Abuse of Power (40 page)

That said, the place was still sewn up tight and the clock was counting down. The President would be arriving at any moment.

Jack needed to get down to that subbasement.

He was standing in the main foyer now, looking out toward the courtyard. “Tell me you’ve got something for me,” he said to Karras.

“The main concern of the video network is protection of the artwork,” Karras said. “Each exhibit room is equipped with a camera mounted high in the corner with a wide-angle lens. Unfortunately, it looks like nearly every corridor in the place has something on display, and even the stairwells themselves are equipped with video. You try to make a move, they’ll be on you like piranha.”

“Maybe you should just walk up to one of these guys and tell them there’s a bomb in the building,” Max suggested.

“You forget,” Jack told her, “we don’t know who we can and can’t trust. And how exactly am I supposed to convince them I’m not just some kind of wack-job?” He paused and said, “What about the basement, Dave? Any cameras in there?”

“Not a one, as far as I can tell. And—hold on. I think I may have a way to get you down there.”

“Tell me.”

“You have a problem with small spaces?”

“I live on a boat, remember?”

“I’m talking laundry-chute small.”

“Spit it out, Dave, or I’ll have Maxine smack you around a little.”

Karras paused, as if considering the benefits of hesitating, then said, “According to these blueprints, in the far right corner of the building on the terrace level there’s a small room near the café with a laundry chute. It’s probably where they dump all their soiled linen.”

“I can confirm that,” Tony piped in. “I saw one of the white coats pushing a cart in there just five minutes ago.”

“Right,” Karras said. “I’ve checked all the cameras and there’s none in the corridor that leads to that room. It’s a complete dead spot. Apparently wine-stained tablecloths aren’t a security priority.”

“So the laundry chute is our way in,” Jack said.

“That’s the long and short of it.”

Outside in the courtyard the string quartet suddenly stopped playing, then launched into a rousing rendition of “Hail to the Chief,” as a caravan of limousines pulled up to the palace entrance. The crowd of gawkers outside grew visibly excited and started migrating toward the cars as Secret Service men gestured them back.

“All right,” Jack said, checking his watch. “We don’t have much time. Tony, meet me in that corridor in three minutes.”

“Will do,” Tony acknowledged.

Jack turned to head back toward the rotunda. As he did, a voice sang out behind him.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the illustrious Mr. Hatfield.”

Jack turned to find Special Agent Carl Forsyth approaching him from the courtyard—the agent who had tried very hard to humiliate him at that FBI press conference several days ago.

Forsyth gestured to the courtyard behind him. “The President’s this way, Jack. Aren’t you headed in the wrong direction?”

Jack hesitated. “Bathroom break.”

Forsyth smiled. “Come on now, hotshot, we both know that isn’t true. You know what I think? I think you’re here to stir up trouble.”

Forsyth’s smile faded as two more special agents stepped up behind him, reaching into their jackets.

They didn’t look like they were there for the wine.

38

Even with the map it took Doc Matson a while to find the entry point.

Doc’s friend had only been able to give them a vague location and a couple of signposts. He’d told Doc that the real expert on the bunker was a woman named Tally Griffin, but she’d been out with a new boyfriend the last couple days and no one had seen or heard from her.

That didn’t sound good to Doc. A hunch told him the bad guys had found out about Tally, used her to get in, and didn’t want anyone to know.

So Doc did his best, using what little information he had, to lead Abernathy and Goldman down the cliff toward the water, and around an outcropping of rocks. The full moon helped, but finding the precise tree with the precise grouping of stones had not been easy, and Doc cursed the thought that this entire half-baked enterprise might be derailed by a tree that some piss-sniffing dog could find.

Now that he had time to think, he was probably crazy doing this in the first place. They all were. But Doc and Tony Antiniori went back a long way, and if you couldn’t count on your friends when your back was against the wall, who
could
you rely on? Besides, it had been a while since Doc had gotten an adrenaline shot like the last twenty-four hours, and a guy his age needed as much excitement as he could find.

They were a ragtag crew, the three of them, no question about it, and Doc kinda felt as if he were a refugee from some Sylvester Stallone movie. Only this was real life, and if they were right about what was going on in those tunnels they wouldn’t be facing Hollywood special effects but real, honest-to-God Muslim fanatics, with real, honest-to-God firepower.

But Doc had lived a long, fruitful life and had fought many wars in the defense of his country. If today was the day he finally gave his life for that cause, so be it. His only real family was Tony and these two guys, so he couldn’t think of better company to do it in.

After further exploration they found the tree with the three stones in front of it. The largest stone had already been moved, and there, under the beam of Doc’s Mini Maglite, was a crevice in the ground that left no doubt that they’d found what they were looking for.

Time to get to it.

They had decided to travel light for easy maneuverability, so they each carried only handguns—Abernathy with his SIG 9 mil, Goldman sporting a Smith & Wesson .45, and Doc carrying his usual Beretta 92FS Semi-Auto 9mm.

Doc shimmied in through the crevice first, taking a short drop into the darkness and landing on a cement floor. He stood there for a moment, listening for any sounds, but the place was as silent as a tomb. Flashing his light toward the opening, he waited as Abernathy and Goldman shimmied through and dropped, then shone his beam toward the rebar ladder that led down a shaft to their right.

Goldman took the lead this time, hopping onto the ladder and working his way down, and a moment later they were all standing in one of the massive corridors that Doc had called home as a naïve, eager eighteen-year-old, for the first six months of his military career. Except for a smattering of graffiti the place hadn’t changed much. He could remember the personnel moving through here as carrier cars moved along on the overhead rails carrying equipment barged to the shore. All these years later he still knew exactly where he was.

“This way,” he said to the others.

Using their Mini Maglites sparingly, they worked their way up the tunnel and turned right, moving into another tunnel, which opened out into a space on the left that Doc remembered had once been a bunkhouse. It was one of several that had been integrated into the place. His own assigned bunk had been closer to the Golden Gate Bridge side of the tunnel, which was where he spent most of his duty hours as well.

Doc was about to continue on when he caught a glimpse of something in his flashlight beam. Swinging it back into the bunkhouse again, he froze as dread chilled his spine.

“Holy crap,” Abernathy murmured directly behind him.

They moved quickly to a figure lying prone on the cement floor, a blond, life-sized Raggedy Ann, a flannel shirt tossed carelessly over her naked body, looking as if she’d been discarded like a used tissue.

Her face was mottled with bruises. There were black-and-blue marks under her ears.

Doc felt for a pulse and got exactly what he was expecting—nothing. He also had a pretty good idea who this was. He told the others it was probably Tally Griffin, the bunker expert.

This thing was suddenly more real than it had ever been. He activated his ear com and said, “Tony, Jack, do you read me?”

All he got was static.

“Tony?”

More static.

“Damn,” he said to the others. “Coms aren’t working down here. The walls must be interfering with the frequency.”

“Screw it,” Abernathy said, his voice tight with anger. “Let’s find the bastards who did this.”

*   *   *

Tony Antiniori heard the last strains of “Hail to the Chief” being played as he worked his way down the corridor to the room where he’d seen the white-coated server with the laundry cart disappear earlier.

He’d waited several minutes for Jack. Obviously something was holding him up, and with the music signaling the arrival of the President, Tony didn’t have time to wait anymore.

Just as he reached the room he heard voices and several of the white coats came around the corner. He held his hand to his ear, as if he had a cell phone, and pretended to talk into it. The men walked by chattering to one another, eyeing Tony indifferently as they passed. He waited until they were gone then moved to the door and checked the knob.

Unlocked.

Taking one last glance around he slipped inside, closed the door behind him, and flicked on the light. It was a large square room with several canvas laundry carts inside, and shelves along one wall stacked with napkins, tablecloths, towels, and other linens. On the far wall, behind one of the laundry carts, was the chute Karras had told them about. It was nothing more than a square hole in the wall with plastic flaps in front of it.

He studied it warily and activated his com line. “Hey, Karras, I’m in the linen room. You sure I won’t break my neck going down this thing?”

“No guarantees,” Karras said. “Hell, my grandpa broke his neck stepping into the bathtub.”

“You callin’ me ‘grandpa’?” The kid didn’t know him well enough to be talking to him like this.

“No offense,” Karras said, “but those older bones of yours might be fragile.”

“Yeah?” Tony fumed. “Remind me to kick your fat behind next time I see you. Then we’ll talk about bones.”

That shut the kid up, but he thought he heard Max laughing under her breath.

Pushing back the flaps, he checked the chute more closely. The angle wasn’t too severe, so he figured the speed of his trajectory would be manageable. Hell, he couldn’t count the number of free falls he’d done at twenty-five thousand feet, so this should be a piece of cake—assuming there was something down there to buffer his landing.

Removing his tuxedo jacket and cummerbund, he tossed them into a nearby bin then grabbed the lip of the chute and climbed inside, positioning his legs in front of him.

He said a quiet prayer and let go.

The ride was short but exhilarating, a ten-second rush of adrenaline that ended with Tony flat on his back in an industrial-sized laundry bin that was already half full of dirty linen. Sitting up, he peeked over the top and scanned the area.

Typical commercial building subbasement, from what he could see, all cement, with ducts and pipes and fluorescent light fixtures, a couple of big industrial-sized sinks; quite a contrast to the beauty of the museum above. But this was only one room in a massive floor plan, with doors leading to other rooms, and Tony had no idea which way to go. Fortunately, the place seemed deserted, no white-coated servers or maintenance workers moving about.

Climbing from the bin, Tony grabbed a napkin and walked toward the sink.

“Okay, that was fun. And no broken bones, thank you very much. Where do I go from here?”

“You’re actually pretty close,” Karras told him. “Depending on how you’re positioned, there should be a door to your left, followed by a long corridor that eventually opens out into an old boiler room. You’ll find the sealed-off elevator to your right with the auxiliary hatch to the left of it. If anyone’s coming up, that’s where you’ll find them.”

“What’s going on upstairs in the courtyard?” Tony asked as he ran the napkin under water.

“The Prez is shaking hands and making small talk, but he’s making his way inside.”

Minutes mattered now.

Seconds.

“Is that running water I hear?” Max asked.

“Yeah. I’m wetting a napkin so I can wring it real tight. Makes a helluva whip if you crack a guy across the eyes with it.”

“Sweet,” Karras said.

“Yeah, if I don’t run across more than a rogue or two. Either of you heard from Jack?”

“Not a peep,” Max told him.

“Wonderful.”

What the hell is he up to?

Tony wrung out the napkin, twisted it tight, and looped it in his hand, ready to use if necessary. He located the door on his left and made his way to it. He turned the knob, opening it just a crack.

The corridor beyond was dimly lit, the ceiling and one wall lined with huge round plumbing pipes. As Tony moved into it, he wished they had figured some way to smuggle weapons into the place. He’d hate to run into a small army of terrorists while carrying nothing more than a wet napkin.

Quietly closing the door behind him, he worked his way down the corridor, following it as it curved slightly to the left. As he approached the mouth of the corridor, which opened onto the old boiler room, he heard the faint sound of a radio playing. An easy-listening station.

Someone was down here.

Edging to his right, Tony took cover behind a large plumbing duct and peered into the dimly lit room.

What he saw froze his heart.

A uniformed museum guard lay on the floor next to an old cage-style elevator. The doors to the cage were shut and secured with a thick chain and padlock. And just to the left of this was a small hatch in the floor. It had also been secured by a chain and padlock, but they lay discarded next to it and the hatch was hanging open.

This was not good.

Scanning the room and seeing no sign of a threat, Tony stepped from behind the duct and quickly moved to the guard. Crouching down, he grabbed the young man’s wrist and felt a faint throbbing.

Still alive.

Activating his com line, Tony said, “Jack, if you’re out there, we have a serious—”

Before he could finish, something solid hit him across the back of the head and he spiraled into darkness.

*   *   *