Patty’s smile was gentle. “What is it you want, Nat?”
“I’m an architect. Maybe that’s it. What I want above everything else is space, room to move around in, distances you can see, mountains that make you feel small—”
“Room to breathe?”
Nat looked at the girl with new interest. “You do understand, don’t you?”
“Is that surprising?”
“I guess it is.”
“I’ve never been out in your country,” Patty said, “and I’d probably be out of place—”
Nat shook his head. “Not you.” He had said the same to Zib once, he remembered, but for wholly different reasons. “You’re—real,” he said now. “That’s a funny thing to say, I know.”
“I’m flattered.”
“Bert,” Nat said. “You’re like him in some ways, a lot of ways. When Bert said something, you didn’t have to look it all over for booby traps. He said what he meant and he meant what he said.”
“I’m more than flattered,” Patty said.
From the far end of the trailer Brown said, “They’re on the roof.” A walkie-talkie was speaking hollowly. “Oliver wants the word when they’re ready in the Tower Room.” Brown held out the phone to Nat. “You’d better take over.”
Nat nodded. “Here we go.”
24
5:31P.M.-5:43P.M.
Paul Simmons drove back into Manhattan and parked his car in the basement of his office building. He started for the elevators and then changed his mind and walked out to the street and around the corner to a bar. It was dimly lighted and, except for the bartender, deserted. On the color television set behind the bar the World Tower writhed in smoke. Paul tried not to look at the screen as he paid for his drink and carried it to a corner booth. Thank God the bartender was not a talker.
So the cops had picked up Pat Harris. That was the first thing, and its implications were unpleasant. If that kind of pressure was on, then Pat Harris would think first, last, and always of his own neck, that was sure. The story he would tell would not be the one they had agreed on down in the game room, but the one he had threatened Paul with: Harris had wondered about the change orders, even questioned them, but Paul Simmons, his boss and an engineer, had told him to mind his own business and do what he was told. So maybe Harris came out of it not very bright, but neither was he apparently culpable. God damn Harris.
Harry Whitaker, the inspector with his hand conveniently out—what about him? In panic? Probably, because that was Harry Whitaker, but it would be well to find out. Paul maneuvered out of the booth and went to the public telephone.
Harry’s wife answered and did not even ask who was calling. Her screech for her husband almost shattered Paul’s eardrum.
Harry came to the phone at the double and his voice snarled, “Close the goddam door!” Then, into the phone, in a different tone, “Yes?”
“Simmons here.”
“Oh,” Harry said, “thank God! I’ve been trying to get you, but they said—”
“Now you have me,” Paul said. His voice was cold. “What do you want?”
There was a significant pause. “What do I want?” Harry said in a new, wondering voice. “What do you think I want, Mr. Simmons? I want to know what to do.”
“About what?”
The pause was longer this time. “I don’t understand, Mr. Simmons.”
“Neither do I,” Paul said. The pause, he thought, would be almost interminable this time while the stupid oaf tried to think. It was.
“Look, Mr. Simmons,” Harry said at last, “haven’t you seen on TV what’s happening? At the World Tower, I mean? There’re fires, and people trapped up in that Tower Room, and there’s no power! There’s no power in that whole big goddam building! No electricity at all!”
“So?”
Harry’s voice tried to sound amused. “You’ve got to be kidding, Mr. Simmons. I mean, you know, you and I know what must have happened. There isn’t any other way. A primary short that wasn’t grounded—I mean, what else could it be?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Paul said.
Harry’s breathing turned audible, harsh. “Look, Mr. Simmons,” he said, and his voice, lowered now, was carefully controlled, “you paid me. You know you did. You told me everything would be all right, and once everything was buttoned up, who would know that we’d cut a few corners, who would ever know? You never told me anything like this could happen. I mean, there’s two dead guys already, and some of the firemen they’ve carried out don’t look too good, and what if they can’t get those people down out of the Tower Room, how about that?” The voice paused and then took on new urgency. “If they can’t get those people, Mr. Simmons, that’s—murder! What do we do? That’s all, tell me what we do!”
“I wouldn’t know,” Paul said.
“Look, you paid me!”
“I paid you nothing. I don’t know what you’ve dreamed up, but leave me out of it.”
“You paid me!” The voice was out of control now. “You paid me! How do you think I went to Florida on that goddam vacation?”
“I wondered about that,” Paul said. “It did seem a little odd on an inspector’s salary.”
The pause this time was the longest of all. Harry’s hoarse breathing was the only sound. Then, “So that’s the way it is, is it?” he said. His voice was almost resigned. “Okay, Mr. Simmons. My name’s on all the sign-offs. I’m the guy they’ll come looking for. And you know what I’ll tell them? Do you know, Mr. Simmons?”
“Tell them what you please.”
“I will! I goddam will!” It was a shout, almost a scream. “You’re fucking well right I will! I’ll tell them what you paid me, right down to the last penny! I’ll tell them you told me it was all right, not to worry, nothing could happen! I’ll tell them I believed you!”
“But,” Paul said, “nobody will believe what you say. Do you have any witnesses, any photostats of checks, anything at all to prove anything? That’s what they’ll ask. They’ll ask something else, too: ‘Harry,’ they’ll say, ‘aren’t you making all this up just to try to save your own miserable neck?’ And what answer will you give them to that, Harry?” Paul hung up and walked back to his booth, squeezed in, and sat down heavily.
Nat Wilson, he thought, Giddings, Zib, Pat Harris, and now Harry Whitaker; yes, and Patty herself, hadn’t she gone over to the other side? So where did that leave him? Just how vulnerable was he? Think, goddammit. THINK!
He had told Bert McGraw that he had followed the change orders without question because they bore Nat Wilson’s signature, which meant that Ben Caldwell’s authority was behind them. So?
It was a good story, one to cling to. Let Harris and Whitaker say what they choose, nobody could prove anything. Or could they?
There were his files upstairs in his office, and if there was a real stink raised, as there probably would be, a special inquiry into what happened at the World Tower, there was little doubt that the files of Paul Simmons & Company would be subpoenaed. So?
Face it, Paul told himself, the files were entirely too revealing. Any competent cost accountant could with little trouble turn up the fact that up to a certain point in the progress of the World Tower job, Paul Simmons & Company had been floundering in financial quicksand; but that in a remarkably short time there had been a sudden turnaround and the ratio of costs to payments received had taken a sharp reversal. Simmons & Company had not only climbed out of the quicksand, they had marched to high comfortable ground where the living was easy.
And it would be no trick at all for Nat Wilson to tie the sudden change in fortunes to the issuance of the first of the change orders. Simple as that. Nat Wilson again.
Paul sat quite still, looking idly now at the color television picture. The camera was focused on the north face of the Tower Room, a close-up with a long-range lens. They were breaking the windows out. Glass shards fell like shining hail. Inside the room shadowy figures moved about without appa
rent purpose.
It was, Paul thought, like watching one of those crowd scenes from Bangladesh or Biafra or, for that matter, some unpronounceable village in South Vietnam—distant, vaguely interesting, but basically meaningless. Those weren’t real people, they were merely pictures on a screen. There was no reality outside of one’s own self—hadn’t some philosopher postulated that? Well, that was the way it was. Paul returned to a study of his drink.
The files were bad, but still they proved nothing. He had followed the change orders, and because of the changes his fortunes had improved. People might suspect that there was a causal relationship indicating hanky-panky, but they couldn’t prove it. What about that ITT flap in Washington when they had hastily run their files through a shredding machine in anticipation of a subpoena? There was a lot of suspicion, but no proof of anything, and who even remembered it now? Still it would be well to check. And one question remained: Where had the copies of the change orders come from?
He slid out of the booth and went again to the telephone, this time to call his office on his private line. It was late, but his secretary answered. Her voice was breathless.
“Ruth, honey,” Paul said, “you sound uptight.” A warning bell rang faintly in his mind. “What’s up?” At least she would tell him the truth, stick with him. After all they had had together. Not so much since Zib, but what difference? A good-looking chick, Ruth, really stacked, very good in bed, and bright. “Anything wrong?” Paul said.
The breathless voice calmed a little. “It’s just that—you have seen what’s happening down at the World Tower, haven’t you?”
“I’ve seen.”
“And,” Ruth said, “you know about Mr. McGraw’s heart attack?”
“That too.”
“He’s dead.”
“Is he now?” Paul began to smile. He bore the old man no particular malice, he told himself, but it was better, far better this way. “I’m sorry to hear it.”
“Where are you, Paul? Are you coming to the office?”
That warning bell again. “Why do you ask?” He paused. “Have there been calls? Anybody asking for me?” Out of the corner of his eye he caught the change of television camera angle and he turned his head to look. The camera was focused now on one edge of the north Trade Center tower roof. Men were clustered there, some of them in uniform, and instantly he understood what they were about. Crazy, he thought, out of sight. Breeches buoy attempt? Nat’s idea? “Well?” he said into the phone.
“No calls,” Ruth said. “Nobody asking for you.” She paused. “It’s just that—I want to see you.” She paused again. “That’s all it is.”
Still the warning bell tolled. “Is there anybody there in the office?”
“Who?” Ruth’s voice sounded puzzled.
“I don’t know. I’m asking.”
“Nobody but me.”
Paul let his breath out slowly. Just uptight, he told himself, jumpy. “Okay,” he said. “I’m coming up. Get out the World Tower files for me. I want to look through them.” He paused. “Okay?”
“Of course.” Good-looking, stacked, and bright. “I’ll have them waiting.”
“That’s my good girl,” Paul said, and started for the door.
“You don’t want another drink?” the bartender said. “Hell.” He gestured at the television set. “You’re the first customer I’ve had since that began.” He paused. “Look at it. A fire. How can that be? Like, they got all kind of safety things, don’t they?”
The wedding guest confronted by the ancient mariner, Paul thought, and found the concept vaguely amusing. “I wouldn’t know,” he said.
“Lots of nuts around these days, real screwballs.” The bartender paused. “You’re sure you won’t have another drink?”
“Another time,” Paul said. “But thanks anyway.” He walked out to the street. It was almost empty. Strange.
He did not remember it, but he had heard of another time when the total attention of the city was focused on a single event, and the streets, as now, were almost deserted. It was the playoff game between the Dodgers and the Giants in a year he could no longer identify; and when, in the last of the ninth inning, Bobby Thompson had hit his winning home run, every building had erupted and people had capered in the streets, a city gone mad.
Now the city’s focus was on not a baseball game, but a burning building.
The receptionist was long gone from her desk in his outer office. Paul walked past, into his own office. Ruth was waiting there, good-looking, stacked, and bright. And on his desk were the World Tower files, as he had asked.
“Hi, honey,” Paul said, and closed the door. Then he stopped and stood staring, frowning, at the two men who had been standing behind it.
“This,” Ruth’s voice said quite calmly, “is Mr. Simmons. These gentlemen have been waiting for you, Paul.”
The room was still. “John Wright, district attorney’s office,” one of the men said. “We’ve impounded your World Tower files. And we’d like you to come downtown with us to answer a few questions.” Wright’s voice altered a trifle, hardened. “Maybe more than a few.”
“And if I refuse?” Paul said.
Nothing in Wright’s face changed. “You won’t.”
Paul looked at Ruth. Her face was expressionless. He looked again at the two men. “By what authority—”
“We have a search warrant, Mr. Simmons,” Wright said.
Paul looked at the pile of file folders. “You won’t find anything—”
“Wrong, Mr. Simmons, we already have found a great deal. The originals of some highly suspect change orders, for example.”
Paul’s mouth opened. He closed it with effort. He looked at Ruth.
“They weren’t destroyed, Paul,” Ruth said. “I thought it better to keep them. That way I had them to make copies to send to Mr. Giddings.” Her voice was perfectly calm, modulated. “I was sure he would be interested.”
In the silence, “You bitch,” Paul said.
The girl smiled then. It was a pleasant satisfied smile. “Perhaps,” she said. And then, “You see, I don’t like being used, Paul. I don’t think many women do.”
Wright said, “Shall we go, Mr. Simmons? We’ll have a nice ride downtown.”
25
5:56P.M.-6:09P.M.
One of the Coast Guard ratings whose name was Kronski walked with hesitant steps to the low parapet at the edge of the Trade Center roof. He put both hands on the structure and cautiously, fearfully leaned forward to look down. Hastily he backed away. “Jesus, Chief,” he told Oliver, “you can’t even see the ground! I never been this high in my life!”
“You’ve been in an airplane,” the chief said.
“That’s different.” Kronski paused. “But I don’t even like that. I ain’t no paratrooper.”
Standing well back from the roof’s edge, Kronski studied the World Tower, the row of broken windows that was the face of the Tower Room.
At his feet was the rifle-like gun to fire the projectile carrying the light messenger lines, which lay neatly coiled and ready in tubs.
“You got to be kidding, Chief,” Kronski said. “That far, in this wind?” He shook his head. “No way.”
Privately, Oliver agreed. It was even farther than he had guessed from the ground—five hundred, maybe even six hundred feet—and the wind was blowing half a gale. On the other hand he had offered Wilson assurances that they would try, and he was not going to go back on that.
Besides, he could see people over in that great goddam building and he could smell the smoke that was blowing toward him, and although this wasn’t exactly the same as fire at sea, those three words that curdle any sailor’s blood, it was near enough to start the juices flowing. There, but for the grace of God, go I, that kind of identification . . . “I didn’t ask your opinion, Kronski,” he said. “Let’s get on with it.”
Kronski shrugged and picked up the rifle, loaded it carefully. “Suppose we do get a line there, Chief,” he said.
“An’ we get a breeches buoy rigged.” He paused. He looked squarely at Oliver. “How’d you like to take a ride from there to here, up this high, in this wind?”
“Get on with it, Kronski.”
Kronski nodded. He raised the gun to his shoulder and aimed high for maximum trajectory.
Into the walkie-talkie Oliver said, “We’re firing the first try.”
“Okay.” Nat’s voice. “They’re standing by in the Tower Room.”
“Poor fucking landlubbers,” Kronski said, “can get themselves into the goddamndest situations, can’t they?” He pulled the trigger.
The light line rose shimmering from the gun’s muzzle.
It grew in length, light as a contrail, glistening in the late sun.
Rising still, it reached in a graceful climbing arc for the row of broken windows, higher, higher until it was level with the tip of the communications mast itself.
And then it reached its apogee and, obeying the inexorable tug of gravity, began to fall, arching still, while the line paid out hissing from the tub.
They measured its reach and its fall with their eyes, and even before the head of the line dipped beneath the level of the distant windows, they knew they had failed.
“Shit,” said Kronski.
Standing tall and broad and solid, massively calm, “Try again,” the chief said. “We’re not giving up yet.”
The governor stood well back in the Tower Room, his arm around Beth. Together they watched the line rise shining and clean and bright, and for a moment there was hope.
Ben Caldwell’s artist’s eye first measured the failure. “Start thinking of something else, Nat,” he said. It was a whisper, no more, but the senator heard it.
“Hopeless?” the senator said quietly.
“Probably,” Ben said, “with that rifle. I think some of the shore stations have cannons, but how accurate they are—” He shrugged. “Getting a line aboard a ship the size of a freighter is one thing: all you have to do is land the line somewhere across the deck. Getting a line into these windows from this distance—” He shrugged again.
The Tower Page 22