The Einstein Papers (25 page)

“Yeah,” Bilcher said.

This is Gilbert Moscap.”

Bilcher was stabbed first by a pang of guilt, then by anger. Someone on his crew must have alerted Moscap to his habit of taking off early on Friday. “Yes, sir,” Bilcher said.

“Did you order any microbe deliveries today?” Moscap asked.

Bilcher smiled, his brief anger subsiding. “No sir. I almost always order ‘robes to be delivered on Monday.”

The cellular phone fell silent for a moment. “Thanks. That’s all I need,” Moscap said after the pause.

Bilcher hung up the phone and exhaled. Reaching in the glove box he removed a pack of cigarettes. Then he returned to the bar to get good and drunk.

At Enviorco, in McAllen, Moscap rubbed his face with his hands.

“The people on the tapes have their hats pulled low. It’ll be tough to get any sort of positive identification,” the security guard said when Moscap walked from Lauder’s office.

Looking at Lauder, Moscap rubbed his hands across his cheeks again. “We’ve got a hell of a problem here,” he said finally.

Chou Tsing had the Yamaha in high gear in the fast lane of 1-95. After reaching behind and patting the saddlebag containing the papers, he flicked on the motorcycle’s high beam to signal the beer truck in front that he wanted to pass. Checking the motorcycle’s fuel gauge he saw that he had used barely a quarter of a tank. He estimated he would arrive at the embassy in New York City in forty minutes. As the beer truck moved into the center lane, he twisted the throttle open wider. Tsing was just past Stamford, Connecticut.

“We’re doing this backwards,” Taft said to Martinez as they flew west above 1-95. “Let’s direct the pilot to fly to the Bronx and then east back toward Connecticut”

“I’ll tell him,” Martinez said, walking forward to the helicopter’s cockpit

Taft continued to scan the highway with binoculars until the helicopter did a 180-degree turn and raced toward the Bronx. “Let me check with the office again and make sure they have the NYPD assisting at the overpasses,” Martinez said when he returned. He dialed Benson’s number on his secure phone. “This is Martinez. Is the general available?”

“I’ll put you through, Agent Martinez,” Mrs. Mindio said.

Seconds later the general picked up. “Go ahead, Larry,” Benson said.

“We’re still searching from the helicopter. Do you have the NYPD watching the overpasses?”

“They’re in place already. All the units should have a fax picture of the Yamaha we lifted from a brochure. They have instructions to stop any red Yamaha with temporary tags that looks even close to the picture.”

“And the Chinese Embassy is surrounded?”

“We have the embassy covered so tightly a pigeon couldn’t land there.”

The helicopter was now over the Bronx. The pilot banked and headed back up 1-95. Taft placed the binoculars to his eyes.

“I guess we’ve done all we can,” Martinez noted.

“I sure as hell hope so,” Benson said in closing.

Near New Rochelle, New York, Tsing slowed as the traffic thickened. He unzipped his jacket to allow the breeze to blow inside and dry his sweat. He didn’t notice as a shadow passed overhead.

Taft and Martinez scanned the interstate with binoculars from both side windows of the helicopter.

“Behind that refrigerator truck,” Martinez shouted.

Taft scanned the interstate. “That’s a Honda,” he shouted to Martinez.

The helicopter flew past Split Rock Golf Course. The town of Pelham Manor was just ahead. Continuing to scan the road with the binoculars, Taft began to have trouble focusing his eyes. “I have to take a short break, Larry. I’m starting to get motion sickness,” Taft said. He stared into the distance until his stomach and eyes began to settle. Martinez continued scanning the interstate. Once Taft’s vertigo had subsided he resumed watching the road. Two minutes later he spotted the motorcycle.

“There, behind that yellow Jeep,” Taft shouted.

“I see it,” Martinez said, then raced forward and instructed the pilot. Returning to the rear compartment, he said to Taft, “The pilot will come in slowly from the rear. I told him to stay back and let us check out the motorcycle with the binoculars.”

The helicopter pivoted and slowly advanced on the motorcycle. The traffic on the interstate was loosening and Tsing accelerated the Yamaha. Taft strained to see the plate through the binoculars. “I can’t be positive but the plate looks like a paper temporary tag.”

“Let me look,” Martinez said. The helicopter pulled closer, hovering twenty yards behind the motorcycle. “Red Yamaha, paper tags,” Martinez agreed. “It looks good to me, John.”

“Give me the phone,” Taft said. Martinez handed him the phone and he dialed Benson’s office.

“Benson.”

“I think we’ve got him, sir. I think we should stay back and trail him from a distance. Our men have the area around the embassy sealed. If we try to stop him now he could jump from the motorcycle and disappear with the papers.”

“You’re right. I’ll call NYPD. As soon as the motorcycle nears the embassy we’ll have unmarked police cars block traffic, then slowly fill the street around him.”

“Then what?” Taft asked.

“We’ll steer him around a corner directly into a roadblock.”

“I like your plan, sir,” Taft said.

“Call our agents on the ground, I want you to give them a running commentary on the motorcycle’s location while we set this up,” Benson said.

“No problem, sir.”

“Don’t lose the guy this time,” Benson said as he broke the connection.

Taft dialed the agent on the ground, then turned to Martinez as the phone rang. “We’ll stay back and follow while the general coordinates with NYPD to surround him in unmarked cars. Once he’s surrounded the cars will steer him toward a roadblock.”

“Where’s the roa-” Martinez began to say.

Taft waved with his hand for Martinez to quiet and lifted his palm from the phone.

“This is Taft. Can you hear me?”

The agent working the ground detail replied. “This is Jerry Franks, John. You’re loud and clear.”

“Hey, Jerry,” Taft said. “I’ll report to you on the motorcycle’s progress at regular intervals, just keep the line open.”

“Sounds good,” Franks said.

“He’s still going south on 1-95 and just crossed over the River Parkway.” Taft put his palm back over the phone. “Sorry, Larry. Were you going to ask where the roadblock will be set up?”

“Yeah.”

“They’re still working on that. I think somewhere near the embassy.”

“Once we’re in Manhattan this chopper is worthless. Once he gets between the skyscrapers our advantage is lost.”

“Franks is on the ground. He’ll handle it.”

“I don’t like it,” Martinez said quietly. “I don’t like it at all.”

Tsing weaved through the traffic on 1-95, his eyes intent on every road sign until he found the exit he was looking for. He glanced up as the sign passed: Bruckner Expressway, 1-278 to Manhattan. Gearing down the motorcycle, he made the turn and headed toward Manhattan.

“He’s turning off 1-95 toward Manhattan,” Taft said into the phone.

Martinez stared at the map.

“That’s called the Bruckner Expressway.”

“Martinez says it’s called the Bruckner Expressway,” Taft said into the phone.

“Hold one,” Franks said. “We have an unmarked coming on the highway at White Plains Road. Let me call him on the other phone.”

Two minutes later, as Tsing passed White Plains Road, a nondescript Ford sedan blended onto the expressway, staying several car lengths behind the motorcycle.

“I think I see the pursuit car,” Taft said to Franks as the helicopter continued flying toward Manhattan.

At Hunts Point Avenue a second unmarked car joined the pursuit. Passing Mary’s Park, Tsing slowed for the Second Avenue exit.

“That’s the Second Avenue exit,” Martinez said, glancing through his binoculars at the sign.

“He’s taking the Second Avenue exit,” Taft said to Franks.

“We have the ground units on a different line,” Franks said. “They just reported that too.”

Taft put his hand over the phone and spoke to Martinez. “The ground units are following. We’re going to run up against the skyscrapers soon. Should we land and make our way to the roadblock?”

“Sounds good.”

“Jerry.”

“Go ahead.”

“It looks like you have it well covered on the ground. We’re going to start having trouble seeing anything from up here as soon as we hit the main part of Manhattan. I think it’s better if we touch down and join you at the roadblock.”

“I have to agree, John. The roadblock’s set up at Fourteenth and Fourth. You can land nearby, in Union Square.”

“Got it,” Taft said as he cut the connection.

“I’ll tell the pilot,” Martinez said, walking forward.

Tsing rolled south on Second Avenue, oblivious to an ever increasing number of unmarked police cars following close behind. Several blue-and-white cars with overhead lights flashing were sitting just past Fourteenth on Second Avenue. It must be a car wreck, Tsing thought to himself. I’ll just take Fourteenth Street to Fifth Avenue. Turning on Fourteenth Street, he checked his watch. He estimated he could reach the embassy in less than five minutes. Patting the saddlebags containing the papers once again, he weaved around a slow-moving car and continued west.

Lieutenant Michael Laughlin of the NYPD signaled with his hand to a patrolman.

“Place the traffic cones near the cross street where that Con Ed truck is that we’re using as a decoy,” he said and turned to Franks. “Once the unmarked cars steer him around the corner, we’ll place the cones across the street to stop traffic until we can get the blocking cars in place.”

“What about the front blockers?” Franks asked.

“That vegetable truck,” Laughlin said, pointing, “will move into place and block, and two patrol cars will cover the sidewalks.”

“When will the unmarked cars hit their lights and sirens?’

“As soon as the motorcycle rounds the corner.”

“Sounds nice we’re set,” Franks said. “A mouse couldn’t squeeze through here,” Laughlin said confidently.

Taft and Martinez jumped from the helicopter as soon as it touched down in Union Square Park. They ran across the grass, then down Fourteenth Street. Sprinting toward Fourth Avenue, they watched for the motorcycle that was due in the area in the next few seconds.

Just past Third Avenue on Fourteenth, Tsing glanced in his rearview mirror to change lanes. Three nearly identical sedans formed a rolling roadblock behind him. And then, just as he spotted them, the police cars’ sirens started blaring.

Taft and Martinez turned around at the sound of the sirens. The Yamaha carrying Tsing was just behind them. They watched as the Yamaha accelerated past and saw the driver of the motorcycle reaching back to open the rear saddlebags.

Tsing unclipped the chin strap of his helmet and tossed it into the street. It bounced twice and slammed into a parked car. As the vegetable truck moved to block any chance of exit to the front, Tsing swung his head from side to side, searching for a way out.

Taft’s feet pounded up the middle of Fourteenth Street as he chased after the motorcycle. Martinez trailed behind. Screaming at the top of his lungs to clear the street, Taft was less than fifty yards behind the slowing motorcycle.

Tsing saw an out. Without a moment’s hesitation, he swerved onto the sidewalk and sounded his horn. The commuters climbing up the stairs from the subway at Fourteenth and Fourth noticed the motorcycle heading directly for the entrance, its horn blaring. They began yelling down the stairs to clear a path.

Tsing steered onto the sidewalk and into the entrance for the subway. Jumping to both sides of the stairs, the commuters exiting the subway parted as Tsing steered down the stairs and around the corner. Sliding carefully down the steps, he alternately twisted the throttle then squeezed up the brakes as he maneuvered down the winding steps.

Taft’s legs were burning from the headlong run as he entered the subway stairs and took them three at a time.

Tsing reached the lowest level. He rammed his motorcycle into the tailgate which sprung open. Removing the package containing Einstein’s papers from the saddlebags, Tsing leapt through the doors of the subway train just as they closed.

Taft leapt over the shattered tailgate just as the subway train pulled out of the station. Bent over from exhaustion, and a sharp pain in his side, he held his badge in the air as the Transit Police arrived. “John Taft, Federal Agent. Stop the train at the next station. It’s a matter of national security,” he gasped as the rear of the subway train disappeared from view.

As the Chinese cargo ship left Port Isabel, Texas, and steamed through the Brazos Santiago Pass, two seamen wrapped the bodies of Tolbert and his partner in sheets of plastic. Once the two bodies were covered, one of the men grabbed a mop and bucket. Swishing the mop in the soapy water he began to clean the now dried blood from the deck as the cargo ship entered the Gulf of Mexico and veered to the east. Once safely out to sea, the bodies of Tolbert and his partner were unceremoniously tossed from the rear deck.

George Butler, the only one of the three robbers still alive, was sweating uncontrollably. The sweat ran under the wad of paper towels he had taped in place over his shoulder wound. The salt in the sweat stung as it flowed into the open wound, and Butler gritted his teeth as he stood waiting to cross the Mexico-U.S. border at Brownsville. Melting in with the crowd he passed across the bridge and made his way through the streets of Matamoros to a doctor.

“Hunting accident?” the doctor asked in Spanish once Butler was seated in an operating room.

“That’s what I said,” Butler said wearily.

“That’s odd,” the doctor said quietly.

“Why?”

“In Mexico we rarely hunt with .38 revolvers,” the doctor said as he yanked the slug from Butler’s shoulder and began to dress the wound.

When the Chinese cargo ship that was carrying the microbes crossed the Tropic of Cancer at 90 degrees west longitude, the crew began to scan the sky with binoculars for the helicopter they were due to meet. Once the radio in the wheelhouse of the ship alerted the captain the chopper was closing in, he ordered a flare lit.