Limp toward Chip, who minus the back of his skull is deader than fuck and hardly warrants a peep-see. Dig the brackish, evil water covering my wingers. A slow-moving stream, thicker than it should be. Pull on a fresh glove, checking my natural instinct to puke, and dip my hand into the tunnel creek approximately where he tossed his wallet.

  Fish it out, hold it at arm’s length. Gagging. Get a handle on it, Decimal. Brown leather passport-sized thing. I flip it open. US Secret Service badge. With a photo of me, and the name: Chip White.

  Hairs go erect on the back of my neck. I don’t get it . . . This an elaborate gag? Is it my my birthday?

  No time at the moment . . . gotta stay grinding.

  Move. Turn and gimp toward the Saudis, ditching the soiled glove and spraying the badge off. Water-borne disease. Pathogenic parasitical protozoa, dysentery, intestinal worms.

  Fuck it. I pocket the mystery shield, thinking, Gotta stay below street level, talking fast: “Your Highnesses, my deepest apologies. Please allow me to escort you to an alternative exit.”

  ___________

  2. Don’t just take my word as bond: for more on this controversial theorem I refer you to DD classification code 519 (the “probability” subheading of 510 “mathematics”) . . . and for the layperson I recommend Jason Rosenhouse’s excellent The Monty Hill Problem (Oxford University Press, 2009).

  _________________

  A subway station at 38th and Park? Bitches, why not crack a book and get down with your history.

  Okay, never a subway station exactly. Originally built for horse-carts back in 1870, well before Grand Central was even conceived, with a transition to electric streetcars in the last few years of the nineteenth century. The tunnels which house this ghost station were once open-air tracks for the very first railroad system in New York City.

  Stay lively, y’all. As this land is razed and transformed, these tidbits get more and more important.

  In 1850 the rails were roofed over from 39th Street to 34th, creating the surface that later became the Park Avenue Tunnel. Upon the underground station’s construction two fine granite stairwells were installed, on the east and west sides. One of which I am now descending with two Saudi Arabian royals. This is where I find myself.

  * * *

  It took some doing, but I managed to dig a crowbar out of the Escalade, as well as a couple of electronic road flares.

  Thought about it. Grabbed the dead soldier’s radio too. My overcoat fucked up, drenched in blood. Freezing without it, but what’s a brother to do? This being where you wind up, trying to play the gentleman.

  The egress which housed the doorway leading to the stairwell, roughly at 41st Street, had probably not been opened in several years. Application of will and elbow grease popped that thing in under five minutes, open says me.

  Just another forgotten door in New York City, unloved and unsecured.

  Couple of sheets hang back, shapeless and sad looking.

  “If you please,” I say, switching out of English mode, indicating the open doorway. “Take this light here. Please. Move onto the stairwell with caution, then stop and wait for my signal, I’m behind you.” Hustle them into the black, they disappear fast.

  I see the LED flare come on, like a rotating red police light. Disorienting but better than nothing. Move. Working on getting my own flare going when the Saudi’s radio comes alive in my pocket, making me jump. In common Arabic . . . though not a native speaker: “Lost signal at this position. No response from subject. Entering at 33rd and Park, over.”

  So. Get both guns up and push myself into the doorjamb. Face south and breeeeathe, silky. Think System. Been keeping clean, taking my pills and my lefts. Dark in here, feeling relatively confident I’ll remain unseen.

  Echoey in this funnel, sound slapping around and hard to pinpoint, but over the downpour I think I hear vehicles coming to a stop near the south entrance, my line of sight compromised on account of the slope leading into the underpass. That’s all right. I’m a patient kind of guy. For the time being I ignore the hockey puck of sand in my mouth.

  The dead Saudi’s radio crackles, and I set my gun down to cautiously shut the thing off . . . not before I make out two numbers, again with the language-school Arabic: “Ten-three, out.”

  Ten-three? That’s what . . . that’s old-school American cop or trucker slang for “switch channels.” Am I to believe this is a universal military code, in use throughout the world?

  Highly improbable, y’all. Little clues, little seeds, shards of a broken test tube.

  It’s an easy misdirect to throw suspicion to the Arabs, especially amongst us dumb-dumb Americans. Shit is too easy. It’s like the black thing—even some of the smartest motherfuckers can get thrown off track by a little color. They smell a turban and reckon they got it all sussed. Bearing this in mind, moving forward.

  When the folks with guns come, they come slow.

  Counting one, two, three, and a forth against the eastern wall, and a trio of shooters pressed to the opposite side. My tummy wiggles and jiggles as I squint, clock via the early-morning daylight at least four drenched but distinct uniforms: the powder-blue helmet of the UN Peacekeeper, an NYPD outfit, standard grunt wear that could be either US, Chinese, or Saudi Arabian, for all I know . . . and natch, that now nearly ubiquitous Cyna-corp amphibious ninja chic, probably the only motherfuckers who aren’t suffering from getting rained on. It’s like they threw together the most random sampling of gear to fuck with a brother. Needless to say, all these folks are strapping big heat, gat-tastic.

  And needless to say: I do not know what in the good name of Allah is going down here.

  And that’s as much as I can scope before a powerful searchlight swipes the tunnel, forcing me to pirouette (left) back into the alcove.

  It’s a self-conciously mixed grab bag. An all-too-motley crew. Smells bad, bad, bad. Think on it: Who comes yonder? Vertically integrated death squad or harmonious international rescue unit?

  Their lamp alights on the big Escalade. Chip dangling there.

  Anticipatory cleansing, I holster the HK and get my PurellTM on. Low speech from the posse a block or two south, well into the cistern now, the water amplifying all sonic events. English is being spoken, though I can scarcely make it out. Reporting the discovery of the vehicle I would reckon.

  Naturally, it would be unwise to engage this potluck. Not until I can glean their intentions. Should they be hostile, the only smart move would be to lam it with the royal twins till I can suss an angle.

  Replace my gloves, don’t remember if I’ve thrown back a pill lately . . . Fuck it, I spit to clear that imaginary sand, and swallow another Beauty Blue just to be sure. Holster my pistolas, and again grab ahold of the electric flare, getting primed to scramola. I’m woefully outgunned. Trick is to know when to hold ’em, and know when to fold ’em.

  The portal leading below is open a good three feet. Don’t want the search party to spot this door, or at least don’t wanna hasten that discovery, but they’re preoccupied with the wrecked Esco as it is. The men having a quiet conversation.

  Searchlight makes a slow frisk of the vehicle, landing once again on Chip’s soggy corpse. Wipers still going swish swish.

  Assume some sort of decision is made cause bada-bada, extra loud in this reflective tube, Chip starts to shimmy and twitch, machine-gun fire perforating what remains of the young man, making him jump and jive. It’s certainly an indignity, but one has to assume Chip is beyond such things. In a happier place, which would be anywhere or nowhere at all.

  Gunfire halts, the crew giving things a beat to see what shakes out.

  Think I know as much as I need to know at this point. Were these folks here on humanitarian recon, I highly doubt they’d be apt to shoot up a potentially wounded and salvageable individual so thoroughly. So with that, and because I feel myself falling into a bit of a Freeze (who are these people? What are we all doing?), I duck out, through the neglected exit. Or entrance, depending on your perspective.

  Thinking I’m smooth like that, I exhale and unclench my ass cheeks. Brain function inching back toward “normal.” Put my back against the door and attempt to ease it shut—causing a tremendous scrape against the stone as the warped metal resists my shoulder. Fuck.

  It’s an attention grabber. The searchlight swings our direction, followed by a gunshot volley. Constellation of bullet holes appear in the rusty iron just above my head, I go facedown, pressing myself as flat as possible against cold granite, as the door is systematically shredded.

  Feature lead flakes in my mouth, in my nostrils . . . Yet more keening from the hooded ones, swaying paralyzed on the first landing, that hypnotic red light spiraling a tight circle.

  “Move! Watch your fucking step but we need to be quick,” me saying, hastily adding, “God willing, Your Highnesses.” Hauling my bones up.

  They get the gist and get to traipsing, treacherous on the dead walkway, into the guts of the island. Go, Decimal.

  I’m bopping lopsided right behind them, cursing myself for not seeing this job for the suicidal undertaking it was. The whole bag is a sham and the only thing to do now is not catch a slug in the neck. Must think pretty highly of myself if I didn’t—

  One of the potato sacks stumbles, nearly taking a nosedive. Steadies, then: muffled: “Fucking hell. Forget it.” She says it in British-tinged English, for it’s def the female. Funny cause I had thought it was the other way around . . . thought she was the male of the two.

  Girl hikes up her full-body skirt, revealing her calves, encased in high-cut pricey-looking jeans (Swedish?), fancy ankle bracelet bling, and Miu Miu six-inch heels. Yeah, I ID them no sweat. If you’ve got brand radar, you can’t turn that noise off.

  Not ideal footwear for spelunking. Not ideal for upright walking either, for that matter, but I’m certainly one to allow fashion to trump safety . . . witness my lack of a Kevvie vest, today of all days.

  Me moving to assist . . . her shrill-yet-oddly-resonant sibling speaks, aghast in alto flutey Arabic. “Haifa!” she hisses through her veil. “Cover yourself, sister, even here modesty is your most valuable . . .”

  Hold up: the heart of another woman beats beneath that cloth for sure. Two women?

  Man, if this op isn’t a big old-fashioned fuck-up. Got two bitc . . . two ladies here. Now, as screwed as this job is, this here gender-fucking aspect of the whole deal is not on this brother. At least that can be said. I thought we were getting a gal and a guy straight-show. I’m a bit hazy on the details, but wasn’t that the whole goddamn point?

  “Hey, I was expecting a brother-and-sister act here—”

  “Can’t bloody see. No, fuck all this bloody crap!”

  She could easily be from North London with that accent, slight Jafaican in there . . . unexpected from a Saudi Arabian princess.

  This one known as Haifa is attempting to wrestle out of her robes, I manage to catch her around the waist as she nearly pitches forward into darkness. Met by the type of costly musculature one can only obtain through the likes of a strict Pilates regimen.

  “Easy,” I tell her as she surges forward. “Stop freaking moving if you’re gonna try to get this mess off you . . .”

  Help her grapple with the robe and get it over her head—revealing an explosion of hair, designer faux-military jacket. By the circling red cop light I dig candids of big clear eyes, dark as her hair, framed by thick Cleopatra makeup, dramatic and stark, and a rope of scar tissue above her right brow.

  She’s a whiz-bang knockout, by any standard.

  “Thank you,” she says, quiet, in and out of the dark, the rotating light. Mid to late twenties.

  Goodness me. Goodness my.

  “Princess,” I say, “it’s a pleasure.”

  She shoots me a look, says in that incongruous accent, “And who the bloody fuck are you?”

  Hey, Decimal. Sure, she’s sweet to peep, but first order of business is not getting dead, which means slip, slide, and shake the goons upstairs.

  “Haifa,” repeats the other girl, a throaty purr, “at least consider a luxury hijab.”

  “Don’t let’s fucking start, darling,” replies Haifa, her cat’s eyes still considering me.

  “They can be very stylish, as you know.”

  “Ladies,” I interject, trying to keep things jumping forth.

  “I don’t want to go snapping my bloody neck, do I?” Haifa spits, stepping toward the other woman . . . her sister?

  I just don’t dig it. Help me out. “Ladies.”

  And in Arabic, “Not a blessed word to me in four years and this is nearly the first thing out of your mouth? You’re a shallow one, aren’t you? God is great. That you’ve any family remaining who will speak to you at all—”

  Drop my light, couldn’t get it working, and taking them both by the waist I’m rushing the pair down the stairwell, trying to mind where we’re stepping, say, “Ladies, plenty of time to get back on the same page later, for now let’s focus on walking, okay? Carefully.”

  “I can see perfectly fine,” the fully covered gal says, nearly losing her footing.

  Haifa halts, swivels on me. “Oi. I didn’t get an answer outta you, did I? Give me your name, sir, your agency. I demand a bloody fucking explanation. I’ll have your head on a bloody platter, and I do mean that literally.”

  Throw an eyeball north, up above us now comes the searchlight as our friends grapple with this situation. Go. Steer the women. “Let’s walk and talk, shall we? All will be clear . . .”

  Heels clattering on the granite, luckily the boys upstairs seem to be consulting each other. By the cherry light I praise Jehovah that we’ve almost hit the old platform, bam, we do it—the searchlight traces the identical stairwell along the far wall, jerks back in our direction.

  Happily, whoever is holding the searchlight is a dumb-ass and by the time they’re running it across the landing, aha, we’re already off it, sloshing into the narrow northbound tunnel through a good six inches of yet more bilious stream.

  Anaerobic bacteria. Dengue. Though that’s the tropics. But these days . . .

  Haifa gags. The other girl holds steady but presses the material of her headpiece into her mouth. We’re deep now, and the Stench is indescribably putrid, especially in an enclosed space like this . . . and this is not even sewage, this is just a collection of rainwater and possibly reservoir runoff.

  I hate to admit that I’m pretty much used to it. Chewing on that sand, pulling in air through my nose.

  “Uh, this is—”

  “Breathe through the mouth.”

  “Why should we be running at all? By what logic are we down in the bloody sewer with you? How do we know you’re not meant to hurt us?”

  The sister gets caught in her gear and almost topples, Haifa grabs her elbow and rights her.

  “You reckon I’m enjoying this? You did notice we’re all being shot at, no?”

  Catch a bit of uneven ground, whoops, manage to land in a plank position. The ladies don’t pause. That’s good. Push myself up and out of the shitty water, press forward.

  “This is hell. We’re in fucking hell,” yammers Haifa as I catch up to her, those jeans . . .

  I grimace. “You got no idea, Your Highness. No idea.”

  “Oi. Don’t address me like that. I left all that nonsense behind.”

  “Is it so . . . is it so shameful?” mutters the sister, moving with difficulty.

  “We make choices, darling. You make yours, I make mine.” Haifa is pulling ahead, clearly the superior athlete here.

  Let all this smack drift. Hopefully we’ll live to get to know each other, but for now I gotta keep these girls motivated.

  “On the positive side, Your Highnesses,” I say in English, feeling like some positivity would be welcome here, “ya won’t see any rats. Rest easy that the rats and whatnot up and died about a year back. All of them.”

  “Oi. Bad. Subject. Stop,” breathes Haifa.

  “They got huge, off-the-chain huge, everybody was all, Damn those are some big-ass rats! And then either they couldn’t live in this poison water . . . or something higher up on the food chain got to ’em—”

  “Sir,” interrupts Haifa, “if you don’t mind, you’re just making it bloody worse.”

  I realize, sure, I’m not exactly painting the prettiest picture. Digging there is no bright side to any of this, not if you look long enough. “Just trying to orient you is all,” I say, lame as fuck.

  Haifa staggers a couple steps, then carries on, one leg longer than the other.

  “Break a heel?” says me. Rhetorically.

  No verbal response to this, but she boogies on one foot for a moment and gets the other shoe off, tosses it aside like it’s no thing at all. Flashes me the shit-eye. I dig that.

  Yet more good news is that we’re on an incline, so the water begins to taper a bit as we get farther along. By my estimation we’re coming up on the tangle of tunnels intersecting at Grand Central . . . the tunnels expand, a little less tight, higher arches. Older ruins.

  Presuming we’re still heading north, we come upon an east-west conduit, maybe the 7 train. . . but I don’t see a third rail. Possible we’ve come upon the long-decommissioned Steinway Tunnels, which I would find more exciting if I didn’t have other shit constipating my inbox . . .

  Eastbound. Barring any obstructions, that jammie will take us straight home, to the library. Please, by all that is holy . . . I want to be home.

  This has undoubtedly occurred to our pursuers. This destination.

  Quick, Decimal, think it through: obviously we’re not going to the police precinct on Varick, per the official plan. Not till I know what’s what.

  Can’t go direct to the senator cause fuck knows who’s fucking who here.

  Can’t turn around cause behind us lies probable death.

  The revolving cop light screwing with my vision. Come to a sliding stop. Freeze town. Droplet of sweat runs down my cheek like a tear, despite the fact that I’m frozen solid and only vaguely aware of my feet.

  “Oi. Mister . . . you look,” the princess is saying, at a remove.

  She’s beautiful. Love that scar. Huge effort to keep that face in focus, but I’m floating . . .