The phone’s trill stopped. Harper glowered over his shoulder at Adam, then opened the door.
‘Thank God,’ said Bianca as she saw Adam emerge from the CTS. He waved, and she got out and ran to him. ‘It’s a good job I saw you get into this thing, otherwise I’d still be sitting there waiting for you.’
‘I made sure you’d see me,’ he replied. He had never even reached the Gorman Building’s roof, dropping from the rope once he was over the fence and sneaking through the parking lot. ‘I just had to make sure the guards didn’t.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me you were going to hide in his car?’ She nervously regarded Harper, who stared back in menacing silence.
‘Because I didn’t know how I was going to play things until they actually happened. Here, hold the gun. Keep him covered.’
She took the pistol. ‘But you knew he’d get the disk.’
Adam leaned into the car to collect the item in question, and the phone. ‘It was the only thing connecting him to what happened in Islamabad – and I knew he’d want to destroy it, but in some deniable way that wouldn’t incriminate him. A house fire, maybe?’ he asked Harper, who couldn’t conceal his shock at being second-guessed. ‘Yeah, I thought it would be something like that.’
‘If you really thought like me, you’d have killed me by now,’ the DNI rumbled.
Adam fixed him with an icy look. ‘I’ve considered it. Believe me. The only reason you’re still alive is that just because I can think like you doesn’t mean that I have to.’ He pocketed the phone and disk, then turned back to Bianca. ‘I knew I wouldn’t be able to go in there and get it myself. I know all his passwords and security codes, but there’s no way I’d be able to pass myself off as him.’
‘So you got him to get it for you.’ She realised what he had meant earlier. ‘That’s the solution to Levon’s puzzle, isn’t it? There’s no way you can get the diamond out of the vault yourself – so you mug the owner after he’s collected it!’
‘That’s right. Is the override still in the car?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Okay, I’ve got to go.’ He marched past her towards the Mustang.
‘What? Adam, wait!’ she cried, not daring to take her eyes off Harper. ‘Where are you going?’
‘I’ve got to get the disk to someone who can use it to bring this son of a bitch down.’
‘Why can’t I come with you?’
‘Because that phone call was probably Baxter trying to warn him that I threw them a decoy at the repository. I need you to make sure that Harper doesn’t tell anyone where I’m going.’
‘But you didn’t tell him.’
‘He knows.’ Adam opened the Mustang’s door. ‘Keep him here for fifteen minutes, then take the car and go.’
‘Why fifteen minutes? What happens then?’
‘If I haven’t delivered the disk by then, I never will. They’ll have stopped me.’ He started to get into the car – then hesitated. ‘Bianca?’
‘What?’
He jogged back to her and, to her surprise, kissed her cheek. ‘Thank you.’
‘For what?’
‘For everything. If it hadn’t been for you, I wouldn’t have known the truth about what happened in Pakistan – or who I really am.’
‘And if it hadn’t been for me, we wouldn’t be on the run from a bunch of people trying to kill us,’ she pointed out.
‘The glass is always half empty for you Brits, isn’t it?’ He became more serious. ‘I hope I see you again.’ With that, he ran back to the car and jumped in, setting off with a skirl of tyres. The throaty roar of its engine quickly faded as it headed for the Parkway.
‘You won’t,’ said Harper. ‘He won’t make it to where he’s going. And you . . . you’ll be spending the rest of your life in prison. I guarantee that, Dr Childs.’
‘Shut up,’ she said, jabbing the gun at him. ‘Get over by the car and sit down.’
He didn’t move. ‘And if I don’t?’
‘Then I’ll shoot you.’
‘No. You won’t.’ He stepped closer to her; only by a foot, but enough to make a point. ‘I don’t need the PERSONA machine to know how people think. It’s how I got to where I am. I know people – and I know you. You’re a carer, Dr Childs.’ The word sounded almost like an insult. ‘Your career, helping Gray – you do what you do because you care about other people, on an individual level.’
‘Whereas you don’t care about anyone except yourself.’
He shook his head firmly. ‘I care about people – as in, we the people of the United States. My duty is to protect them and their country. And I’ll do whatever’s necessary to achieve that.’
‘Including murder? You let your own Secretary of State be assassinated. In fact, you gave information to terrorists to make sure it happened! You’re not some great patriot – you’re a criminal and a traitor.’ Her face creased with disgust. ‘I’m normally opposed to the death penalty, but in your case I’ll make an exception. I hope they hang you.’
His eyes flicked briefly away from Bianca towards something in the distance, then locked back on to her with a newly calculating intensity. She didn’t miss the change in his attitude, but was unsure how to respond. Was there really something coming along the road behind her – or was it just an attempt at distraction?
She edged away from him, taking a quick look. A vehicle was approaching. She hurriedly tried to shield the gun from the driver’s sight with her body.
‘You really don’t have a clue what you’re doing, do you?’ said Harper, voice oozing condescension. ‘You don’t even know how to hold a gun properly.’
‘I know which end the bullets come out of,’ she countered.
Another flick of his gaze, then he looked back at the gun. ‘But you don’t know how to take off the safety catch.’
She almost turned the automatic away from him to check it – but stopped herself. ‘Nice try. But Adam wouldn’t have given me a gun that I couldn’t use.’
‘Well done, Dr Childs,’ he said, with a faint shrug. ‘You’re not quite as gullible as I thought. It doesn’t matter, though, because that gave Baxter time to get you in his sights.’
‘And I thought I wasn’t gullible,’ Bianca scoffed. But then she saw an expectancy in his expression as he glanced behind her once more – and realised that the oncoming car still hadn’t passed.
Keeping the gun aimed at him, she looked back . . .
And saw a black Suburban cruising slowly towards them. Baxter leaned from the passenger window, the needle-thin red line of his MP5’s laser sight fixed upon her.
‘Drop the gun!’ he shouted. ‘Do it or I shoot!’
Fear froze her, her hand refusing to obey Baxter’s order even to save her life. She stared helplessly back along the laser beam as it moved up to her head—
Thudding footsteps – and she was slammed painfully to the ground as Harper charged at her like a bull. He tore the gun from her grasp, twisting her arm up behind her back with such force that her shoulder joint crackled. She screamed. ‘Limey bitch,’ he growled. ‘Baxter! Get over here!’
The Suburban pulled up, Baxter jumping out. Two more SUVs came speeding in from the other direction. ‘Are you okay, sir?’ Baxter called.
‘I’m fine. How did you find me?’
He nodded towards the Cadillac. ‘All government vehicles have trackers. When you didn’t answer the phone, I realised that Gray must have got you, so we hauled ass to catch up.’ He surveyed the area. ‘Where is Gray?’
‘On his way to DC – with the disk,’ said Harper, standing. Bianca tried to move, but he shoved her back down with his foot. ‘He’s in a black Mustang – Maryland plates, registration BAR 643. He went west, towards the Parkway.’
‘We’ll get him.’ Baxter looked down at Bianca. ‘What about her?’
‘Leave her with me – you need to take out Gray.’
Baxter nodded to his men. ‘Okay, you heard him! We catch that son of a bitch and take him
down. Let’s go!’ He hurried back to his vehicle. With a triple roar of big V8s, the Suburbans lunged away.
Bianca looked up at Harper. ‘What are you going to do with me?’
He sneered. ‘You’re going to be my chauffeuse.’ He stepped back, keeping the gun on her. ‘Get in and drive.’
Adam made a call as the Mustang raced along the Suitland Parkway, entering one of the numbers he had memorised earlier: the office of the National Security Adviser. ‘This is Admiral Gordon Harper,’ he said, his voice taking on his borrowed persona’s bulldog growl. ‘I need to speak to Alan Sternberg immediately.’
He knew that calling from a number not on the list of secure lines would invoke extra security precautions, but he was ready for them. ‘Please stand by, Admiral,’ said the operator. ‘Can you give me your G-2 code, please?’
‘Four-zero-two-five-baker-delta-seven,’ he replied, rattling out the sequence with machine-gun speed.
‘And your daily password?’
‘Anthracite.’
A short pause while the codes were checked, then: ‘Thank you, Admiral. Connecting you to Mr Sternberg.’
Adam waited, guiding the Mustang past slower traffic on the two-lane highway. Finally, he heard a voice. ‘Gordon,’ said Sternberg, dislike contained beneath a veneer of professional politeness. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Sir, this is Adam Gray from the Persona Project at STS,’ Adam said, speaking quickly to prevent Sternberg from interrupting. ‘I apologise for the deception, but it’s of vital importance that I speak to you.’ The other man tried to cut in, but he kept talking. ‘I have proof that Secretary of State Sandra Easton was killed in Pakistan because a senior US official leaked her route to al-Qaeda.’
It took the startled Sternberg a couple of seconds to reply. ‘Agent Gray, as I understand it you’re currently on the run after stealing classified data from STS. Why should I believe you?’
‘Because I used the PERSONA device to take the memories of the official in question. I know everything he does – and everything he did.’
‘Who is this person?’ asked Sternberg, in a tone that suggested he had already worked out the answer.
‘Admiral Harper, sir.’
A pause. ‘That’s an extremely serious allegation, Gray. And I need more proof than just your say-so, even if you do have Harper’s memories.’
‘I’ve got a disk that the Admiral just took from the federal data repository in Suitland. He intended to destroy it. It’s a copy of the log files that show he interfered in a joint CIA-SOCOM undercover op to give disinformation to al-Qaeda in Pakistan, by switching the Secretary’s fake itinerary that was meant to lead a terrorist cell into a trap for the real one.’
Another moment of shocked silence. ‘Now, it’s no secret that Harper and I aren’t exactly best buddies,’ said Sternberg slowly, ‘but you’re saying that he’s a traitor? I can’t believe that.’
‘Nobody would. That’s why he thought he’d get away with it. Sir, I’m on my way into Washington right now to give you the disk. When you have it I’ll surrender myself and face any charges against me, but you have to see the evidence. Harper can’t be allowed to get away with what he’s done.’
‘All right,’ said Sternberg after brief deliberation. ‘Bring me the disk. But do I have your word that you’ll turn yourself in?’
‘Absolutely, sir. Once the disk is in your hand, I’ll surrender. Where are you?’
‘At the Eisenhower Building.’
‘I’m ten minutes away. Where will you be?’
‘Meet me at the north entrance on 17th Street. I’ll make sure that—’
The rear windscreen exploded.
Adam flinched as a bullet hit the back of the passenger seat’s headrest, blowing a hole through the leather. He dropped the phone and took the wheel with both hands, eyes darting between the mirrors.
Lights were coming up fast from behind. Three sets, large vehicles.
Baxter’s team had found him.
48
No Limit
Headlight flare from a car on the other side of the median strip gave Adam a glimpse of Baxter leaning out of the lead SUV. Red laser light lanced from his MP5. Adam swerved. Muzzle flash blossomed in the mirror, the gun’s rattle accompanied by harsh clanks as rounds hit the trunk lid.
He heard Sternberg’s tinny voice from the fallen phone. ‘Sir, I’m under fire!’ was all he could spare the mental resources to shout before diverting his attention entirely to evasion and escape. The Mustang was on paper much faster than the SUVs, but with their upgraded engines and suspensions the Suburbans were no slouches.
He dropped down a gear and accelerated, the rev counter jumping up into the red. The speedometer reached one hundred and kept climbing. He checked the mirror. His pursuers were falling back . . .
Not fast enough. He was opening a gap, but now the other drivers had their feet hard to the floor.
Adam changed up. One-twenty. Mirror. The lead Suburban was a couple of hundred yards back, out of the sub-machine gun’s effective range – but it was now maintaining the distance, its companions right behind it.
He looked ahead—
Red tail lights filled both lanes.
Fear sent an adrenalin shot through his system. He braked, sloughing off speed and swinging the Mustang right to avoid a collision. A vicious thump-thump as the wheels mounted the kerb, then the entire car shuddered with earthquake force as it rode along the bumpy grass verge.
It was like driving on ice. Adam grappled with the steering wheel, needing all his skill to hold the car in line as its tail threatened to snap out and send him into a spin. He overtook the obstructing cars, but now saw green rushing at him in his headlamp beams, shrubs and trees directly ahead—
A twitch of the wheel. The Mustang swung back to the left, kicking up dust and shredded grass before crashing on to the blacktop. The jolt as the suspension hit its limits felt like a kick to his spine.
He ignored the pain and straightened out, dropping back through the gears to accelerate again. The lead SUV switched on its strobes, unearthly blue pulses silhouetting the cars he had just overtaken. The one in the inside lane slowed, the other ducking aside to let the faster vehicles through.
The Parkway passed under a bridge. A sign at the roadside told Adam that the chase had just entered the District of Columbia. He was about six miles from his destination.
Six miles. Half of them on the highway. The other half would take him through the busy streets of Washington.
And he would be under attack the whole way.
He kept accelerating, back up to a hundred. This section of the road was a long, sweeping curve through woodland – with a speed limit of only fifty. More traffic ahead. His gaze flicked between the rapidly approaching tail lights and the blue strobes in the mirror. The cars ahead were reasonably spaced out . . .
Adam steeled himself – then pushed the pedal down, committing himself to the run.
He pulled into the right-hand lane, whipping past a car on the inside before swinging sharply back to the left to round another vehicle. No sooner was he past than he dived back to the right, barely a foot ahead of the car he had just overtaken. A horn sounded in anger.
Faster. More red lights rushed at him. Back to the left, foot dabbing the brake before he veered sharply across to the inside lane once more. Mirror. The cars behind were responding to the emergency lights, pulling over to leave the outside lane clear.
The lead SUV closed again, his slalom costing him precious momentum. Gear down, foot down. The rev counter wavered in the red zone. He swung past another couple of vehicles, cutting his turns as close as he dared. Another horn blast, a car weaving as its driver was frightened out of his highway trance.
He looked back. The gap was staying constant—
A pickup truck ahead suddenly pulled across to the outside lane, speeding up to draw alongside a Chevrolet Cruze – then cutting speed to match it. The pickup’s driver had seen the strobes
behind and decided to make the automotive equivalent of a citizen’s arrest, blocking the Mustang’s path so that what he thought was law enforcement could catch the speeder.
Adam had no choice but to brake hard, the Ford snaking. He looked frantically to each side of the rolling roadblock. There was no crash barrier along the grassy median strip to his left, but the number of approaching headlights warned him that crossing into the oncoming traffic would be suicide.
A paved cycle lane ran parallel to the highway on his right. But it was too narrow to fit the Mustang . . .
No choice.
He braced himself and swerved over the kerb with another tooth-shaking crash from the suspension. Then the Mustang was straddling it, right wheels all the way over at the cycle lane’s far side while the left rattled in the Parkway’s gutter.
Foot down. The black car accelerated, drawing level with the Cruze occupying the inside lane – and making contact. The flanks of the two vehicles ground together as the Mustang passed. The door mirror on Adam’s side was sheared off with a crack.
The Cruze’s driver panicked, instinctively turning away – and sideswiped the pickup.
Adam accelerated and dropped back on to the highway. The Chevrolet swung across the road behind him, just missing the Mustang’s rear bumper. The weaving pickup braked hard. Its tail end slewed around, bringing it broadside on across the lane—
A collision was unavoidable for the lead SUV. Reed, driving, took the less damaging option, veering right to hit the smaller Cruze rather than the big 4x4. With two men and their gear aboard, the Suburban was more than twice the weight of the compact car. The result was inevitable. The Cruze was swatted aside, spinning on to the cycle lane with its flank caved in.
But the SUV also took damage. The impact shattered its right headlamp cluster and tore off the front bumper, Reed battling to keep control as the Suburban reeled over the kerb. It ripped through bushes at the roadside before finally slowing.
One down, if only temporarily – but still two to go. The other Suburbans also swerved to avoid the pickup, narrowly missing the wrecked Cruze before overtaking Baxter and sweeping back into pursuit of the Mustang.