“Follow me.” Holding his papers and the remote tightly, Marty slid into the brightly lighted shaft with its ladder that went through a crawl space and down into the concrete underground tunnel. As soon as he landed, he lurched out of the way.
A few seconds later, Smith’s feet touched down next to him. “Impressive, Mart.”
“Useful, too.” He pressed a button on his remote. “This closes the trapdoor and puts everything back the way it was.”
The two moved quickly along the bright tunnel. Finally they reached the other end, and Smith insisted on going up first. As he emerged into the small bathroom of Marty’s home bungalow, he had a shock: A fifth man was crossing the hall into the living room.
Smith’s pulse hammered. He listened. Then he realized the man was heading toward the bathroom.
He dropped back into the shaft. “Close it up!”
His round face anxious, Marty electronically closed the trap and lowered the bathtub. Seconds later they heard the man enter the bathroom, followed by the sound of a stream falling into the toilet.
Smith quietly told Marty what he wanted him to do.
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CHAPTER
NINETEEN
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Beretta ready, Smith climbed up to wait on the top rung of the metal ladder. He took a deep breath as the trapdoor unlocked. But it was still weighted in place by the tub. As he raised his Beretta, the tub swung up against the wall, the trap sprang open, and the entire bathroom plus a section of the hall and living room came into view. Smith repressed a grim smile. The situation was better than he had hoped.
Ahead was the back of the man at the toilet. The guy’s jaw dropped. Staring into the mirror, he had seen the bathtub rise like a white apparition into the air behind. The guy was not only stunned, he was exposed. He did not even have time to zip.
But he was a professional. So, fly hanging open, he grabbed his weapon from where he had laid it on top of the toilet tank and spun around.
“Good. But not good enough.” With a mighty swing, Smith slammed his Beretta into the man’s knee. He heard bone crack. The man dropped to the floor, groaning and clutching the knee. His weapon skidded toward the door.
Smith leaped up through the trap, snatched the gun, and grabbed the walkie-talkie from the back of the toilet tank. Now the man could not shoot or call for help.
“Hey!” the man bellowed. Pain stretched his narrow face. He tried to get up, but the crushed knee shot disabling pain, and he fell back onto the floor.
“Oh, my,” Marty said as he clambered out. He hurried past him and into the hallway.
Smith followed, locking the bathroom door.
Marty wondered, “You didn’t shoot him?”
He pushed Marty forward. “I crippled him. That was enough. It’ll take three or four operations to repair that knee. The way he is, he can’t hurt us and he’s not going anyplace. Come on, Mart. We’ve really got to move.”
As they crossed Marty’s computer-filled office, he stopped for a moment, his face forlorn. He sighed, then he followed Smith to the frontdoor cage, which had been shot open.
Smith cracked open the front door and peered out. The gray van still stood in the driveway. He was tempted to hot-wire it, a skill he had learned from Bill Griffin as a teenager, but the helicopter still swung back and forth over the bungalows.
“Mart, we’re going to Massachusetts Avenue and your car. Grab your meds.”
“I don’t like this.” Marty stumbled back to his desk, picked up a small black leather case, and returned to Smith at the front door. “I don’t like this at all.” He shuddered. “The world is full of strangers!”
Smith ignored his complaints. Marty might fear people he did not know, but Jon figured he was far more afraid of dying. “Stay close to buildings, walk under trees, anything to hide. No running— that’d attract attention. With luck, the chopper up there won’t spot us. If it does, we’ll have to lose it when we reach your car. To be safe, I’m going to try to disable the van out there.”
Marty suddenly raised a finger. He grinned from ear to ear. “I can handle that!”
“From here? How?”
“I’ll fry its computer.”
Smith never doubted Marty where electronics were concerned. “Okay. Let’s see you do it.”
Marty hunted in his desk drawers and produced a leather case about the size of a large camera. He aimed an aperture through the front doorway at the side at the van. He opened the lid, twirled some dials, and punched a button. “That should do it.”
Smith stared suspiciously. “I didn’t see anything happen.”
“Of course you didn’t. I used TED to destroy the on-board computer that controls engine functions.”
“What the hell is TED?”
“Transient electromagnetic device. It works on RF— radio frequency. Think of static electricity, but stronger. I built this one myself and made it even more powerful than the usual. But the Russians will sell you an industrial-strength one. It comes in a briefcase and costs a hundred thousand dollars or so.”
Jon was impressed. “Bring that thing along.” He stepped outdoors. “Let’s go.”
Marty stood motionless just outside his doorway. He stared, stunned at the blue sky and green grass and moving traffic. He looked overwhelmed. “It’s been a long time,” he murmured and shivered.
“You can do it,” Smith encouraged.
Marty swallowed and nodded. “Okay. I’m ready.”
Smith in the lead, they ran from the porch and along the high hedge to where it joined the side hedge. Jon pushed through, and Marty followed. At the street, he stepped out and linked his arm with Marty’s. They were just two convivial friends strolling along toward the avenue two blocks ahead.
Behind them the helicopter hung over the pair of bungalows. Busy Massachusetts Avenue was ahead. Once there, Smith hoped they could disappear among the throng of pedestrians flocking to the magnificence of Embassy Row and the other historic buildings and institutions between Dupont and Sheridan Circles.
They did not make it. As they reached the second block, the chopper roared closer. Smith glanced over his shoulder. The helicopter was sweeping toward them.
“Oh, my.” Marty saw it, too.
“Faster!” Smith ordered.
They ran down the side street, the helicopter following so low it was in danger of trimming the trees. The draft from the mighty blades blasted their backs. Then shots exploded from the chopper. Marty gave a little scream. Bullets kicked dirt and concrete around them and whined off into the air.
Smith grabbed his arm and shouted, “Keep running!”
They pounded on, Marty flailing like a combination of robot and rag doll. The helicopter passed over and battled to bank and come back.
“Faster!” Smith was sweating. He pulled on Marty’s arm.
The helicopter had completed its turn and started back.
But then Smith exulted. “It’s going to be too late!” They tore onto Massachusetts Avenue and plunged in among the crowds. It was Friday afternoon, and people were returning from long lunches, making plans for the weekend, and heading toward appointments.
“Oh, oh.” Marty cringed against Smith, but he kept walking. His round head swiveled, and his eyes were huge as he took in the multitude.
“You’re doing great,” Smith assured him. “I know it’s tough, but we’re safe for a while here. Where’s your car?”
Panting nervously, Marty told him, “Next side street.”
Smith looked up at the helicopter that had made its turn and was now hovering over the crowds and moving ahead slowly, trying to single them out. He studied Marty in his customary tan windbreaker over a blue shirt and baggy chinos.
“Take off your windbreaker and tie it around your waist.”
“Okay. But they still could spot us. Then they’ll shoot us.”
“We’re going to be invisible.” He was lying, but under the circumstances it seemed the wisest course. Hiding his worry, he unbuttoned his uniform blouse and slipped out of it as they hurried along. He wrapped it around his garrison cap and tucked the bundle under his arm. It was not much of a disguise, but to eyes searching from a helicopter for two people in a crowd below, it might be enough.
They walked another block, the chopper closing in on them. Smith looked over at Marty, whose round face was miserable and sweating. But he offered a forced smile. Smith smiled back, even though he pulsed with tension.
The helicopter was closer. Suddenly it was almost above them.
Marty’s voice was excited. “This is it! I recognize the street. Turn here!”
Smith watched the chopper. “Not yet. Pretend to tie your shoelace.” Marty squatted and fussed at his tennis shoes. Smith bent and brushed at his trousers as if he had gotten dirt on them. People hurried past. A few threw annoyed glances at them for impeding the flow.