Ken Follett - Code to Zero (2000)

When the window was fully open, he reached in and unlocked the door. He opened it, wound up the window, and closed the door again. Now he was ready for a fast getaway.

He considered starting the car now and leaving the engine running, but that might draw the attention of a passing patrolman or even just an inquisitive passerby.

He returned to Union Station. He worried constantly that a railroad employee would notice him. It did not have to be the man he had clashed with earlier-any conscientious official might take it in to his head to throw him out, the way such a man might pick up a candy wrapper. He did everything he could to make himself inconspicuous. He walked neither slow nor fast, tried to keep close to walls when he could, took care not to cross anyone's path, and never looked anyone in the eye.

The best time to steal a suitcase would be immediately after the arrival of a large, crowded train, when the concourse was thronged with hurrying people. He studied the information board. An express from New York was due in twelve minutes. That would be perfect.

As he looked at the board, checking which track the train would come in on, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

He looked around. He must have seen something out of the corner of his eye, something that had triggered an instinctive warning. What? His heart beat faster. What was he afraid of?

Trying to be inconspicuous, he strolled away from the board and stood at the news-stand, examining a rack of daily papers. He took in the headlines:

ARMY ROCKET BLAST SOON

SLAYER OF 10 is NABBED

DULLES ASSURES BAGHDAD GROUP

LAST CHANCE AT CAPE CANAVERAL

After a moment he looked back over his shoulder. A couple of dozen people criss-crossed the concourse, hurrying to or from suburban trains. A larger number sat on the mahogany benches or stood around patiently, relatives and chauffeurs waiting to meet passengers off the New York train. A maitre d' stood outside the door of the restaurant, hoping for early lunch customers. There were five porters in a group, smoking.

And two agents.

He was quite certain what they were. Both were young men, neatly dressed in topcoats and hats, their wingtip shoes well shined. But it was not their appearance so much as their attitude that gave them away. They were alert, raking the station concourse with their eyes, studying the faces of the people they passed, looking everywhere ... except at the information board. The one thing they were not interested in was travel.

He was tempted to speak to them. Thinking about it, he was overwhelmed by a need for simple human contact with people who knew him. He longed for someone to say: 'Hi, Luke, how are you? Good to see you again!'

These two would probably say: 'We are FBI agents and you are under arrest.' Luke felt that would almost be a relief. But his instincts warned him off. Every time he thought of trusting them, he asked himself why they would follow him around surreptitiously if they meant him no harm.

He turned his back to them and walked away, trying to keep the news-stand between him and them. In the shadow of a grand archway he risked a backwards look. The two men were crossing the open concourse, walking from east to west across his field of vision.

Who the hell were they!

He left the station, walked a few yards along the grand arcade of its front, and re-entered the main hall. He was in ;time to see the backs of the two agents as they headed for the west exit.

He checked the clock. Ten minutes had passed. The New York express was due in two minutes. He hurried to the gate and waited, trying to fade into the background.

As the first passengers emerged, a frigid calm descended on him. He watched the arrivals intently. It was a Wednesday, the middle of the week, so there were many businessmen and military types in uniform, but few tourists, and only a sprinkling of women and children. He looked for a man his own size and build.

As passengers poured through the gate, the people waiting surged forward and a traffic jam formed. The crowd around the gate thickened, then spread, with people pushing through irritably. Luke saw a young man of his size, but he was wearing a duffel coat and a wool watch cap: he might not have a spare suit in his haversack. Likewise, Luke dismissed an elderly traveler who was the right height but too thin. He saw a man who looked just right but carried only a briefcase.

By this time at least a hundred passengers had emerged, but there seemed to be many more to come. The concourse filled up with impatient people. Then he saw the right man. He was Luke's height, build and age. His grey topcoat was unbuttoned to show a tweed sport coat and flannel pants - which meant he probably had a business suit in the tan leather case he carried in his right hand. His face wore an anxious look, and he walked quickly, as if he were late for an appointment Luke slipped into the crowd and shoved his way through until he was directly behind the man.

The throng was dense and slow-moving, and Luke's target moved in fretful stops and starts. Then the crowd thinned a little, and the man stepped quickly into a gap.

That was when Luke tripped him. He hooked his foot firmly around the ankle in front of him. As the man moved forward, Luke kicked upward, bending the target's leg at the knee.

The man cried out and fell forward. He let go of both briefcase and suitcase, and threw his hands out in front of him. He crashed into the back of a woman in a fur coat and she, too, stumbled, giving a little scream, and fell. The man hit the marble floor with an audible thump, his hat rolling away. A split second later the woman went down on both knees, dropping a handbag and a chic White leather suitcase.

Other passengers quickly gathered around, trying to help, saying 'Are you all right''

Luke calmly picked up the tan leather suitcase and walked quickly away. He headed for the nearest exit arch. He did not look back, but he listened intently for shouted accusations or sounds of pursuit. If he heard anything, he was ready to run: he was not going to give up his clean clothes easily, and he felt he could probably outrun most people, even carrying a suitcase. But his back felt like a bull's-eye target as he walked briskly toward the doors. '

At the exit, he glanced back over his shoulder. The crowd was milling around the same spot He could not see the man he had tripped, nor the woman in the fur coat. But a tall man with an authoritative air was scanning the concourse keenly, as if looking for something. His head swiveled suddenly toward Luke.

Luke stepped quickly through the door.

Outside, he headed down Massachusetts Avenue. A minute later he reached the Ford Fairlane. He went automatically for the trunk, so that he could hide the stolen suitcase - but the trunk was locked. He recalled seeing the owner lock it. He looked back toward the station. The tall man was running across the traffic circle in front of the station, dodging cars, heading Luke's way. Who was he,- off-duty cop? Detective? Nosy Parker?

Luke went quickly around to the driver's door, opened it, and slung the bag onto the back seat. Then he got in and slammed the door.

He reached under the dash and found the wires on either side of the ignition lock. He pulled them out and touched them together. Nothing happened. He felt sweat on his forehead, despite the cold. Why was this not working? The answer came into his head: Wrong wire. He felt under the dash again. There was another wire to the right of the ignition. He pulled it out and touched it to the wire on the left.

The engine started.

He pressed the gas pedal, and the engine raced.

He put the transmission into drive, released the parking brake, flicked the indicator, and pulled out The car was pointing towards the station, so he did a U-turn. Then he drove off.