Chapter 5 – “The Crossing”

"So, which direction this time?" Mary asked.

"After a week of near-zero temperatures?  South."

"Speaking of chill, how about some coffee?"

Eric nodded.  "Okay.  I'll make a run, you get the tickets."

"Gotcha.  Keep your eyes open."

"You too."

As Mary took her place at the end of the Amtrak line, Eric headed for the shoppingconcourse of the station.  Soon, he found the almost unavoidable gourmet coffee franchise, and entered.

He stood for a moment, reading the epic-sized wall menu and considering the coffee-culture lingo that had pervaded the country so quickly.  Short, tall, grande?  Regular, half-caf, decaf?  Whole, skim... It was just as he threw in the towel and settled on hot chocolate that he saw the man.

Eric gave silent thanks for taking the time to put in his contacts that morning, despite the weariness of his eyes.  The young man from the theater, the one who had shown so much more interest in him and Mary than in Miss Saigon had just entered the station from the Thirty-Second Street entrance.

Eric turned back towards the counter and let his usual posture go slack.  As he gave his order to the sleepy-eyed woman behind the counter, he kept his eyes on the pastry shelves– more specifically, on the man’s reflection in the counter glass.

The man stopped just inside the doors, then began stamping his feet and rubbing his hands, trying to shake off the chill.  A moment later, he turned and headed for the men’s room.  The pair of steaming paper cups appeared on the counter.  Eric dropped a five-dollar bill, grabbed the cups and headed out.

Balancing the drinks, Eric turned up the collar on his coat and hunched up his shoulders.  Mary was just turning away from the ticket counter when he walked straight into her, nearly spilling the hot chocolate.

“What are you doing?” she asked, confused.

“Excuse me, Miss,” Eric replied.  “He’s here,” he added in a whisper.

Mary picked up instantly.  “My mistake.”  She looked over his shoulder and scanned the area.  Finally, she found it– a passenger lounge tucked tightly into a corner, with a commanding view of the station.  Her eyes flicked from Eric’s to it before she started walking.

Eric waited a few moments before turning.  He took the long way around the concourse to reach the lounge, finally settling into a place one seat away from Mary’s.  From their vantage, they could see almost the entire concourse.

“Did he see you?” Mary asked, not turning.

“No.  He walked in, the headed straight for the men’s room.”

“I’ve got tickets on the Northeast Direct to D.C.  It leaves in… fifteen minutes.”

Eric checked his watch.  “What platform?”

“Eight.”  Mary’s eyes never stopped, constantly crossing back and forth across her field of vision.  The escalator to the platform was about thirty feet away.  An Amtrak employee was just walking towards it, ready to gather tickets as the passengers went down.

“May I have your attention please,” said the tinny voice of the PA, “Amtrak announces the departure of NortheastDirect 403, with service to Washington, D.C.  Will all passengers with tickets please report to the escalator on the lower concourse.”

Mary turned to Eric.  “Do you remember what he was wearing?”

“Yeah.”

She stood, turning her head to the bank of public phones and the pair of intercom phones beside them.  “I’ve got an idea.”

**********

Ilan Greenwald stepped out of the men’s room, cursing his rush to get out of the hotel that morning.  He drew an Amtrak schedule from his pocket, noting the dozen or so trains he’d highlighted as possibilities– all the departures to major cities.  Knowing that he was dealing with fairly intelligent prey, he considered Boston the most likely destination.  They were just the sort to double back.

He’d gotten only a dozen or so steps before he looked up and right into the broad expanse of the chest of a New York City Transit Police officer.

“Excuse me, officer,” he mumbled, then turned to his right, only to be faced with the same obstacle.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse us, sir,” said the first cop, a towering figure.

Greenwald was immediately incensed.  “Is there some kind of problem here?”

“If you’ll just come with us, sir.”

“Not until you tell me what’s going on!”

The giant placed a vise-tight hand on the young man’s arm.  “It’d be best if you calmed down, sir.”

“Let go of me,” Greenwald seethed.

“I’m sorry sir,” growled the second cop, “you’re going to have to come with us.”  Another vise clamped down on the other arm.

The second cop deftly drew a hand down Greenwald’s side.  As he reached the hip, he felt the heavy bulge.  Without a word, he extracted Greenwald’s brand-new 9mm Glock 17 and pocketed the automatic.

Sensing the futility of struggling, Greenwald allowed himself to be almost carried away by the policemen.  As they headed for the station’s NYTPD facility, the trio passed within view of the pay phones.

For a brief moment, he saw them.  They stood casually, looking like all the other New Yorkers watching with mild curiosity at the young man in police custody.  They stood watching him be taken away.

He stared right back, trying to broadcast every bit of contempt and disgust he could muster at them.  Neither batted so much as an eyelash.  The young man took a sip of his drink, crushed the cup and tossed it into a basket.  They turned their backs on him and walked in the direction of the upper concourse, the exit, and the rest of New York.

As they left his view, Greenwald almost smiled.  This was going to be one hell of a hunt.
 

**********

Amtrak NortheastDirect 403 pulled into Union Station at precisely 7:12 PM, right on time.  A number of young people stepped off board, and almost all of them had backpacks.  Only two of them, however, arrived in Washington, D.C. with death marks on their heads.

Mary and Eric walked slowly beneath the towering, vaulted marble and glass ceilings.

She gave a low whistle.  “Wow.  Pretty impressive.”

“I’ve always thought so.  Enjoy your nap?”

“Yep,” she answered, nodding.  “Get the journal all caught up?”

Eric patted the side of his pack, where his laptop was still warm.  “I was tapping away right up to when we got to the city limits.”  A loud, rude grumbling noise came from somewhere around his belt buckle.  He patted his stomach.

Mary smiled.  “I agree.  Let’s get some dinner.”

“I know just the place.”

A few minutes later, they sat high above the station under the wrought-iron-framed windows at the America’s Café.  Eric ordered the Maryland crab cakes and a massive California-inspired burger, while Mary opted for a huge fried chicken platter, from Kentucky, naturally.

They ate leisurely as they discussed their next step.

“Now what?” she asked.

“I think we should double back.”

“Won’t he be expecting that?”

“Probably,” he said.  “But I only want to go as far as New York this time.  There were three trains to Washington today, but eight to Boston.  I’d expect him to play the odds.”

“Which probably puts him on a shuttle flight to Logan, depending on when he got finished with the cops.”

Eric smiled.  “I think it took a while.  A superior-minded rich boy like him probably made a whole lot of noise in the Transit police station.  New York cops don’t like suspects who make a lot of noise.”  He took a sip of his drink.  “That was a terrific idea.”

“Thank you, thank you.  I do my best.”

“So what do you think?”

“Sounds like a plan.  When do we leave?”

“I’d say we should spend the night here, then take the shuttle up tomorrow morning.”

Mary’s eyes widened.  “You mean we actually get to fly this time?”

“Yeah, but we don’t get the Plaza tonight, though.”

“Not another flop house.”

“Nah, let’s split the difference.  Find a Holiday Inn or something.”

She leaned back.  “With the cash we’ve got on hand, we could spend the night in the Lincoln Bedroom.”

He shook his head.  “I’m not letting Bill anywhere near you.  Dessert?”

“Sure.”

The gigantic sundae arrived a few minutes later, and they were checked in at the Sheraton by ten o’clock.

**********

At ten o’clock, Ilan Greenwald was checking into the Four Seasons.  As he waited, he rubbed his wrists, still aching from the handcuffs that had held him chained to a wobbly chair in a filthy interrogation room.  It had taken more than eight hours of interrogation and processing before he’d convinced the police that he’d done nothing wrong.

He knew, too, that they knew he was innocent of any crimes.  *Blue collar wage slaves like them always resent those of us with more,* he mused.

He turned towards the windows.  As he looked out at the moonlight-lit Boston skyline, he had another thought.  *I’m going to enjoy this one.*

To be continued…