For the first time in its storied history, not a single subway train sped through the underground tunnels beneath the city and wouldn’t again until every one of its six thousand cars was cleared of remote dispersal devices. They’d already recovered sixteen of them within a three-block radius of Grand Central Terminal and were only now expanding their search to the surrounding stations, including Times Square–Forty-second Street, where there was one attached to the number 7 train, which sat lifeless on the platform when Mason and Layne arrived. The silver doors stood open, revealing vacant seats and empty walkways that glowed faintly green beneath the interior lights.
The MTA workers who’d found the device stood off to the side, about as far away from it as they could physically get without exiting the station. None of them had any desire to be there, but there was no one more qualified to determine if there were any foreign objects attached to the trains than they were, let alone in anything resembling an expeditious manner.
They’d made it clear, however, that they weren’t touching the devices. That was someone else’s problem, and the mayor, being currently indisposed, was in no position to object.
“Show me,” Mason said.
A bearded man with a hard hat and an orange reflective vest broke away from the others. He approached as though preparing to proffer his hand, but thought better of it when he realized the implications of their isolation suits and veered toward the yellow tiles lining the edge of the platform. Dropped down onto the tracks behind the last car. Crouched and shone his flashlight up into the undercarriage.
“She could have easily leaned over the edge while everyone was boarding and slipped it right up underneath there,” the man said.
Mason jumped down behind him and craned his neck to see the device. It was the same thing he’d seen on the train pulling into Grand Central Station when he arrived, and yet somehow it seemed even smaller up close. The homemade unit had been spray-painted black and affixed to the underside of the train with an electromagnet. Were it not for the antenna, it would have been indistinguishable from the other mechanical components. He recognized a battery pack, a remote transceiver, and a stainless-steel reservoir equipped with a high-pressure nozzle.
“Hold that light still for me, okay?” Mason said, and reached for the device.
“No freaking way.” The man practically jumped straight up onto the platform. “You’re on your own from here.”
“I got it,” Layne said.
She grabbed the flashlight and shone it upward from underneath so the shadows from Mason’s hands wouldn’t hide the unit as he disconnected the battery and released the magnet. He took it carefully in both hands and removed it from the train. The liquid Novichok sloshed inside the reservoir, which couldn’t have been much larger than a whiskey flask.
“How much fluid do you think this holds?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe twelve ounces?”
“What’s that? A can of Coke? If you figure a six-pack is roughly a half gallon, you could put one of these not just on every train but on every single car on every train and still only use a thousand gallons.” Mason looked up and met her stare. He could tell she was thinking the exact same thing. “Where’s the rest of it?”