I had expected that. What puzzled me was the Chinese girl. She was getting into a red Porsche in the parking lot as we passed, and she was acting like she had all the time in the world. She didn't even look up as we passed. Had she turned us over to another tail?
Now was as good a time as any to find out.
"Safety belt fastened?" I asked Michelle.
She nodded.
"Then please observe the no-smoking sign until this flight reaches its cruising altitude."
Michelle looked at me with a puzzled expression, but I said nothing more, concentrating on refreshing my memory of the feel of the car and its controls. By the time we were at the entrance to the Van Wyck Expressway I felt like I'd been driving it for the last eight hours. I slowed the car down, then stopped, waiting for a large enough break in the expressway traffic. After a minute or so, several of the cars in back of us pulled around us and went onto the expressway. Not the Frenchman and his ratty-looking pal, who were now forced to pull directly behind us.
"What are we waiting for?" asked Michelle.
"We are waiting for," I said, "this!"
I slammed my foot down on the accelerator and spun out onto the expressway. Within seconds, the odometer read 70. The Frenchman was right behind us, also accelerating. He had to be. The break in the traffic was just big enough for two cars. If he'd waited, he'd have lost us.
"Mon Dieu!" gasped Michelle. "What are you…"
"Just hang on and enjoy yourself," I said. We were doing over 70 now, the Frenchman right on our tail. And in another few seconds, we'd be climbing the roof of the car in front of us. But I didn't intend to wait those seconds. My eyes scanned the oncoming traffic, and I found what I needed. My foot hit the brake, then released it, as I spun the wheel, and sent the car in a screeching two-wheeled U-turn across the divider and into the oncoming traffic. Into a space big enough for only one car.
"Mon Dieu!" Michelle gasped again. Out of the corner of my eye I could see her face was white. "You will kill us!"
The Frenchman had hurtled past still going toward New York City. It would take him another minute or so to find a place for his U-turn, especially in a car that's made for comfort and easy handling on long drives, rather than for maneuvering.
"Just doing my best to keep you awake," I told Michelle, then spun the wheel once more, without bothering to brake or down-shift this time, sending the car onto Southern State Parkway.
"I swear to you," Michelle said, "I'll never sleep again. Just slow down."
"Soon," I said. Then glanced in the rearview mirror and cursed silently. The Frenchman was there. Twenty car lengths behind, but there in back of us. His ratty little pal was a better driver than I'd given him credit for.
"Hang on," I told Michelle. "It's time to get serious."
I pulled hard on the wheel, shot over to the extreme left lane, inches ahead of a tractor trailer, then proceeded to further infuriate its driver by slowing to 30 mph. He passed on the right, with an outraged blast of horn. Other cars proceeded to do the same. Now the Frenchman was only two car lengths behind, also in the extreme left lane. I scanned the traffic pattern, alternately speeding up and slowing down as we approached the red light for the turnoff to Baisley Pond Park. I hugged the left lane, slowing down to 20 miles an hour as the light came into view and I saw it was red.
The 200 yards of road directly ahead of me were clear in my lane. The light turned green and I slammed my foot on the gas. By the time we hit the intersection, the BMW was doing 60. The Lincoln was right behind, at almost the same speed. I let the BMW get two-thirds of the way through the intersection without slackening my speed, then pulled hard left on the wheel, down-shifting without braking. The BMW spun like a top, virtually in one place. My body and Michelle's were flung violently, but held against the safety belts. In less than half a second, my foot was on the accelerator again, sending the BMW across the path of the Lincoln, less than inches from its radiator, and into the intersection. I stood on the brake, felt the BMW slamming to a halt just in time to miss one oncoming car, then hammered down the accelerator and shot across the intersection just in time to miss another in the far lane. It could have torn another car apart, or sent it into uncontrollable spins and stalls, but the BMW accelerated smoothly again as I pointed it up the park's perimeter road.
"You okay?" I asked Michelle.
She opened her mouth, but couldn't speak. I could feel her trembling.
"Relax," I said, taking one hand from the wheel to pat her thigh. "It gets easier now."
And then I saw the Lincoln again. It was almost a quarter mile back down the dead-straight road, but even in the thickening twilight I could make out its distinctive low silhouette.
This time I didn't even bother to curse. The ratty little man was obviously a natural-born driver. He could match me daredevil stunt for daredevil stunt for quite awhile — long enough, in fact, to make it inevitable that the police would stop us. Which I couldn't afford even if he, with diplomatic plates, probably could.
"It's time," I said, as much to myself as Michelle, "for a change of pace."
I let the BMW slow to a comfortable, legal, 40 miles an hour. The Lincoln approached. In the rearview mirror I could see that one front fender was badly bashed, the headlight out, and a side window smashed. The Frenchman looked to be in a state of shock. His driver had a stunned, wild-eyed expression.
They pulled up a few car lengths behind, and held the distance. I swung off onto New York Boulevard at the same speed. They stayed behind. Other cars came up behind and passed, five, ten, fifteen. The Frenchman made no effort to pass.
They might be simply trying to follow us to our destination. On the other hand, they might be holding back, waiting for a quiet, dark place to attack us.
Time was passing. Valuable time.
I decided to call their hand.
I went another two miles and took a right turn onto Linden Boulevard, going toward the Naval Hospital. Halfway there, a furniture warehouse, unused at night, took up almost a block. I pulled up in front of it and waited. It was an ideal place for an ambush.
The Lincoln pulled up fifty feet in back.
I waited.
No one got out.
I waited another moment, and when the Frenchman and his driver still didn't make a move, I gave Michelle her instructions. To her credit, even if she was still trembling, she simply nodded, her eyes sharpening with readiness.
Then I got out of the BMW and strolled back toward the Lincoln. When I got close enough to see over the remaining headlight's beam, and into the car, I watched the look of shock on the Frenchman's face gradually fade into an expression of wary alertness as I came nearer. His driver, coming down from his trick-driving high, simply looked surprised and stupid.
I leaned over the hood of the Lincoln and tapped on the windshield, directly in front of the Frenchman's face.
"Good evening," I said politely.
The driver glanced uneasily at the Frenchman. The Frenchman continued to look straight ahead, uneasy, wary, saying nothing.
Michelle should be sliding into the driver's seat now, as my head and body obstructed the view from the Lincoln.
"That's a fascinating two-way radio aerial you have here," I said, again smiling politely.
Michelle should now be putting the still-idling BMW into gear, waiting for my next move.
"But it's getting a little rusty in spots," I continued. "You really should have it replaced."
And a split-second later Wilhelmina was in my hand and firing. The first bullet ripped the radio aerial off the car and sent it spinning into the air, the second shot out the remaining headlight, and, as Michelle sent the BMW into a screeching U-turn, flicking on her high beams as she bore down on the Lincoln to blind both the Frenchman and the driver, my third and fourth bullets shot out the two tires on the right side of the big sedan.