The Janson Command (25 page)

“
Arrest?
Are you having me on? Too many questions, when I march him into the station.”

“Did I tell you to march him into the station?”

* * *

“33°51′08″ S, 151°12′38″ E”
read Janson’s Iridium screen. He had lost Jessica Kincaid’s GPS asset tracking signal as the battery grew weak. Suddenly it was back, spitting out the coordinates of the Swatch’s location.

Google Earth showed her Swatch smack in the middle of the Sydney Harbour Bridge.

He saw the bridge a quarter mile ahead, a dark arch like the humpback of a symmetrical stegosaurus. There was movement on top, just under where the flags flew. Tourists shackled to a safety line on the famous guided Bridge Climb—climbing the arch, silhouetted against the glowing clouds, plodding up the slope like prisoners of war.

Then the GPS coordinates faded from the screen, her battery dying again, or the device blocked.

* * *

“STOP THE VEHICLE!
” Kincaid ordered. A very good idea was falling apart even before they entered Luna Park’s garage.

“What’s wrong?” said Doris.

“Read the sign.”

It was suspended over the driveway, a white board held by chains.

MAXIMUM VEHICLE HEIGHT 1.9 METRES

“We’re not that high.”

“A camper on a truck is. He can’t fit in there. Who told him he could?”

“Mikie.”

“Who else?…” Kincaid thought hard. “Turn around, Doris. Head back where the road went under the bridge approach. We’ll cruise the area. He’s got to be waiting nearby.”

They circled for five minutes. All of a sudden Mary reached reflexively toward her belt.

“Is that your phone?”

“Yeah. It’s on vibrate.”

“Check if it’s him.”

She turned the phone so Kincaid could see the screen. “BLOCKED.”

“Answer it. If it’s him, tell him we’re waiting where the road goes under the highway to the bridge—see down there by those stairs, Doris?”

Doris steered the van toward the steps, which were barricaded with sawhorses and signs that the walkway was closed for the ongoing bridge upgrade and renovation. Walkers were directed to the bike path.

“Tell him we’re down there, Mary. Make him come to you.”

“Hello?” said Mary, listened a moment, and nodded to Kincaid. “Yeah, sorry about that. We’re here.… Yeah, I know you can’t fit. We’re parked down the road at the bottom of the steps to the bridge.… No. Past the tow truck garage— No, there’s no one around. The stairs are closed for the upgrade. It’s cool. It’ll just take a second to put her in your vehicle.” She turned off the phone. “Five minutes.”

“How good are you two? This guy is really tough.”

“We need our guns back,” said Mary.

“Sure.”

Watching the Australian detective’s eyes, Kincaid popped the magazines out of their police pistols, cleared the chambers, emptied the magazines, put them back, and tossed the pistols to them. “He’s strong enough to break your disposable cuffs. Got steel?”

“Yeah.”

Kincaid could see that both women were hunkering down into themselves, preparing for action—tough street cops pumping up for a bust. Excellent. Bent as hairpins, but still good at their job.

“Cuff him hand and foot. Throw him in the back of the camper. Chain him to something he can’t break loose. I’ll take him from there.”

“And you’ll just let us go?”

“If you don’t screw up.”

“What about the money he’s supposed to pay us?” asked Mikie.

“Mikie. Come here. I want to show you something.”

“What?”

“Put your hands behind you. Come closer. Look at this.” Kincaid rapped her hard on the temple with the Tomcat, and Mikie collapsed in a silent heap.

“What did you do that for?” Mary cried.

“So she can’t try to screw it up to get me killed.”

“Good move,” said Doris.

“Here he comes.”

Kincaid watched from inside the van, through the open window on the driver’s side, as the two cops executed a thoroughly professional takedown. They waited until Van Pelt stepped out of the camper’s cab. Then flashed their badges and drew their weapons.

Caught flat-footed in what Kincaid assumed Van Pelt must be guessing was some sort of police sting, the big South African did not resist. He turned around as the cops ordered with the resigned expression of a man who knew that expensive attorneys would shortly rally to his defense and placed his big hands on the hood of the Toyota. Doris kicked his feet apart, without getting too close, and covered him with her empty pistol. Mary patted him down. She removed a gun from a belly holster and another from the small of his back. More evidence, Kincaid thought, of SR’s long reach. Moments after passing through airport security, the operative had gotten fully equipped.

Kincaid raised her own weapon now that Mary had a loaded gun in her hand. But the Australian detective continued the procedure as if this were an ordinary arrest. She clamped a cuff on Van Pelt’s left wrist and told him to bring his hands together. Van Pelt obeyed, sliding his bandaged right arm across the hood. But just when the cops felt safe was the most dangerous moment.

Kincaid yelled, “Heads-up!”

The South African mercenary exploded into motion, straightening up and swinging both arms wide, knocking both women to the ground and lunging for his guns, which had fallen to the pavement.

Kincaid fired through the open window. But Van Pelt was still in motion and the Tomcat lay too small in her hand to shoot accurately at any distance. The slug fanned Van Pelt’s face. Startled by lead flying from an unexpected direction, he jumped back from reaching for his own guns, grabbed one of the Glocks that the cops had dropped, and dove behind the camper. In the seconds it took Kincaid to get out of the van, the Securité Referral operative leaped the sawhorses and bounded up the stairs to the Harbour Bridge.

TWENTY-FIVE

K
incaid vaulted the barricade and chased after Van Pelt, two steps at a time.

When Cons Ops used to bring her in to master-class the pick of the new agents, she always warned the women that they faced one real disadvantage: “We may be faster than men,” she told them, “and more observant, but we’re shorter.” Here it was with a vengeance.

The SR agent was a foot taller than she and in just as good condition. Kincaid climbed two steps at a time. Van Pelt pulled ahead in bounds of three and four as if she were standing still. She couldn’t see him when she got to the top of the stairs and found herself on a lit pedestrian walkway enclosed by a high mesh fence topped by three strands of barbed wire to stop suicide jumpers.

Kincaid climbed onto the handrail to see farther. It was nearly bright as day. The bridge deck and the stone pylons that bracketed the arch were floodlit. Architecture lights rimmed the enormous steel truss as it curved into the night sky, powerful lamps illuminated huge flags at the top of the arch, and low-hanging clouds reflected the glow of the city’s buildings on both sides of the harbor. She clung to the mesh fence and searched the 150-foot-wide deck. Traffic was scant. A smattering of cars and trucks sped by on six lanes of highway. A train rumbled along one of two railroad lines. Cyclists flickered on the bike path, and she saw a second enclosed pedestrian path on the far side, which, unlike the one she was on, was open to walkers. The fence was high. Van Pelt was probably still on this footpath. But in which direction was he running? Across the water to the Central Business District or—

There!

In a splash of lamplight in front of the pylon where the arch started to span the harbor, he was running toward the water. She jumped down and ran after him.

Her view along the normally straight footpath was blocked by the construction work and he repeatedly disappeared behind sheds, work platforms, and stacks of material. There! She saw him again. But it was hopeless; he was still drawing ahead. The Central Business District was only a mile across the water. Once he reached the stairs on the other side, he would vanish into the city while she was still pounding across the bridge.

All of a sudden, he stopped. Kincaid put on a burst of speed, swiftly halving the distance between them. She saw ahead of him a blue flasher. It was right on the pedestrian path. Police? Van Pelt seemed to think so. He jumped onto the fence and started climbing the wire mesh.

At the top, where the mesh started to curve inward under two rows of barbed wire, he gripped the wire between the barbs. Then he swung his feet high in the air like a trapeze artist, flipped himself upright, and landed on the wire. Pinwheeling his arms to catch his balance two hundred feet above the black water, the South African pulled himself onto the girder above him and disappeared inside the massive steel web of ties, struts, plates, and flanges riveted into countless triangles that joined to form the trusses that shaped the arch.

Kincaid saw that the flashing light drawing nearer was a two-man police bicycle patrol. She had an instant to act before they saw her. She climbed up the fence as Van Pelt had, jumped for the top strand of wire, gripped between the barbs and flipped herself skyward as he had, got her feet under her, and used the wire’s springiness to bounce in a long jump to the girder.

She caught the edge with her fingers. The steel was freshly painted, slippery as a stack of plastic bags, and she lost her grip and started to fall backward. A sheet metal sign warned people not to climb on the bridge. She grabbed it. It sliced into her fingers. She gripped hard and pulled herself onto the girder.

It was oddly quiet inside the maze of steel, and much darker. What faint light there was came from beams and shafts that penetrated the openings between struts and plates and cast huge shadows.

Suddenly she heard Van Pelt high above her, pounding on metal steps. He had found an interior staircase that zigzagged up into the web. Kincaid located it and went up after him. The flights of steps were narrow. Here and there they ended at the foot of a steel ladder, which in turn joined at the next level another flight of steps.

Kincaid was guessing that Van Pelt thought she was another cop, the Aussies’ backup. And if he believed he had been caught in a sting he had to assume that there were cops everywhere. At least it looked that way. He wasn’t even wasting time looking back. The longer he thought that way, the better. He was in for a surprise when he saw who she was. His second surprise would be discovering that he was carrying an empty gun.

She heard his feet pounding the metal.

The stairs were so narrow that her smaller size was now an advantage. She could climb faster than he could. She heard him cry out in pain. He must have banged his head on a projecting step or one of the many knobs of steel projecting from the girder. She grazed one herself as she ran from one flight to the next, but she couldn’t slow down or he would escape.

Her eyes were adjusting to the light. Or perhaps more light penetrated as she climbed and the structure grew more airy. The top of a flight revealed another ladder. She climbed it, raced up another flight of stairs, and rounded a tight corner bounded by massive plates of riveted steel. Van Pelt was standing in it, facing the top of the stairs. He had his left arm pressed against his torso, in the classic shooter stance protecting vital organs. In his right hand he was aiming the Glock at Kincaid’s face.

She pawed for the gun she had pocketed in order to climb with both hands.

He pulled the trigger twice.

“Bring bullets next time, asshole.”

Van Pelt got over the shock of firing an empty pistol instantly. “You think you can stop me with that?” He lunged at her.

“Kneecapping’ll do it,” Kincaid said, trying to steady the little gun in hands that were wet again with blood from her wrists and firing twice at his knee. She heard him cry out, but he slung his empty weapon underarm in her face. It caromed off her skull as she ducked, slicing her scalp. Before she could fire again he had bolted around the next corner and was pounding the next stairs.

She knew she had hit him, but not in the knee or he wouldn’t be running like that. She slipped on something wet and fell hard. Righting herself on the steps, she felt the wet she had slipped on. Sticky blood—his this time. He wouldn’t get far.

The stairs and ladders stopped with no warning. She looked up, saw the glowing sky, saw the moving silhouette of Van Pelt climbing hand over hand up an improvised ladder of triangular cutouts in the girders. There was a sudden lull in the wind that whistled through the steel, and she could hear his laboring breath. But he was climbing fast, undaunted by whatever wound she had dealt him, and she saw no clear shot through the steel.

Pocketing the gun again, she felt for hand- and toeholds in the openings between the ties and struts that formed the panel he was climbing and started up after him. Something stung her eyes. His blood was dripping down on her, she thought at first. But no, her own blood was trickling from her scalp. She tried to brush it away with her sleeve and kept climbing, her breath coming short from exertion.

She heard voices. Numerous voices. Was she hallucinating? It sounded like people calling to each other. Not cops, not pursuit, but people having fun. Maybe she
was
hallucinating. Her head hurt and she was sure as hell breathing hard, slipping into oxygen deficit, climbing hand over hand, foot over foot, like Spider-Man, minus the spidey juice that made him stronger than humans. Chill! Stay with this!

She concentrated on the endless task of lifting leaden arms and legs in a steady rhythm while trying to stay alert for another ambush. She had to remember to look up. High above her, Van Pelt appeared to be emerging from water. He had reached the top. He was climbing out of the steel into the air. She heard the voices, again—frightened now, shouts, a cry of pain, and then the pounding of Van Pelt running again.

She reached the top. She swung herself up off the girder onto a narrow windswept catwalk. The slope of the arch curved down behind her. People yelled. She turned and looked up and saw the arch still curving higher into the sky. The people were between her and the summit—a crowd of eight in identical jumpsuits. They wore radio headsets and were tethered to a cable beside the catwalk. Bridge climbers, she realized.