When the bus eased away from the mall, heading toward a busy street, Jamie touched Cavanaugh's arm and nodded toward the deserted part of the lot where they'd left Eddie in the Taurus.
Sirens wailing, three police cars sped toward the vehicle.
7
"Where to?" the taxi driver asked.
"Across the river," Jamie said.
"Manhattan? Gonna cost you." The driver ignored Cavanaugh, enjoying Jamie's figure and her captivating eyes. "Once I get over there, I'm not allowed to take a fare back to Hoboken."
"I don't have a choice. I've got a meeting I absolutely need to attend. I'll pay double, plus a twenty percent tip."
8
They got out at Times Square and went into a store that had CAMERA in its title but sold almost everything. They came out with two over-the-shoulder travel bags, went into a nearby drug store, bought the toiletries they needed, and put them in the bags. They went into a clothing store and used some of the cash from the Gulfstream's bug-out bag to buy a few more clothes, including underwear and socks.
They walked east on Forty-Second Street.
"Having fun yet?" Cavanaugh asked.
"Loving every minute. God help me, I've been with you so long I can't tell the difference between being scared and feeling an adrenaline surge."
"Did I ever tell you about the rule of five?"
"No." Jamie made her way along the congested sidewalk. The time was almost six o'clock. Car horns blared amid stalled traffic. "But I've got nothing better to do, so why don't you tell me?"
"You're sure?"
"Can't wait."
"In the Second World War, instructors training American fighter pilots couldn't help noticing how many students died on their early missions. No matter how hard the instructors tried to teach the pilots the way to spot traps and get out of tough places, a large percentage of each class got shot down. So the instructors researched files that dated all the way back to the First World War, and what they discovered was a mathematical pattern. The majority of novice pilots were shot down within their first five missions."
Jamie looked at him.
"The same pattern showed up in the Korean war and in Vietnam. Five was the magic number. After that, their chances of surviving combat flights increased dramatically. During the first five missions, the tension of combat was so unfamiliar that the students had trouble using what they'd learned. They were too busy adjusting. It was only after five missions that they started to know the difference between fear and adrenaline. Once the pilots understood that adrenaline primed their reflexes and made them better able to track a target and pull the trigger in the split second when it mattered, they were on their way to being professionals. The pilots who survived five missions tended to survive thirty and forty missions. If you consider everything that happened to us… I'm not talking about the training I gave you since we got married. Training's only half of what it takes. The real thing, adjusting to fear-that's the other half. You graduated. You passed your five missions."
"Is that supposed to give me confidence that I… that we have a better chance of surviving?"
"We got this far, didn't we?"
As the evening became dimmer and cooler, they stared up at the imposing entrance to Grand Central Station.
9
The stocky black man jogged around a curve and increased speed down a straightaway through a wooded park in a suburb of Washington, D.C. He wasn't alone. At 6:30 in the morning, an army of his fellow exercisers primed themselves for another day's combat in offices throughout the nation's capitol. The chill of October had its effect, prompting the black man to wear a long-legged, navy exercise suit. Breath vapor blew from his mouth.
Hearing rhythmic rapid footfalls behind him, he waited for the faster runners to pass him. A white man and woman, each wearing gray exercise suits, came abreast of him. He maintained his moderate pace, waiting for them to surge ahead, but instead they kept even with him, one on each side, their footfalls matching his.
When he looked at one and then the other, he almost faltered.
"I do believe," the Southern Baptist said.
"I'll tell you what I believe," Cavanaugh said.
"I'm not sure I want to know," the black man, John Rutherford, said.
"I believe in gun oil and plenty of ammunition."
"I'm relieved. For a second, I expected you to say something you hoped would shock me."
"Bull Durham," Jamie said.
Rutherford nodded, jogging past a duck pond. "Baseball's an enjoyable pastime."
"So are the slow kisses Kevin Costner's character believes in," Jamie said.
"If you expect me to be shocked by that-" Rutherford breathed hard as he ran. "-I remind you I was married. My wife… God rest her soul… believed in slow kisses, also. How are you, Jamie?" His smile was genuine. "The last time I saw you, you were in a hospital bed. I'm glad you recovered from your wound."
"How's the guy who shot me doing?"
"Not well, I'm afraid. Prison doesn't agree with him. Seems he prefers solitary confinement to all the inmates who want to be his friend."
"What a shame. And how about you, John?" Cavanaugh asked. "How are you getting along? I understand congratulations are in order."
"You mean my promotion?"
"Director of the FBI's counterterrorist unit. I'm proud of you."
"Sure, you are."
They ran past a homeless man asleep on a bench.
"I hate to ask this. We're having such a great time so far," Rutherford said. "How are you?"
"Need a little help, John."
"Gosh, and here I thought you'd just happened to be in the neighborhood. You decided to drop by at the crack of dawn, say hello, and catch up on old times while you joined me for a little exercise."
"Exactly what we had in mind," Cavanaugh said. "But as long as we're here…"
"Let me guess. You want to talk about the Global Protective Service agents who've been killed."
"You know about that?" Cavanaugh looked at him in surprise.
"They're not the only ones. Protectors in various government agencies are being killed also."
"What?" Cavanaugh slackened his pace and veered from the path, stopping next to bushes.
Rutherford and Jamie followed him.
"The Secret Service. The U.S. Marshals. The Diplomatic Security Service. Three days ago, agents from all of them suddenly became targets." Rutherford took a towel from around his neck and wiped sweat from his forehead. "At first, it looked like they'd taken hits meant for the people they were protecting. But the casualties kept mounting, and most of the attacks happened when the agents were off-duty. We soon had to conclude-"
"The protectors were the targets."
"On a hunch, we checked the civilian protection agencies. The small ones didn't know what we were talking about. But a major one like Global Protective Services…"
"We took our share of hits," Cavanaugh said.
"'We'?" Rutherford frowned. "I thought you'd left the business."
"What's that line from one of the Godfather movies? 'Just when I thought I was out, they dragged me back in'? Now I'm not only back in the business. I own the damned thing."
Cavanaugh explained what had happened at the GPS office in Manhattan and later in Eddie's car.
"Eddie Macintosh?" Rutherford looked appalled. "He's one of the best drivers I ever worked with."
"That's how he died. Behind a steering wheel."
A group of joggers sped by. Rutherford stepped farther toward the bushes, trying to get out of hearing range of anyone on the path.
"Sharp weapons? Bladed ones?" Rutherford asked.
"That's the pattern. Up close and intimate. Except for the attacks against Jamie and me."
"But at the time of the first one, you were retired. Out of the game. Why would anyone attack you?"
"Maybe somebody found out who was set to inherit Global Protective Services," Jamie said. "Maybe that couldn't be allowed to happen."