"To use the weapons?" Burke completed the thought, though in reality it was almost unthinkable. "Whatever they're up to, we'd better get ready to give chase."
A few moments later, the Major came out and began waving directions. The yellow dump truck slowly backed out of the shop. A green tarpaulin covered the hopper.
"Damn," Burke said. "You may be right, Roddy. Looks like the Peruvians are taking the truck." He reached down to grab one of the small transceivers from the floor. "Take the other radio and stay in touch. If they break up, I'll stick with the truck and you two follow Romashchuk. Maybe you can corner him."
Burke hit the stairs on the run. Yuri was right behind him. Roddy caught up after collecting the radio and the cellular phone, which Burke had overlooked.
Dashing back to the alley in the Blazer, Burke circled into the driveway next door. He pulled up even with the front of the building, lights off, where he could see across into the Advanced Security Systems lot. The truck was already heading for the gate with an air compressor in tow. Romashchuk remained over by the open shop door.
When he saw the truck turn away, Burke pulled out into the street, drove up to the intersection and began to follow it. Why the air compressor, he wondered? Then he remembered the Public Works Department markings and assumed it was part of the ruse.
Checking his mirror, he saw nothing of the gray van. He indulged himself in a bit of a smile. He had worried that the Major might come along behind him and conclude rather quickly that he was following the yellow truck. Happily it was not working out that way. After a few turns, they headed for Virginia Avenue.
Then disaster struck.
The Blazer's engine suddenly coughed, sputtered and died. As the truck rolled on ahead, Burke frantically turned the ignition key and listened to the starter grind in vain. Then he glanced at the fuel gauge.
Empty!
He stared at it. It had showed a good half a tank this morning. He was certain of it. What could… slowly, dishearteningly, he began to understand. He recalled the two boys with their gas cans hurrying back through the driveway of the appliance repair shop. They were not gone long enough to have made it to the gas station Roddy had found several blocks away. He recalled noting the odor of gasoline near the Blazer when he jumped in. But he had been in too much of a rush to place any significance on it. Clearly they had siphoned out most of his fuel, probably spilled half of it. Now he sat there hopelessly stalled while the Shining Path guerrillas drove on God-knows-where with their mortars and nerve agent shells.
He had never felt quite so helpless. Thousands of lives were at stake. There would be huge holiday crowds gathered at various locations around Washington tonight. A large throng would be clustered in the vicinity of the Washington Monument, awaiting the massive fireworks display that would come as the symphony concert concluded.
The concert!
He felt a cold chill, like an icy hand on his back. The west lawn of the Capitol would hold an equally enticing mass of people packed into a confined open space.
He snatched up the radio and called for "Roadrunner." After the previous night's experience, they had decided on a little extra precaution, code names. Bird names.
"Roger, Hawk, this is Roadrunner," Rodman replied.
"Are you on the move?"
"Just under way. I have no idea where we're going as yet. How about you?"
"I hate to have to tell you," Burke said.
But he did.
"God, that's terrible. What are you going to do?"
"Start walking. I'm looking for gas and a telephone."
"I should have given you this cellular phone. I picked it up on the way out."
"That's okay. I'll find a pay phone. But I'm afraid time has run out on us. Remember what Seagull said yesterday?" Shumakov had been dubbed "Seagull."
"What's that?"
"There must be someone we can tell, someone who'll do something. I'm going to call Dr. Wharton."
"The President's National Security Adviser?"
"Right. I worked with him on a highly classified operation a couple of years ago. He's a Roundtable member, but I can't believe he knows what's happening. I'll contact you after I've talked to him."
70
Pepe followed the route they had rehearsed earlier. Virginia Avenue to Seventh, then up to Maryland. Traffic was heavy around the freeway. After he finally made it on past the Department of Transportation Building, he turned onto Maryland Avenue and got a nasty shock. Cars were parked all along the street. He drove down to where the green paint marks should be. They were hidden beneath parked cars.
He sat there for a moment, fuming. "¡Maldición!" he cursed aloud. The weapons were calibrated and the ammunition charges calculated based on this exact position. If they were fired from anywhere else, they would miss the mark. Then he saw blue lights suddenly flash in his rearview mirror.
Police.
"What's the problem?" a voice called out from the pavement below. Pepe looked down at a blue-uniformed motorcycle cop wearing a bulbous white helmet. He knew what he was supposed to say. He just didn't know whether it would do any good now. He would have to improvise. Romashchuk hadn't worried about his accent. He said half the workers around this town had some kind of accent.
"These cars are the problem, officer. We were sent to repair a water leak, but we can't get to it. Unless we start working on it damned soon, all those senators and congressmen will have no water in the morning."
The cop pulled off his helmet and wiped his forehead. "Shit. Wouldn't you know it would happen on a damned holiday? All I can do is call a wrecker to move them out of the way."
Pepe glanced at his watch. It was eight o'clock. "How long would it take?"
"Probably get him here within thirty minutes. Take ten or twenty minutes to move the cars."
That would be cutting it close, Pepe thought. But did he have any choice? "Better call for the wrecker."
The precisely articulated words of Actor E. G. Marshall, the symphony's perennial Independence Day host, boomed from the huge speakers that flanked the bandstand set up on the lawn beyond the Capitol's western entrance. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to the nation's annual Fourth of July celebration in words and music. With the striking facade of our historic Capitol Building in the background, we are honored to have with us tonight the Majority Leader of the Senate, the Speaker of the House of Representatives, and a large delegation of leading members of the Congress. And speaking of leaders, our guest conductor for the National Symphony Orchestra this evening is the highly-entertaining piano virtuoso and composer, that master of ragtime, Marvin Hamlisch."
The smiling, casually-attired crowd of men, women and children, expected to number well over a quarter of a million, clapped and whistled and cheered as Hamlisch stepped to the podium. He lifted his baton and opened the program with a short medley of lighthearted, traditional American favorites that included For Me and My Gal, Turkey in the Straw and Home on the Range.
Back in the midst of the sea of faces sat Lori Hill with Liz on her lap, flanked by Chloe and Walt Brackin. Walt clung with a vengeance to the highly mobile Cam. Lori brushed a hand against her dark hair as the southerly breeze tugged at her long tresses. When the crowd began to clap in time with the music at one point, the twins squealed gleefully and slapped their hands perfectly in unison.
Some ninety feet closer to the stage sat Karen Rodman with Lila, Renee and her husband, Jim. Lila was straining to find Sergeant Ian McGregor among the performers around the stage.