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“Ma’am, that I am,” he says.
She frowns. “Gus loves watching those mystery programs on PBS. Why can’t you fellows stop mumbling? It’s a pain to follow.”
I reach for my Beretta because politeness isn’t getting us anywhere, but Jeremy’s smile widens and he says, “Ma’am, we’re from the Queen Elizabeth II Railroad Society, a sister group of your husband’s.”
“Well…” she says, stepping away, “this is his quiet time, but I guess I can let you in.”
We follow her in past three black-and-white cats sniffing in our direction, across a dull-green carpet to a door by the kitchen, where Jeremy and I go down the carpeted steps into the basement. At the bottom there’s an oil furnace; to the right there’s a washer/dryer combo, and to the left—
Paradise.
For a train geek, I suppose.
There’s a U-shaped desk with two large computer screens, each displaying a graphic rendering of railroad tracks, with little symbols and attached numbers moving along. There is radio communications gear, two scanners, and piles of papers and notebooks. On the walls are photos of steam locomotives, diesel trains, and logos from railways across the United States.
A pudgy man with a thin mustache is sitting on a swivel chair, eyes blinking at us with distress from behind black-rimmed eyeglasses. He’s wearing a pink polo shirt with the logo of the National Railway Historical Society over his left breast—said breast almost as big as mine—and to top it off he’s wearing the traditional blue-and-white cap of a train engineer.
Jeremy spots the man’s mood as well and says, “Mister Carlucci, so sorry to barge in on you like this, but we’ve just come from the Queen Elizabeth II Railroad Society.”
And just like that, Jeremy and I are in the cult: “Sure—what can I do for you folks?”
Now it’s my turn. I step in front of Jeremy, pull my jacket aside to reveal my pistol. Gus spots my pistol and gives it a good look, then glances up at me.
“Gus, I’m from the CIA, and Jeremy is from British intelligence. We need your help. There’s a terrorist attack planned for this morning on a local railway, and we’re told you’re the only man who can help us stop it.”
I stare at him with utter seriousness. Then as though his entire sad life has led up to this vital and world-saving event, Gus solemnly nods his head.
“I’m your man,” he says.
Chapter91
I STANDto the left of our unlikely savior and Jeremy stands to the right, and I say, “Something is going to happen this morning on the Hudson Valley Railroad.”
Gus works a keyboard and mouse; the large screen to the left blinks out and is replaced by a graphic map showing Manhattan, the Hudson River, and the east shore of New Jersey, complete with streets, bridges, tunnels, and the markings for railroads.
“Hudson Valley?” he asks. “For real?”
“For real, yes,” Jeremy says.
Gus says, “Doesn’t make much sense. You want a real serious attack—something that can cause damage and mass casualties, get lots of headlines—you’d want to rig up a commuter train running into Grand Central Terminal, an iconic landmark. Same with Penn Station. But you ask me, destroying the new Penn Station would be a service to mankind, considering—”
I gently reach over and squeeze his shoulder. “Gus. Please. Hudson Valley. Is it a commuter rail? What’s its reach?”
“Nah,” he says, working the mouse and keyboard again and zooming into the graphics. “Strictly freight, running from near Hoboken Terminal up to Albany and back again. Funny thing is, it’s relatively new. Took a lot of design work and money—replacing old rail lines, installing new ones on rights-of-way that were secured.”
Jeremy says quietly, “Like someone with a lot of money was intent on installing a freight railway on this stretch of the Hudson River.”
“That’s right,” he says. “Mostly dual tracks: freight up to Albany, freight down to Hoboken. Day in, day out.”
I say, “Gus, can you tell us what trains are running this morning? And what they’re carrying?”
“Sure,” he says. He works the keyboard until the other large screen springs to new life with numbers, letters, and columns that make no sense to me but seem to mean a lot to Gus.
The door we came through opens up. “Gus! I’m putting the coffee on! Does your company want some?”
He turns his head and shouts out. “Later, Margaret, we’re busy down here!”
“Fine, suit yourself.”
