The Einstein Papers (22 page)

“Yeah, okay,” a second voice shouted.

“I see him, he turned on the road to the train station. I’ll follow him,” said a third voice.

“Yep, I see him,” said a fourth voice.

Nearly half a dozen cabs began trailing the Diamond Cab-so much for the idea of any secrecy. The subject of the chase sat in his cab smoking and looking out the window at the scenery, oblivious to the commotion. Arriving at the station just in time for his departure, he checked his bags with the porter at the rail siding and immediately boarded the waiting train.

The first cab driver arrived at the station and spotted the man leaving the Diamond Cab and getting on the train. He parked his cab and waited on the siding as the train conductor gave the boarding call.

Taft sat in the back of his cab, waiting behind the school bus. “Now,” he said to his driver as the school bus retracted its stop sign.

Over the radio in Taft’s cab one of the other drivers said, “He is at train station.”

The Indian driver grinned at Taft. “Wait until I tell my friends about this. This is like out of a movie.” He laughed as he steered the Chevrolet toward the train station.

The Chinese agent, Chou Tsing, was oblivious he was being followed. He settled himself comfortably in his seat on the train and began reading the magazine he had brought with him.

Taft’s cab pulled into a parking spot in front of the station, and he jumped from the cab to see the train receding down the tracks. Racing back to his cab, Taft passed out money to the group of cabbies who had trailed the Diamond Cab.

“Do you know where the train tracks lead?” Taft shouted to his driver as the last cabbie was paid.

“Yes,” the man said excitedly.

“Then follow the train,” Taft said, climbing back into the cab.

“Sounds good,” the Indian cab driver said as he roared away from the station.

They were cruising down the road at a high rate of speed when Taft said, “Pull up to a pay phone-I have to make a call.”

“Okay,” the cabbie said as he slammed on the brakes and pulled into the parking lot of a convenience store.

Taft dialed Martinez’s portable phone. “Larry, it’s me. I’m calling from a pay phone. My cell phone is in your car,” Taft said. “Did you get my message?”

“I did,” Martinez said, still in the lobby of the hotel.

“I think the guy we’re looking for is on an Amtrak train heading south.”

“I’ll try to intercept you with the rental car,” Martinez said.

“I’m staying on this guy, no matter what,” Taft said quickly.

“Go for it,” Martinez agreed. “Listen, I’ll try to reach Amtrak and have the train stopped. Be extremely cautious how you approach the suspect-if it’s him we want those papers intact if at all possible. What’s your plan?”

“I’m not quite sure yet. Find an atlas that lists the train route as well as roads or highways,” Taft said.

“Hold on,” Martinez said as he spoke to the clerk. “Here we go, the front desk has an atlas. What do you need?” Martinez asked.

“Where does the train go under Highway 3?” Taft asked.

“You planning on jumping, John?” Martinez said, his voice sounding surprised. “That’ll be twice in one week.”

“Just like ‘Perils of Pauline,’” Taft noted.

“There’s a spot just outside Milton where the train has to slow for some curves-at least according to this map.”

Taft wrote down the directions, reached through the open window of the cab, and marked them on the cabbie’s map. “Take me here.”

“You got it,” the cabbie shouted.

“I’ll call you when I can,” Taft said to Martinez as he hung up the pay phone.

“I’m headed toward you,” Martinez said into a now-dead phone line.

As the cab carrying Taft raced toward Milton, they caught sight of the train. Little by little, the cab began to pull ahead. Racing down Highway 3, the driver began to panic.

“It’s going to be close,” he worried aloud.

Just outside Milton, Taft looked again at the cab driver’s map, then gave him the final directions to the bridge. In the distance, the train was fast approaching.

From his wallet Taft removed a hundred-dollar bill and handed it across the seat to the cabbie. “Good job.”

“Thank you, sir,” the cabbie said.

The train was starting under the bridge.

Taft leapt from the cab as it slid to a stop. He was standing next to the open side window of the cab, staring at the approaching train. He estimated the train was going no more than twenty-five miles an hour as it came around the curve. Carefully Taft began timing his jump.

“Wait,” the cabbie said, “I have a receipt for you.”

“That’s okay,” Taft said, rocking back and forth as he prepared for his jump.

“Okay, but sir, if I may ask-who are you?” the cab driver asked politely.

“My name is Pitt. Dirk Pitt,” Taft said quickly.

Timing the train s speed one last time, Taft flung himself off the railroad bridge. Arms and legs outstretched, he flew through the air like a flying squirrel. He landed on top of the moving train with a heavy thud that knocked out his wind and brought tears to his eyes. The wind whipped at his clothes. It took several minutes for him to collect his thoughts.

“Twice in a week,” Taft thought to himself as he caught his breath. “I might want to consider buying a ticket in the future.”

“Dirk Pitt?” the cab driver said to himself as the train passed from sight. “That’s an odd name.”

The Amtrak train made its way south, gaining speed with each mile. His eyes still tearing from the whipping air, Taft struggled to regain his breath. He lay quiet for several more minutes, breathing deeply, then pulled up his shirt and glanced at his beet-red stomach. The area nearest his ribs was already beginning to bruise.

The burning pain from his belly mixed well with the stabbing pain from where he had landed on his right hip. He felt like he had been kicked by a mule wearing logging boots. Taft coughed several times. Spitting over his head into the wind, he rolled carefully onto his left hip.

The train was passing through the Massachusetts countryside, and Taft sat on the roof of the passenger car for a moment, looking at the scenery. He breathed in the smell of fall through his nostrils as he slowly willed the pain away. Looking behind, he noticed the end of the train was only three cars back. He crouched low to minimize his wind resistance as he jumped across the gaps between cars until he reached the last one.

Laying prone again on the roof he peered his head carefully over the edge. It appeared that the last coach was a sleeping car. Since trains no longer featured a rear club car, they placed the sleepers last to allow the higher-paying passengers with cabins greater privacy.

A small, slightly rusted iron railing surrounded the tiny rear platform at the rear of the car. Behind that was only the tracks and the rails sliding rapidly past. Taft swiveled around on his stomach so his feet dangled off the edge of the car, then slid slowly off the roof.

Taft aimed carefully for the tiny platform. Gaining speed faster than he anticipated, he nearly fell backward off the landing when he hit the platform. His body lurched forward and he bumped the door.

Stabilizing himself with his hands against the body of the railcar, he attempted to open the door to the sleeper coach but found it jammed. Rearing back as far as he could go on the small platform, he rammed the door with his shoulder until it burst open. Strangely enough, no one came out of their cabin at the noise.

Closing the battered door behind him, Taft began walking forward through the train until he reached the car nearest the locomotive-the dining car. Groups of tourists and commuters sat tranquilly finishing their breakfast and relaxing over cups of coffee. Taft was scanning the crowd searching for Tsing and did not hear the porter, who approached silently behind him.

“Can I get you anything, sir?” she asked.

Taft turned and looked into the eyes of a very attractive, five-foot-tall female in a form-fitting, red-vested uniform. She smiled at him sweetly.

“No, nothing. Thanks,” Taft said, smiling back.

“Well, you let me know if you need anything,” she said walking away, her figure rocking with the movement of the train.

Taft slowly continued his search through both the sitting cars and the bar car.

The train was surprisingly full. The tourists were obviously enjoying a final trip while the weather was still clear. The fall foliage lining the tracks was colored with deep reds, yellows, and oranges. It was nature’s last burst before the browns and grays of winter came calling.

Taft’s search came up empty.

Sitting down in a seat he tried to figure out how to search the private sleeping compartments. The train was now rumbling through the town of Attleboro, Massachusetts. They would soon be entering the outskirts of Providence, Rhode Island, the train’s next stopping point

Martinez slammed his fist against the side of his cellular phone as he raced in the rental car down 1-95. Amtrak would be calling him back for confirmation to stop the train and now his phone wasn’t working.

“Cheap shit batteries,” he said to himself.

Glancing to the side of the road he saw a sign that said: North Attleboro, 12 miles. Stomping his foot on the accelerator, he took the rental car up to a speed of nearly 100 miles an hour.

The attractive porter walked up to the seated Taft and stood alongside his seat. “Are you sure you don’t need anything?” she said, smiling seductively.

“Well, maybe you can help-you see, I’m looking for a Chinese man, about six foot tall, with short black hair,” Taft said.

“Great,” she said, her voiced edged in sarcasm.

“No, no,” Taft said quickly, “I was in the Army. I spent time in Hong Kong, and I think I may have met him there,” he blurted. “I thought I saw him earlier in the bar car, but now he’s disappeared. He must have a sleeper car.”

The woman looked at Taft with renewed interest. Taft, his heterosexuality now reaffirmed, appeared pleased. “Let me ask my friend who is the sleeping car attendant,” the porter said helpfully.

Taft sat back down to wait, glancing out the window at the scenery. The train took a fork and entered Rhode Island. He could see Pawtucket ahead in the distance.

Taft glanced up as the porter returned. “My friend found the Chinese man and told him your story. He wants to meet you. He’s in the next to the last car … cabin C,” she said with a smile.

Damn it, Taft thought, I hadn’t expected she’d go talk to him. So much for surprise.

“Great,” he said miserably. “I’ll just walk down there and visit.”

Taft rehearsed his plan as he walked between the cars. He would burst into the cabin, subdue the man, then search the compartment for the papers.

Taft found the hall empty outside cabin C.

Taft paused, then shouldered the door open and burst into the tiny cabin. He was concentrating on any danger in front of him. It was a mistake he would never make again.

The instant Taft entered cabin C, Tsing burst out of an empty cabin across the hall. Reaching through the open door he chopped at Taft’s neck with the edge of his hand-a hard slashing blow to the carotid artery. Taft swiveled, thrusting his elbow into Tsing’s chest.

Tsing was knocked back into the hallway.

Taft leapt from cabin C, both feet off the ground, only to be met by a well-placed kick Tsing leveled at his midsection. He flew back into the cabin, his head smashing against the sharp edge of the overhead storage compartment on the far wall. Then, like a burlap sack filled with pennies, he dropped from the air, his head coming to rest in a corner on the floor of the tiny cabin, unconscious.

The sound of Taft’s body crashing to the floor brought several people out of their cabins. Clutching his briefcase to his chest, Tsing walked quickly past toward the front of the train. The train was slowing as it neared Providence station, and over the intercom the conductor reminded the passengers to please remember to take all their personal belongings.

“I need a large cherry slush monster, please,” the acne-ridden teenager told the clerk at the combination gas-and-convenience store just off the exit to 1-95.

Martinez hopped from foot to foot. In his hand he held a dollar bill he needed changed.

The clerk began slowly to fill the cup with cherry slush. The machine began sputtering. “I’m sorry, it looks like we’re out…”

“I need change here,” Martinez said.

“Hey man, you have to wait your turn,” the teenager said.

Martinez ignored the teenager.

The clerk handed over the change and Martinez sprinted for the pay phone. He dialed the number to reach Amtrak central security.

“This is Special Agent Martinez. I’m sorry, my cellular phone quit working. Please stop the train from Boston to Providence. Now.”

“When we didn’t hear from you, Agent Martinez, we just waited. The train has already reached Providence.”

“Damn!” Martinez said as he hung up.

He raced for the rental car and steered toward the train station in Providence.

Luckily for Taft, the female porter, fresh from applying new makeup, decided to flirt with him one last time. Folding the mirror in her office back into the wall, she walked through the train to the sleeping cars. Stopping at cabin C, she noticed the door was ajar.

Taft’s shoes and part of his legs were sticking out on the floor. The train was barely moving as she pushed the door to the cabin farther open, then helped Taft to struggle upright. Taft was still drifting in and out of consciousness as the porter ran to get help.

The train pulled to a stop at the station. The porter and sleeping-car attendant held an ice pack to Taft’s head, trying to revive him. Slowly Taft’s head began to clear. Rising unsteadily to his feet, he noticed the throbbing in his neck blended nicely with his various other aches. He stood on wobbly knees.

The anxious faces of the two ladies filled Taft’s field of view. “Wrong guy, I guess,” he managed to say before he passed out once again.

Taft was sitting in the back of an ambulance, holding an ice pack to his neck. He was arguing loudly with the paramedics.