"Tower of Terror" - читать интересную книгу автора (Pendleton Don, Stivers Dick)

7

Turning every few seconds to scan the traffic behind them, Bernardo gave the cab driver directions that weaved through the financial district. At one corner, the NYPD's phony power company barriers were up. The WorldFiCor was only a block away.

Blancanales looked past the barricade, saw a utility vehicle. There were no workers in the truck. Further up the street, two men in utility workmen's uniforms leaned against a parked car. Two men in suits sat in the front seat of the car. Blancanales looked over at Bernardo, watched him. But Bernardo only glanced at the barricade and told the driver to make another turn.

Several blocks later, they stopped for a traffic light at the edge of Chinatown. The cab driver turned to Bernardo and asked him, quot;Boy, do you know where you're going? Is someone following you? Are you looking for someone? What's going on with you?quot;

quot;It does not concern you,quot; Bernardo snapped. quot;You're a driver, drive!quot;

quot;Sure, kid. Anywhere you want.quot;

quot;Stop!quot; Bernardo shouted. quot;We get out here.quot; He gave the driver a 10-dollar bill, and they walked through traffic to the sidewalk.

Bernardo scanned the cars and trucks passing them, then led Blancanales across the intersection. Again, he watched the traffic passing them, looking at several cars, staring at the faces of the drivers and passengers. He turned from the street, looking at the shoppers and tourists and neighborhood kids on the sidewalks.

Across the street, Blancanales saw Lyons pass in the phony yellow cab. He glanced at Bernardo, winked to Lyons. Lyons raised his eyebrows slightly as he hid his face behind a newspaper.

quot;Where now?quot; Blancanales asked Bernardo.

quot;Wait here.quot; Bernardo went into a corner luncheonette and moved to the phone. He dialed a number, watching Blancanales while he talked.

Blancanales leaned against a light pole, talked to himself. The minimike was in his inside coat pocket.

quot;He's making a call. I tell you, this kid is one very paranoid young man. But he doesn't know anything about counter-surveillance. I think he's just a street kid that they recruited. Also, when we went past the WorldFiCor, he didn't even notice.quot;

Looking back to the luncheonette, he saw Bernardo hang up and step outside. quot;Talk to you later, he's coming back.quot;

Bernardo returned and held up a hand for a taxi. quot;The meeting is set,quot; he told Blancanales. quot;But first, we...quot;

quot;We must lose any surveillance?quot;

quot;My commander instructed me to be very careful.quot;

They took a taxi to the next block, got out, ran through traffic to the entry of a tenement. Bernardo led him through the central hallway to a back stairway. Up the stairs to the second floor, through a window to a fire escape, down the fire escape to an alley. They crossed the alley.

Bernardo pulled open the unlocked rear door of a restaurant and hurried through the kitchen. The cooks and dishwashers turned their backs. Blancanales saw a waiter go to the rear door, lock it. Then they wove between the tables. The few patrons didn't look up from their lunches and conversations.

Out on the street, Bernardo flagged another taxi. quot;Where to, kid?quot;

quot;Drive.quot; Bernardo pointed straight ahead.

quot;We're sight-seeing,quot; Blancanales explained.

quot;Tourists, huh?quot; The driver commented. quot;Where you from?quot;

quot;My friend here's from New York,quot; Blancanales said, quot;but I'm from California.quot; .

quot;California! First time in the big city?quot;

quot;No. But it's the first time I've had time to look around. Any tourist attractions around here?quot;

quot;Hey, man! This is Little Italy. Unless you're into crime, you know, gangsters, the mob, Mafia, you got to go uptown for tourist action.quot;

quot;This is Little Italy? This where Lucky Luciano grew up?quot;

quot;Out!quot; Bernardo interrupted. quot;We're getting out here.quot;

They dodged traffic as they crossed the avenue. Bernardo led Blancanales around a corner, and without breaking stride, pushed him through the side door of a waiting florist's van. Bernardo slid the door closed, then got into the driver's seat. They were alone in the van.

There were no windows in the back of the van. As Bernardo started the engine, he leaned back and said tersely, quot;If you try to look outside, no meeting. If you try to signal anyone, no meeting. Understand?quot;

quot;Entiendo.quot;

Bernardo jerked a curtain shut, then raced into traffic. Blancanales rode in the dark van, his companion a funeral wreath.

Cruising through the narrow streets of shops and tenements, Lyons watched the sidewalks and cars for his partner. The afternoon's heat had thinned the pedestrians. Kids sat on steps sipping Cokes. Teenagers gulped from bag-wrapped beer cans, passed wine bottles. But he saw no Latin ex-Green Beret in a business suit walking with a twenty-year-old FALN soldier. He glanced into the cars in traffic, trying to keep his face concealed behind the headlines of that afternoon's paper. He knew the boy would be watching the traffic for surveillance: for him to see Lyons might mean death for Blancanales. Lyons knew his threats had impressed Bernardo, but the boy was only one of the soldiers in this operation. The others might not give a damn about Bernardo's friends and family.

The D.F. signal faded.

quot;Go north a few blocks,quot; Lyons told his driver. The secure phone buzzed. Lyons grabbed it.

quot;This is Hardman Three,quot; Gadgets said.

quot;Where are you?quot;

quot;Driving north on Broadway. Where are you?quot;

Lyons glanced out at a street sign. quot;We're going north on Allen. The D.F. signal's picking up. Must be gaining on it. Do you have a D.F. receiver you can pass to Smith?quot;

quot;Sure do. I'll call him, arrange a pass. You have anything on the minimike?quot;

quot;Nothing. You ready for action?quot;

quot;I'm ready for anything. Things are popping all over. You got the news yet?quot;

quot;What now?quot;

quot;They made some demands. Finally. The Bureau has a negotiation team talking with them now.quot;

quot;Give me the details in person. Keep moving, let's try to keep the D.F. between us.quot;

Lyons broke the connection, punched the code for the phone with Mr. Smith in Little Italy. quot;You still parked, Mr. Smith?quot;

quot;Yes, sir. Waiting for instructions.quot;

quot;We're driving north on Allen Street. Make some speed, come up behind us. I'm in the yellow cab. When you get here, Hardman Three has a D.F. receiver for you. Further instructions when you make it up here. Hit it!quot;

The D.F. beeps came faster and faster, became a buzz. Lyons pointed to the curb. quot;Pull over! We must be within a hundred feet of them.quot;

Even as the driver swerved, the signal slowed. Looking back, Lyons saw traffic stop at a red light. The D.F. signal held a steady beep-beep-beep-beep. The lines of traffic at the light included a meat truck, an old Plymouth stationwagon, and a florist's van, in addition to the many passenger cars.

quot;Make a U-turn!quot; Lyons shouted.

quot;You want me to call for Bureau backup? We could use some more cars.quot;

quot;No!quot; Lyons punched Gadgets' code on the secure phone. quot;We reversed direction. We're coming up behind some trucks. Signal very strong.quot; Then he punched Smith's code. quot;Smith, Smith!Park. Wait for us to pass.quot;

quot;Parking now. You got our man in sight?quot;

quot;Maybe. Watch for us.quot;

The phone buzzed. quot;Hardman Three here. I'm on the Bowery, that's a block or two west of you. I'm continuing south.quot;

quot;Get Smith's cross street,quot; Lyons told Gadgets. quot;He's parked. Try to get there and give him that D.F. receiver. I think we're bumper-to-bumper with them.quot;

The traffic light changed to green. Weaving the cab past slower vehicles, the driver brought them up behind the meat truck. Lyons stayed low in the seat. The D.F. signal shrieked.

quot;Stay behind this truck,quot; Lyons glanced out the window, but he could not see the florist's van or the old stationwagon. quot;Just keep it on the truck's bumper until something changes. Any chance you got a periscope in the trunk?quot;

quot;No, sir. But I'll call for one...quot;

quot;That was a joke!quot; Lyons exclaimed, wide-eyed. quot;You Bureau guys crack me up. What happens when you can't get exactly what you need, right away?quot;

The cabbie-agent laughed. quot;Never happens. If we don't have it, we make a call. Like you guys. We called you.quot;

Lyons smiled coolly, slid lower in the taxi's back seat as the Plymouth came up on their left. A white-haired black man was driving. Newspapers and card-board filled the back of the car. Through the taxi's open window, Lyons heard Chinese phrases coming from the stationwagon. The old man repeated each Chinese phrase. Lyons glanced over, saw the old man look at a three-by-five flash card, then say a Chinese phrase.

quot;I don't think that old man's with the FALN,quot; Lyons told his driver. quot;Pull ahead of him, there's a flower-shop truck up there.quot;

quot;What about this truck?quot; The cabbie indicated the meat truck.

quot;Keep it in the rearview mirror, we'll maybe follow it if it makes a turn.quot;

His driver whipped the taxi past the stationwagon. Ahead of them, the florist's van raced through the intersection to beat a yellow light. The shriek of the D.F. signal modulated, became a fading beep-beep-beep as the truck sped away.

quot;That's the van!quot; Lyons grabbed the secure phone.

quot;Want me to run the light?quot; the cabbie asked.

quot;Stay back. I'm calling the others.quot; In a second, he had Gadgets. quot;You've got a white and green florist's truck coming down on you. I didn't see the driver. There's no windows in the back of it. It's the truck we want.quot;

quot;I see it!quot; Gadgets shouted, then the line cut off.

Suddenly Lyons' phone buzzed. quot;This is Smith. Your partner — he just pulled a screaming U-turn through four lanes of traffic. What's going on? What do you want me to do?quot;

quot;He gave you a D.F. receiver?quot;

quot;Yes, sir. I had a signal, but it's fading.quot;

quot;Stay where you are. I think Hardman Two is going to be doing some circles.quot;

quot;What if he takes one of the bridges into Brooklyn?quot;

quot;If he does, Hardman Three is on him. You stay where you are.quot; Lyons leaned forward to his driver. quot;Drive over toward East Side Drive. That'll put us right under the bridges, right?quot;

quot;On my way.quot;

The D.F. signal became a distant beeping. Lyons buzzed Gadgets. quot;Where are you? You staying behind them?quot;

quot;It's the truck, no doubt about it,quot; Gadgets told him. quot;He's pulling turns and stops, trying to spot us.quot;

quot;Is he heading toward either of the bridges?quot;

quot;Nope. Not yet. We just circled a block. Hey, he's going back up Allen. He's going north on Allen. Can you take him? He might have spotted my car.quot;

quot;Smith's still on Allen, where you left him. You fall back. What kind of car do you have?quot;

quot;A Volkswagen beetle — with a Porsche engine and transmission. These feds have all the toys.quot;

quot;Don't get a speeding ticket. Off.quot; Lyons keyed Smith's code. quot;Smith! They're coming your way, get ready to move. You got the description? A green and white florist's truck, no windows in back.quot;

quot;Yes, sir! Behind him already. Keeping a half-block distance behind him. He turned east, he's on Delancy. He could be headed for the Williamsburg Bridge. I'm on Delancy. He's turned again. South now.quot;

quot;Don't turn. We'll be there in a minute. Stay near the bridge, he might be doing a last loop or two before going over the river.quot;

quot;Parked and waiting, sir. Signal's holding steady.quot;

The phone buzzed when Lyons broke the connection. quot;Hardman Three here. I think the signal's holding steady. I mean, I'm moving east, but I don't think itis moving at all.quot;

quot;He was on Delancy. He turned south.quot; Lyons glanced at his pocket street map of Manhattan. quot;Get out to Grand, and head west. I'll be one street north, criss-crossing. Off.quot;

Smith buzzed him. quot;He passed me! But there's no signal from the van. Do I follow?quot;

quot;Get behind him! Stay with him until we can figure this out.quot;

quot;Moving!quot;

Lyons turned up the volume on the minimike. The faint traffic and truck sounds were gone. Now, nothing. He listened, the speaker pressed to his ear.

Clang! The metallic sound made him almost drop it. He held the minimike's receiver away from him, turned down the volume. He heard what sounded like steel on concrete. Footsteps. Then more sounds of steel. The sounds faded to almost nothing. Lyons buzzed Gadgets.

quot;You monitoring the minimikes?quot;

quot;Too faint for me. You get something?quot;

quot;I think the boy dropped him someplace, then took off. He passed Smith, on Delancy, but he had no signal. Nothing. Smith followed him over the Williamsburg Bridge. I don't know where they are now.quot;

quot;Let's pull some circles around that block. On my way up.quot;

quot;Head toward the Williamsburg Bridge,quot; Lyons told his driver. quot;You have some equipment with you in this cab?quot;

quot;Yes, sir. Two Uzis, ammunition. Four Army-issue tear gas grenades. Two walkie-talkies. First aid kit. If there's anything else that you need...quot;

quot;I know, you can call.quot; Lyons punched the code for Smith. quot;Where are you now?quot;

quot;He's taking me for a scenic tour of Brooklyn. He turns once in a while. Nothing serious. I'm staying a block back.quot;

quot;Here's what I want you to do. Call one of your feds. With a civilian car, civilian clothes. New York identification. Have the fed crash into the truck. A fender bender. I don't want that boy driving around anymore. I want him out of the game. Maybe he has an outstanding warrant on him, could you arrange that?quot;

quot;Yes, sir. No problem.quot;

quot;Then do it. Off.quot;

They drove through a neighborhood of old tenements and garages. Lyons monitored both the D.F. receiver and the minimike. Faint, very faint noises came from the minimike. But the D.F. beeps came strong.

quot;Circle this block,quot; he told the cabbie-agent. The D.F. signal wavered, then came back strong as they completed the circle.

quot;Sounds like he's in one of those buildings,quot; the cabbie commented.

Lyons scanned the doorways and windows of the tenements. One city block, all the buildings four or five stories high, each tenement floor having four to ten apartments: there were hundreds of rooms to search. quot;Yeah, but where?quot;

In the sealed back of the van, Blancanales had lost all sense of direction and distance as the boy wove through the streets of the city. But he knew the D.F. unit and minimike would help his partners follow him; as long as he had those micro-electronic units, he was not alone.

The van skidded through a high-speed right turn, swerved wide, then whipped right again. The speed threw Blancanales against the side of the van. His hands mashed flowers as he braced himself for the next turn. But the van accelerated, hit a driveway ramp at more than forty miles an hour and went airborne. Blancanales hit the roof of the van, then the floor, hard.

Skidding threw him forward. He hit the back of the driver's seat. Before he could right himself, the side door slammed open. Two men wearing black ski masks grabbed him, pulled him from the van.

He went from the dark interior of the van to the dark interior of a garage. A third man in a ski mask threw the van door closed, then dragged down a heavy steel door as the van screeched away. The exchange took less than ten seconds.

One holding each arm, the ski-masked FALN soldiers hurried Blancanales through the dark garage reeking of oil and gasoline. He could see cars and trucks with the hoods up. The third FALN soldier ran past them and leaned into a car.

Headlights blinded Blancanales. He felt hands pat him down, slip into his pockets. Hands took his Browning double-action, then his wallet, his keys, pocket change. They found the minimike, took it.

Handcuffs locked his wrists together. The soldiers searched him again. They jerked his suitcoat back and down. Ripping open his shirt, they slid their hands over his dark-skinned chest, both shoulders, his back.

They found the D.F. antenna. Pinned to his shirt collar, the hair-fine wire ran down his body to the plastic-cased transmitter clipped to the elastic of his underwear. They tore the antenna and D.F. unit from him.

One of the FALN soldiers motioned, and the light died: Blancanales felt a hood slip over his head.