He gulped down a few bitingly cold breaths of air before rolling off the building’s side and continuing on, scampering along the base of the steps of the entrance, in the direction of the west end of the Mall. Built in Washington’s time-honored multi-columned facade-and-canted-roof motif, the entrance was designed to be grand—and the illumination, with bright orange mercury spotlights, certainly helped accomplish this goal.
But the foot of the steps was comparatively dark. After making his way across the stairs, he stayed close to the bushes that lined the entire front of the building. If he could make it to the edge of the Gallery before Waller or Haviland saw him, he would greatly increase his chances of success. He hoped that they were off searching another part of the District by now, since he figured that from their perspective he could literally be anywhere. If a cab had been passing as he was fleeing Haviland’s car, he could be on the other side of the Potomac by now, headed for the airport. Or back the other way, headed toward Union Station and a rail system that could take him anywhere in the District, or, for that matter, anywhere in the country.
He realized the ability to be instantly somewhere far away from here was not only appealing, but his best hope for a successful escape while he regrouped and tried to determine his next course of action. But he had a bad feeling that Waller and Haviland were not far off—and if he was not careful, he would end up running right into them.
He tried to picture the map of the District he had studied late one night at the Academy. If he recalled correctly, about three blocks away his closest means of escape awaited him... the entrance to Washington’s subway, the Metro.
“I saw him, over by the Gallery. West Building,” Waller said in between breaths.
“I don’t... see anything,” Haviland puffed. After having recently recovered from a broken ankle, he was still out of shape—and the chase had left him deeply winded, his throat burning with each gulp of air.
“He was there.”
“Where’s he... headed?”
Waller pondered the question as they continued their pursuit at a slow jog. “If I were him, there’s only one place I’d go.”
“Don’t keep it... a secret, Jon. Where?”
“Metro.”
“Which station? Archives or Smithsonian?”
“My bet, Archives. Closer.”
“Let’s cut him off,” Haviland said, heaving large clouds of vapor into the air in front of him.
“And if we’re wrong?”
Haviland nodded. “So we split up. You go Metro... I’ll go Mall.”
“This is insane,” Waller said. “Should’ve called for backup.”
Haviland stopped and leaned over, resting his hands on his knees as Waller continued on. “You know, Jon,” he said, calling after his partner, “sometimes... you’re such an asshole.”
Payne shuffled alongside the building, approaching the west end of the National Gallery of Art.
But out of the corner of his eye he caught the shadow of a figure advancing on him. Although it was too dark to make out the man’s face, the tall build and stealthy, catlike movement told him it was Waller.
Payne cut right on Seventh Street and glanced back over his shoulder, but was unable to locate the form he had just seen. In the darkness and the cover of so many trees, he couldn’t be sure that Waller wasn’t only a few feet behind him. Although the thigh wound was still painful, it was tolerable and permitted him to move fairly well as long as he was not running at full stride.
He jogged across Constitution Avenue and headed toward Pennsylvania, a short block away. To his left was the stately National Archives building, to his right the more staid Federal Trade Commission. He didn’t dare look over his shoulder, as he was in a rhythm now, moving quickly toward his goal: the brightly lit Metro entrance that was now partially visible up ahead of him.
As he approached, he could make out the vertical sign with the large M at the top, which read ARCHIVES—NAVY MEMORIAL STATION.
Payne crossed Seventh and ran past the Metro elevator, headed for the Navy Memorial plaza, where three escalators descended underground to the mouth of the subway entrance. A Metro guard was talking with a woman, giving her directions. Payne put his head down, stepped onto the moving staircase, and took his first look into the darkness and shadows from where he had just come. He did not see any movement.
Once he hit the bottom of the escalator, he ran past the automated fare-card machines to his right and approached the turnstile at nearly full speed. He glanced at the station manager’s booth to his left, which was empty—and he lunged forward, throwing his torso across the flat surface of the lowlying turnstile. He pulled himself over it and landed on his right leg. He continued on, down the stairs and toward the tracks.
As he moved, he caught sight of security cameras, mounted high on the ceiling, beaming his image into the empty station manager’s booth—and who knew where else. He hoped it would be a moot point: by the time anyone recognized the person on the screen as him, he would be long gone.
In the subway tube, the distant pinpoint of light told him a train was a couple hundred feet away, approaching the station. The muted, greenish, recessed lighting accentuated the cement, honeycomb walls, which arched high above him. Yet the beauty of the architecture failed to elicit a memory of having been here before.
Wait. What was that? Hard footsteps, dress shoes. Running toward him from above.
“Harper!”
Payne pulled his Glock and aimed it up at the voice, which immediately became associated with a silhouetted figure looming above him, on the main floor of the station.
“Stay back, Jon,” Payne called out. The handful of people on the platform scattered, moving for any cover they could find: a bench, a trash can, the side of the escalator.
Payne glanced down the track, the train’s two distant headlights enlarging as they approached. Waller’s left hand was extended out in front of him. “Just put the gun down and we can talk.”
“Where’s Scott?” Payne asked, turning around and craning his neck to check all possible routes of entry into this section of the station.
“Put the gun down, Harper. I don’t want anyone getting hurt.”
“Everyone’s taken cover, Jon. People do that—they see guns, they tend to hide. But keep talking, it’s your job. You know, buddy up to me, get me to drop the gun so you can take me in without incident.” Payne glanced at the tracks again. The building, rumbling echo in the tunnel indicated the train would be here in a matter of seconds—a fact he knew Waller was aware of as well. “I can’t go with you, Jon, at least not now.”
“Don’t do this. We can still work something out.”
The train pulled to a stop and the doors whooshed open.
Payne glanced at the train, then back up at Waller, who had just stepped onto the escalator.
“That wasn’t smart, Jon,” Payne yelled.
“You’re not gonna shoot me. You’d lose everything—your career, your life. You’d never see Lauren again.”
Just then, a tone sounded and the Metro’s doors began sliding closed. Payne stepped into the train. As the doors clunked shut, he turned to check on Waller—but he was gone.
“Shit.” Payne quickly moved toward the back of the car. A few people, a man in a business suit and a couple of teenagers in jeans, eyed him with fear as he hobbled along, the gun still clutched in his hand. Payne noticed their gazes, slid his firearm into its holster, and removed his credentials. “FBI,” he said in explanation, holding up the open case as he shuffled through the car. Once again, he craned his neck to see through the windows, trying to locate Waller. But there wasn’t any sign of him.
Payne walked through the two doors and into the next, nearly vacant, car. He sat down heavily and buried his tired head in his hands.
Waller was on the train. He could feel it.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?”
Payne opened his eyes and focused on Waller’s frowning face. “Jon. Have a seat.”
Waller’s body was rigid, as if prepared to pounce. When Payne made no effort to flee, Waller seemed to relax a bit. He glanced around, appearing to look for some trap, some reason why his fugitive was not attempting to escape. Apparently satisfied it was safe to sit, he settled into the seat next to Payne. “I don’t get it, Harper. What’s gotten into you?”
Payne looked at him with heavy eyes. “You want to know what’s gotten into me.” He chuckled. “Fair question, I guess.” He let his head fall backward and he stared at the ceiling as the train lurched slightly from side to side. “You won’t understand... you don’t know what I know. Then again, maybe you do.”
Waller shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Maybe you’re just on overload. We were working at an extremely aggressive pace. Maybe I was pushing you too hard.” He extended his hand. “I need your weapon.”
“Why?”
“Why? Because you disobeyed orders, Harp, because you held fellow agents at gunpoint and stole my fucking wallet, because you’re acting irrationally. You leaped from a moving vehicle, for Christ’s sake. Those good enough reasons?”
“No, they’re not. Not for me, at least.”
“Direct order from Knox, okay? He wants you to see a shrink, find out what’s gotten under your skin. If everything checks out and he gives you a clean bill, you get it back. Right now, it’s just a precaution.”
Payne looked at Waller’s open hand. “Knox has to protect his star witness.”
Waller nodded. “Can you blame him?”
Payne sighed. “No, I guess not. But I’ll want it back.” He reached inside his suit jacket.
“Two fingers! Take it out with two fingers—”
“If I was going to shoot you, Jon, you wouldn’t have gotten out of Scott’s car alive.” Payne pulled out his weapon, pressed it down into Waller’s palm—then wrapped his fingers around the back of Waller’s hand.
“What the fuck—”
In a lightning fast move, Payne slapped a handcuff on his partner’s left wrist. Waller pulled back—but not before Payne had flicked the other end of the restraint around the metal pole that ran the length of the seat in front of them.
Waller reached for his gun with his free right hand—but Payne’s left was already on the weapon and yanking it out of the holster.
Payne backed away and slipped the forty caliber handgun into his own shoulder harness.
“You’re out of your fucking mind—”
“Am I? Do you really think I’ve lost my mind, Jon?”
“I don’t know what to think—”
“Well, I do. Now, give me your set of cuffs. And the key.”
“No.”
Payne chambered a bullet and held his Glock out in front of him.
Waller looked at the barrel of the gun and swallowed hard. “You’re not going to use that on me, you just said so yourself.”
“Truth is, Jon, I don’t know how I’m gonna react. I’m so damned confused... the stress is unbearable. I got hit in the head so hard I don’t even remember my wife. When you’re confused and stressed-out, and your back’s up against a wall, you get paranoid, you do things. Things you may regret later. Do you really wanna push me?”
Waller hesitated, his gaze shifting between Payne’s hollow, intense eyes and the barrel of the gun. He dug into his pocket, produced a small ring of keys, and tossed them at Payne, who removed the long, thin, black key. He dropped the rest to the floor and kicked them beneath Waller’s seat.
Payne motioned him on with the gun. “Now the bracelets.”
Waller reached behind him and pulled out the handcuffs.
“Attach one end to that pole in front of you.” Payne approached cautiously, keeping the weapon as far away from Waller’s reach as possible. He took the free end of the cuffs and fastened them to his partner’s right wrist. He reached into Waller’s inside suit pocket, removed his cell phone, and turned it off.
“Why are you doing this to me, Harper? I’ve been trying to help you.”
“Because I’ve got a whole bunch of questions and no answers. I need those answers to get on with my life. You’ve helped me, yes. You’ve done your job. You’ve shown me who I
was.
But now I need to find out who I am. Lauren Chambers has the answers I need, and for some reason, you’re keeping me from communicating with her. What are you afraid of?”
Waller sighed, shook his head. “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but Knox was concerned that if you spoke with this woman who claimed to be your wife, we’d be placing her in danger, and you’d lose your focus on the trial. He wanted you to be totally free of any extraneous thoughts or complications. It was just going to be for a few more weeks.”
“That
complication
is my wife, Jon. I need to know how I fit into her life now.”
“A little while ago, you wanted to stay on the job, remember?”
“What’s that got to do with anything? I’m glad I’m back, I told you that. Believe me, that’s not the problem—”
“Then don’t fuck it up, Harper. Do your thing, take the stand and testify. Then your life’s your own. Stay or go. Your choice.”
“She thinks I’m missing. I need to at least tell her I’m okay.”
“I’ll see about getting word to her. We’ll make things right by you, I promise. But you’ve gotta help us out.” Waller nodded toward the cuffs. “You can start by getting these things off me.”
The train pulled to a stop at the Foggy Bottom station. Payne backed toward the door, then stopped.
“I need to do some thinking. Figure some things out.”
“Harper—don’t leave me here.”
“I need some space, some time.”
The tone sounded and the doors began to close. Payne jumped through them and stood there, watching Waller through the window. Waller’s face was a deep crimson, and he was yelling, using language Payne would’ve taken offense to if this had been some other time.
But this wasn’t some other time.
Payne turned away and headed toward the escalator. “Like you said, Jon... we do what we have to do.”
Scott Haviland stood at the bright opening to the Metro’s Archives-Navy Memorial Station. He stared down at the wallet in his left hand and saw Jonathan Waller’s smiling face looking up at him from the Virginia driver’s license. Not surprisingly, the wallet was nearly empty; photos of Waller’s two brothers were still inside, but the cash and credit cards were gone.