirt and more dirt.”
“A good starting point for a tunnel.”
“Indeed. Let’s see if anything jogs your memory.”
Mr. Wu entered first and hobbled down the center of the demolished bowling lane. He kicked away shards of wood, saying, “They hacked straight down until they hit concrete, and managed to hack into that, too.” He looked up at the damaged ceiling tiles. “That’s a sign of desperation. How could there possibly be a tunnel in the ceiling?”
I stepped over to the spot where the scorekeeping terminal had been torn loose. “This seems pretty desperate, too. No one over the age of three could fit into that hole.”
He gave me a couple of minutes to poke around the alley, more time than I needed. By then, he seemed ready to face reality. He leaned on his cane and let out a sigh. “Well, what’s the verdict? Does anything here ring a bell?”
I shook my head. “Not really. But why does it have to be a tunnel? Couldn’t there be some other kind of escape route?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Like a rocket ship on the roof? Believe me, I’ve checked.”
As he made his way back toward the door, stepping over bowling balls, I said, “Now what?”
He said, “Now we find Dogan’s father.”