Luke stood to her left, she to the right of the door into the next car, both of them with guns drawn. She ventured a quick look and saw Kim moving down the center aisle, still holding the black satchel, which surely contained a gun.
“We need to stop him,” Luke said.
She nodded her understanding.
“Let’s do it,” he said.
*
Kim was looking for his adversary, intent on killing the final obstacle to his success. The man had fled toward where Hana and Howell waited among the first-class compartments. One more car and he’d be there. His left arm held the satchel while his right hand was inside, wrapped around the gun. None of the passengers here seemed concerned, as they surely had no idea what had happened behind them. The clank of wheels to rails seemed more than enough noise to mask the suppressed shots. He glanced out the exterior windows and saw lights. That and the ever-slowing speed indicated they’d arrived in Solaris.
“Kim Yong Jin.”
He stopped and turned.
A man and woman stood at the far end of the car, guns pointed toward him.
*
Hana sensed that something had gone wrong. She lowered her gun, grabbed the clipped stacked of papers, and stood from her seat.
“Where are you going?” Howell asked.
She ignored him and slid open the compartment door, stealing a quick look into the car behind her. Through the glass in the doors she saw her father, facing away, a man and woman at the car’s rear with guns aimed at him.
Then another man.
The first Korean who’d boarded the train.
He was standing in the space between her exit door and the entrance for the next car. He held a gun and was carefully peering around the window’s edge toward her father, his back to her.
She aimed at the door two meters away and fired.
*
Kim heard glass break behind him.
He whirled and dropped down at the same time, expecting to see the last Korean bearing down on him. Instead he caught sight of Hana through the now obliterated half of the door to the next car.
Then the Korean appeared, coming to his feet.
The squeal of brakes to wheels, then wheels to rails signaled the train was stopping. He saw the man dart left and disappear. The two problems behind him had also sought cover. He decided to give them more reason to stay down. He tossed the satchel aside and fired three shots in their direction, then rushed the door and slipped out.
The Korean was gone.
Hana emerged from the car ahead.
“Get Howell.”
The train was fully stopped.
They had to leave.
Now.
*
Malone timed his move to coincide with the torrent of noise that accompanied the train’s arrival, assuming that would be the moment of maximum distraction. Hopefully, his target would not expect an attack from the platform, the focus on the train and what may have happened there. So far he’d stayed back, out of sight, using another of the iron supports for cover. The platform itself was dimly lit, which helped. Several workers busied themselves in preparing for the arrival, the train easing to a full stop.
A man leaped from one of the lead cars while the wheels were still moving. Asian. Holding a gun. The man on the platform yelled something not in English, the first whirling around and realizing that he now had an ally. He pointed up to the train and signaled for them to retreat.
Three more people emerged to the station.
Kim and his daughter, both toting guns, and Howell.
What the hell happened?
*
Isabella knew instantly what they had to do, as apparently did Luke. Kim had fled ahead so they needed to exit the train from the doors just behind them. The few passengers in the car slowly rose from the floor, where they’d all plunged when Kim starting shooting.
Everyone appeared okay.
They slid open the door and hopped down to the station.
She immediately spotted Kim, Hana Sung, and Howell.
And the shooting started.
SIXTY-TWO
WASHINGTON, DC
Stephanie and Joe Levy followed Carol Williams out of the Founders Room then into the rotunda with the fountain that she’d visited earlier. They turned right and walked down the same long sculpture hall that led to the garden court—except this time they veered into a series of exhibition rooms. The first displayed French canvases, the next British artists. A few visitors loitered here and there, admiring the works. It was approaching 4:00 P.M., closing time a little more than an hour away. In a gallery labeled 62 she noticed that the two open doorways were blocked. NO ADMITTANCE signs were posted at each.
“The American rooms are being renovated,” Carol said. “They’ve been closed for a month, but follow me.”
They bypassed the barricades and entered a set of galleries where the canvases were gone, the bare walls and hardwood floors being repaired. on. Workers milled about with paint and stain and the air smelled of varnish.
“We took down most of the canvases,” Carol said.
They entered a rectangular room with pale-blue walls and cream-colored trim. Its ceiling was backlit glass panels dotted with floodlights angled down at canvases that remained hung, but covered in white cloth. The floor was the same hardwood planks, which had yet to be refurbished.
“They’re working their way here,” Carol said. “But what I think you’re after is right there. I had the sheet removed.”
The exposed image was substantial, around ten feet long and eight feet high, framed in heavy gilded wood the color of burnished gold.
Carol stepped toward the painting and pointed to its left side.
“The little boy is George Washington Parke Custis. He was Martha’s grandson by her first husband, but after his parents died he came to live with Martha and George. Of course, that’s George Washington sitting beside his namesake. Martha is across from her husband. Her granddaughter, Eleanor Parke Custis, stands beside her. She and George adopted both children as their own, so this is the actual First Family. The man in the background, behind the two women, is probably one of Washington’s slaves, but no one knows for sure.”