Meanwhile Gideon found himself grappling with a younger, stronger man. Within seconds, things were not going well. The Secret Service agent had recovered after being momentarily caught by surprise and was now wrestling Gideon to the ground.
Tillman grabbed him from behind, hooking both heels around his hips and slipping his arms around the guard’s head in what Brazilian jujitsu practitioners call a rear naked choke. It was the same move that police used to call a sleeper hold.
The guard attempted to scream for assistance. But his call for help amounted only to a spluttering, choking noise.
“Grab his arms!” Tillman hissed. “He’s probably got a panic button somewhere.”
Gideon immobilized the struggling officer’s arms just as his fingers clawed for a small red button on the radio unit clipped to his belt. Within seconds the officer’s entire body went limp, his brain succumbing to the sudden loss of blood.
“Get their clothes, IDs, and weapons,” Tillman whispered, pulling a pair of flex cuffs off the unconscious agent’s belt. “We have to move fast. He’ll regain consciousness very quickly.”
They undressed the guards and stashed them in the back of the car. Five minutes later they were crawling into the mouth of the ventilation duct above the old subway line.
Tillman crawled to the grate at the end of the tunnel and peered out. In front of him was the deserted platform of the older subway. There were no guards, no dogs, nothing. He pushed the iron grate out of the wall. It pivoted on rusty hinges with an ear-piercing shriek. On the opposite end of the platform a shadow moved across an open doorway.
“Hold olin>
The lights flickered on, bathing the entire room in bright fluorescence. A tall Secret Service agent entered, hand under his jacket on the butt of his gun. A second agent followed. The second agent shined a small but intense flashlight down the end of the platform to a larger tunnel.
“Clear,” the agent with the flashlight said.
“I heard something,” the tall agent with his hand on his pistol said. He signaled toward the tunnel. “Where does that lead?”
“To a ventilation shaft that connects to the bomb shelter.”
Tillman had heard there was a bomb shelter underneath the Capitol. But this was his first confirmation of that rumor.
“Think we should check? That area is a rat’s nest.”
The agent with the flashlight shook his head. “There’s a door at the end of the tunnel. It’s been welded shut.”
“Check it.”
The agent disappeared, came back after a few minutes. “Like I said, welded shut.”
“Well, goddammit, I heard something.”
“So you said.”
“What about that ventilation duct?” He nodded in Tillman’s direction as he flicked on his flashlight.
Tillman froze. He knew that if they shined the light at the grate, he’d be spotted. But if he tried to back away from the grate, they’d spot his movement.
“Hold on,” the agent with the flashlight said, cocking his head, as though hearing something in his earpiece. “POTUS will be arriving in four. We need to clear the corridor.”
The tall agent frowned and shook his head grudgingly. A bead of perspiration ran down Tillman’s face. Then the agent switched off his flashlight, turned, and both agents walked out of the room.
“Go,” Gideon whispered.
Tillman pushed the grate as slowly as possible. This time it only let out a soft, low groan.
The brothers climbed out from the ventilation tunnel.
“Where to?” Tillman said softly.
Gideon pointed at the tunnel the two agents had checked. “Let’s try to pop the welds on that door. If we can get into an elevator shaft or a mechanical tunnel we should be able to get down into Basement two.”
“Sounds good. We’re way past bluffing our way through at this point.”
They entered the tunnel. Tillman used the flashlight he’d lifted from the agent back in the Russell Building garage. When they reached the steel door, Gideon examined the three weld beads on the steel frame. All the welds were on the side of the door where the handle was. There was no welding on the side of the door where the hinges were located.
“Pull the hinge pins,” Gideon said.
“Just what I was thinking.”
Tillman pulled a folding knife off the belt he’d harvested from the agent. It was a good knife, a Benchmade automatic. The guy had good taste in knives.
“You take the top, I’ll take the bottom,” Tillman said, thumbing the button that triggered the blade to pop out with a satisfying click.
No further communication between the brothers was necessary. They knew exactly what to do. Tillman hunkered down and shoved the blade of his knife under the flange at the top of the hinge pin. Gideon stepped onto Tillman’s back and got to work on the top pin.
Within seconds they had the pins out. Unlike those on the ventilation grate, these hinges had been recently lubricated with a heavy lithium grease.
Gideon hopped down, pried out the third hinge pin, and inserted his knife into the crack. Tillman did the same.
“One,” Tillman said. “Two.”
“Three,” they said together. With a sharp twist of their knives, they were able to move the door about a quarter of an inch out of the frame.
“You brace, I’ll go deeper,” Gideon said.
Tillman applied steady pressure to the haft of his knife while Gideon drove his a little deeper into the crack.
“Go,” Gideon said.
He braced this time, while Tillman moved his blade deeper still.
“One. Two. Three.”
Another quarter of an inch. Now the welds were offering more resistance. So they were only able to move the door about an eighth of an inch.
They repeated the same process several times until finally the edge of the door cleared the frame. They stuck their knives in all the way, this time wrenching backward with all their strength. The welds popped and the door came free.
“Whatever happens,” Gideon whispered, “I’m glad we did this. And I’m proud to be your brother.”
“Don’t be such a girl,” Tillman said.
Gideon smiled and set the door against the wall. Tillman probed the other side with his flashlight. Beyond the door was a low tunnel made of crumbling red brick that looked like it might be 150 years old.
Gideon looked at his watch. He had eight minutes before the president began speaking. Eight minutes before he would either save Kate or die trying.
52
WASHINGTON, DC
At that moment Kate was enjoying the pomp and circumstance of the political pageant. Senators and representatives she had only seen from a distance or viewed on C-SPAN milled about her. Smart men and women in crisp suits shook hands or slapped each other on the back. Partisan differences were set aside as the anointed few hobnobbed and glad-handed, congratulating themselves and one anodeoooooooooosan dther for their exalted positions and good fortune.
She was surprised when she felt a rough hand on her shoulder and turned to see a Secret Service agent with a wired earpiece summoning her as if she’d been a bad girl in school.
“Please come with me, ma’am.”
Her first thought was that the Secret Service discovered she was just a low-level oil company executive who didn’t belong among the movers and shakers. That thought was quickly followed by a fear that something had happened to Gideon. But as the Secret Service agent led her through the throng of politicians and government officials, it occurred to her that Gideon didn’t even know she was at the Capitol, and there was no one here who would bother to tell her if he was injured or hurt.
By the entrance to the Russell Building, the agent handed her a device that looked like an old-fashioned transistor radio with a stubby rubber antenna. It wasn’t a radio, however; it was a secure VOIP wireless phone, operating on the NSA’s proprietary network, as the agent was pleased to inform her. He told her there was a telephone call for her.