Parallel Lies (35 page)

Ominous orbs of light from flashlights washed over the ground on each side of the train. The guards approached from opposite ends, squeezing him in and negating any chance for him to escape. To run now, even if he got away, would attract attention to this particular car, and the duffel would be found. He watched those flashlights carefully and realized both guards were stopping at each car and shining the light
beneath
the car.

He glanced up at the duffel, reached up to test the strength of the nylon strapping, and pulled himself up between the twin I beams and into the dark space there. His face pressed against the nylon, his arms trembled as his muscles fatigued. He awaited the telltale sweep of a light. The pain grew. His biceps and back cramped.

Faint twinges of light. He pulled himself up higher.

The light drew closer, brighter.

He held absolutely still—it would be movement more than anything that would give him away.

The flashlight’s yellow beam passed just below him, shadows dancing. Sweat ran into his eyes, blurring his vision. He held his breath.

The footsteps faded. The light moved on. Alvarez started to lower himself, his muscles grateful, when he heard their voices nearby. He sucked himself back up, arms quivering.

“Nothing!” one of the voices said.

“Same here,” came the other.

The men spoke to each other across the coupling, between cars, less than ten feet away.

“We should continue on—down both sides—and check that all the cars are still locked.”

“It’s cold as a witch’s tit out here.”

“You want to check the rest of the cars or not?”

“Yeah, what the hell? Why not?”

“Okay, then.”

Still on opposite sides of the train, the guards continued their respective routes, this time with footfalls coming to Alvarez’s right. Again a beam of light swept below him, slowly moving forward. Footfalls grew more faint. He lowered himself down to the chipped-rock railbed and lay motionless, noting the locations of both guards. He remained absolutely still for several minutes, until the guards were nowhere to be seen. He then rolled over, came to his knees, and rechecked the duffel one last time.

He slipped out from under the train, stayed in shadow, and hurried along the side of line 717, searching and finding a hole in the fencing. He checked behind himself one last time, ducked through the fence, and took off at a run.

Affecting an Asian accent, Tyler left a message on Priest’s answering machine that her dry cleaning was ready and could be picked up. Included was an invoice number and the amount she owed. With most pay phones in New York blocked from receiving incoming phone calls, Tyler sat at the end of Murphy’s Bar on 23rd Street, only a few blocks from the Flatiron Building in lower Manhattan.

The bartender at Murphy’s was a thick-armed guy named Chuck. He had a graying beard and a ruddy complexion. At 8 A.M., Tyler was one of three at the bar. He drank coffee. The other two were drinking beer and booze, and they looked it. Chuck had pocketed one of Tyler’s twenty-dollar bills to play the double role of telephone operator.

Tyler was reading through the entire NTSB file on the Genoa, Illinois, accident for the fifth time. Rucker had supplied it before their departure by private jet to New York. Rucker, who had been scheduled to attend the test run of the bullet train, now intended to meet with O’Malley prior to the event. Tyler doubted he’d be granted that interview.

From the Genoa paperwork, the investigation looked straightforward enough. The vehicle in question was believed to have stalled on the crossing and to have been struck when it couldn’t move off the tracks in time. The tenor of the report seemed to be that this wasn’t the first time this had happened, and it wouldn’t be the last. Over a thousand people a year were struck by moving trains. Both crossing gates were
shown in photographs in their lowered positions, supporting the claim that the auto had been out on the tracks—either intentionally or accidentally—when those gates had lowered automatically, signaling the arrival of the freight. There was nothing in the file to suggest the warning lights or one of the gates had failed to lower properly. The
only
mention of a 911 Emergency Communications call was an entry listed under Means of Notification. In Tyler’s mind, this indicated there would likely never be any proof that the tape of this call, long since missing, had contained incriminating evidence against NUR. He wondered if the train’s driver, Milrose, had made that call himself and what, if any, observations that call had contained.

To read the file, Alvarez’s wife was at fault. Listed anonymously as the “vehicle operator,” Juanita Alvarez was said to have failed to get herself and her children out of the vehicle and off the tracks in time. NTSB photographs showed the crushed minivan’s ignition switch in the “on” position, indicating either that the car was running or that the driver was trying to start it at the time of impact, and thus the ambiguity about responsibility for the vehicle operator’s failure to “secure a safe distance from the approaching train.”

The phone rang and the bartender, Chuck, answered. He listened and passed the receiver to Tyler. “Your call, pal.”

“You’re here,” Nell Priest said, somewhat desperately. “In the city, I mean. Two-one-two.”

“You’re on a pay phone?” Tyler inquired.

“Yes, of course.”

“We have a lot to catch up on.” Tyler said, “We need a favor from you, some files.”

“Did you say ‘we’?”

“That’s part of the explanation.”

“It certainly is.” She named a breakfast place near Union Square.

Tyler named the Marriott at Times Square. “Room eleven-twelve.”
The return to government payroll had its privileges. “Make sure you aren’t followed,” Tyler stressed.

“Give me two hours,” she replied, not challenging his choice of the hotel.

When Nell Priest knocked at room 1112, no one answered. She waited and then knocked again. Behind her, the door to room 1111 opened, though she paid little attention until she heard Tyler’s voice say, “In here.” She turned around, stepped across, checking both directions first, and was quickly admitted.

Tyler wanted to hug her, to tell her how good it was to see her. Instead, he introduced her to Rucker as he locked the door. She looked to Tyler as he showed her to a chair. Confusion filled her face. Tyler explained that he’d turned himself in to Metro Police and had subsequently been released. Rucker had dropped the suspension, reinstating him.

“But he lacks the power to make arrests,” Rucker filled in.

“Which is where I come in?” Priest’s eyes searched Tyler’s.

Tyler said, “If O’Malley gets Alvarez, it’s the last any of us will ever hear from him.”

She reached into her purse and withdrew copies of the files Tyler had requested she bring. “Do you want these?”

Rucker stepped forward and blocked the exchange. He explained, “We’re asking you to cross over, Ms. Priest, and work for us. I can offer you legal protection—immunity from anything Northern Union might throw at you. In terms of your personal security, it’s your own risk, I’m afraid.”

Still looking at Tyler, she replied, “I crossed over a while ago. There’s no need for any of this.”

Not sensing the connection between these two, Rucker insensitively
plowed on. “It needs to be made official. Essentially, I’m recruiting you as an NUS insider to provide information against Keith O’Malley, to inform me of his plans and to assist Agent Tyler in the arrest of Umberto Alvarez.”

Tyler said to her, “As you and I discussed, we’re assuming O’Malley will do everything to ensure that Alvarez is
not
arrested.”

“Agreed,” Nell said, her eyes pleading with Tyler. She didn’t want to be put through this.

Rucker added, “What we’re asking has risk for you, both personally and professionally.”

She said sarcastically to Rucker, “I pretty much figured that out for myself.”

“I’ve drawn up a paper for you to sign,” Rucker explained. “It’s to protect you, since I’m assuming you’ve signed a nondisclosure agreement with NUS.”

“I have.” The files still remained gripped in her hand. “Am I the only one who’s worried about Peter in all this?”

“The way we help Peter,” Rucker said, in a patronizing tone, “is to bring down Keith O’Malley. These papers make the exchange of any inside information at the official request of the NTSB. Whatever penalties are named in your NDA are overridden by this.”

Her eyes once again found Tyler’s and asked why it had to be done so formally. He felt a sadness, a heaviness in her, and wanted to rush to an explanation. “We may not beat him to Alvarez. It may come down to a conspiracy charge. Loren wants every precaution taken to nail him on whatever we can.”

“You want me to sign papers, I’ll sign papers.” She signed the documents and then handed the NUR paperwork over to Tyler. “He won’t derail the F-A-S-T Track. He won’t even
get
to it,” she injected. “This is not some freight running a Midwestern route. We’ve been focused on the security of this
train from its inception. And not just because of Alvarez. It’s a great target for any weirdo out there, and O’Malley has taken every precaution there is. It’s inspected, top to bottom, several times daily; it’s watched by a dozen guards around the clock; when it rolls, a lead locomotive will run on ahead of it, to trip any devices that may have been set on the rails themselves. The invited guests have been screened and will be required to pass through two separate security checkpoints before getting anywhere near the train. That goes for maintenance, catering, even Penn Station employees. I’m telling you, this is a military operation. No way he gets this train.”

Neither man chose to speak, Priest’s words hanging in the air. She glanced at Tyler, and he felt a connection with her that he treasured.

Rucker, oblivious, took up the signed document and thanked her. “If I can push the necessary warrants through, will you plant a listening device for us? Today, if possible.”

“I could try. But he sweeps the offices regularly. It won’t last long, and when it’s found he’ll know someone is onto him, and whatever he has will be shredded or destroyed. FYI.” She added, “If it hasn’t already been. He’s one careful man, I’ll tell you what.”

“We’ll reconsider,” Rucker announced. Collecting his things, he requested Priest’s mobile phone number and she supplied it. He said, “I want to know where both of you are at all times and what you’re doing.”

“Hopefully, yes,” Tyler said.

“Hopefully, nothing,” Rucker protested. “You keep me in the loop.” He shook Priest’s hand and hurried out. Tyler locked up behind him.

He sensed her spinning head. “You okay?”

“This was not what I’d expected.”

He apologized and said, “We have different agendas, Rucker and I. O’Malley’s a friend of his, and he feels used. He agrees that these earlier derailments by Alvarez were possible
warm-ups. That with this bullet train, he’ll make his statement.”

“He’s wrong. The trains operate off of completely different technologies. Alvarez is not going to sabotage the journal bearings on F-A-S-T Track. No way he’ll get that chance. So practicing on those freights won’t get him anywhere. That theory just doesn’t make sense.”

He stepped up to her, leaned over, and kissed her gently. Then he pulled up a chair to face her. She looked uncomfortable with the kiss—or was that longing, he wondered.

“You’re going to ask me for something,” she said in a hoarse whisper. To him, her lips, wet from their kiss, begged for another. He nodded. The air seemed still, the short space between them pulled at him.

“That’s what you want—another favor.”

“It’s not all I want,” he said, equally softly.

“No?” She moved a little closer. The air seemed quite still.

He reached out and ran his fingers from her ear down her neck, and then wrapped his hand around her neck and pulled her to him.

She checked him just as their lips were about to touch. “We’re mixing business with pleasure,” she cautioned. “Why don’t you ask me for whatever it is you want first?”

Tyler let go of her neck, his fingers slipping down her chest and running over her breasts and finally finding her arm and her hand. As she leaned back, they held hands. Her eyes were glassy and she held a faint, winsome smile on her moist lips.

She squeezed his hand. “If you’re trying to bribe me, this isn’t going to sit well for us.”

“I need you to get me onto the bullet train,” he told her bluntly. “The F-A-S-T Track. Well in advance of the test run.”

She let go of his hand and sat up straight. “How do I manage that?”

“There must be a maintenance group aboard the train. If I go on with them, maybe I go unnoticed. Who pays attention to guys in blue jumpsuits?”

She nodded slightly, “And maintenance would give you access to every part of the train.”

“Exactly.”

“And if O’Malley finds you?”

“I understand it’s not without risk,” he said.

“You’re kidding, right? Twelve guards. Everyone, everything screened.”

“There must be special badges,” he guessed. “You lift one of those and a maintenance jumpsuit. I dress for the party underneath the jumpsuit.”