by Mike Resnick
He picked up the shopping bag and walked casually back to the jewelry stop.
“All done,” he said in a voice that didn't sound exactly like his own.
Jaimie looked up from an emerald necklace she had been admiring.
“Poor dear,” she said consolingly. “They didn't have what you were looking for?”
Not trusting his voice, he merely shook his head.
“Well, we still have time to try those two shops on the west side before lunch.”
She turned back to the saleswoman, thanked her for her time, and then joined Becker out in the corridor.
“Try not to look like you're dying of some rare disease,” she whispered.
“I'm nervous.”
“There's no need to be. If the device was a dud, we'll know in half an hour and we'll come back here and remove it before anyone notices it.”
“I've spent my whole life upholding the law, not breaking it,” he explained.
“Do you cheat on your taxes?”
“Who doesn't?”
“This is the same thing.”
“The hell it is.”
“All right,” she said, reaching the elevator and summoning it. “Do you want General Roth's hitmen to shoot you down in cold blood?”
“No.”
“Then this is a necessary preventive step.”
“I know.”
“Then what's your problem?”
Becker briefly considered her question. “Probably I'm afraid of being caught,” he admitted.
“If I were you, I'd be much more afraid of being killed.”
“I am.”
In fact, thought Becker, he could hardly seem to remember the last minute that he wasn't afraid. Suddenly he felt very tired, and leaned wearily against the wall of the building.
They waited in silence for almost three minutes, and he began to get nervous again.
“Where is the damned thing?” he demanded.
“Don't worry,” said Jaimie. “It's coming.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
“What if it's broken down?”
“Then we'll catch the local elevator down to the main floor and still get out in plenty of time,” she said. “I pushed both buttons.”
“The local could stop fifty times before it gets here.”
“And the express could be here in ten seconds. Now just relax.”
And, as if in proof of her statement, the doors to Elevator Number 42 suddenly opened, and an instant later Becker and Jaimie were riding up to the rooftop restaurant.
They emerged into a virtually empty foyer. The restaurant entrance was locked, and a sign stated that it would not be open for luncheon business until 11:30.
“How much longer?” she asked.
He checked his wristwatch. “Just under thirteen minutes.”
“No sense standing here as if we're waiting for something,” said. “Let's go check out the telescopes.”
They walked down the corridor and, as they came to the window wall, Becker experienced a momentary surge of vertigo.
“I hadn't realized how high up we were last night,” he admitted, grabbing Jaimie's arm while he steadied himself.
“I like heights,” she said, pressing her face up against the window and looking out.
“You would,” he muttered.
“I can see a baseball stadium,” she said. “Which one is it, I wonder?”
“I don't know.”
“And there's the Empire State Building, and—”
She began rattling off a series of landmarks, as excited as a schoolgirl.
“You know,” she said after a moment, “you don't really need a telescope at all. Everything's just as clear as can be.”
“Wonderful,” said Becker.
“You're sure you don't want to look?”
“Maybe in a minute or two.”
She shrugged, and went back to identifying parks and buildings.
Finally he tapped her on the shoulder.
“Four minutes,” he said, pointing to his wristwatch.
“Relax, Counselor,” she replied. “It'll only take us two minutes to get there.”
“So?”
“In all likelihood we're the only two people up here, but what if some tourist or maintenance worker shows up and sees us fiddling with the fire door a minute before the alarm goes off?”
“How long will it stay unlocked?” he asked.
“They'll pinpoint the floor in five seconds, but they won't relock the doors until they know what's happened, which means they've got to get up there. Even if there's a security man on the floor, we should have two to three minutes before they kill the alarm and relock all the doors.”
He counted off 150 seconds on his watch, then took her by her arm and began walking toward the fire door at the far end of the restaurant. When they were still twenty yards away an alarm started ringing, and, pausing only to make sure that no one else was within sight, he ran to the door and opened it. She followed him into the stairwell and closed the door behind them.
“Well,” she said, starting to strip off her suit, “that takes care of Step One. Where's my outfit?”
He rummaged through the bag until he came to the smaller of two one-piece workmen's outfits and tossed it to her. Then he took off his jacket and tie, and slipped into the other outfit.
“How do I look?” she asked after folding her skirt and jacket neatly and placing them into the bag.
“Too clean,” he said.
“You, too,” she replied. She rubbed her hands against the wall of the stairwell, then applied them to her outfit. “Better?”
“Much,” he said.
“You do the same.”
He followed her instructions, then placed his pistol in his pocket and taped a newly-purchased gun to his ankle, hiding it beneath the loose-fitting leg of his outfit.
“Got your gun?” he asked.
“Yes, goddamn it!”
“All right,” he said. “Let's get going.”
They walked down flight after flight of stairs until they came to the 115th floor. Then Becker withdrew his pistol and carefully opened the door. There was no one in the foyer, and he gestured to her to follow him.
“Wait a minute,” she said, and the door closed behind him, but before he had a chance to panic it opened again and she joined him, carrying a toolkit under her arm.
“What was that all about?”
“The shopping bag,” she replied. “Very few maintenance workers buy their clothes there.”
“So where are our clothes now?” he asked.
“In the stairwell. It'll be days before anyone discovers them.”
“That was stupid. How will we get out of the building?”
“We'll probably draw less attention dressed like this.” She paused. “I checked your coat pockets first; they were empty.”
“I don't like it.”
“You'd like it a lot less if General Roth saw that bag, or found our street clothes folded up behind Venus de Milo. Now let's get to work.”
He chose the statue that was closest to Roth's door, a reproduction of Michelangelo's David, and using a hammer and chisel, carefully broke the right hand off, catching it before it could smash to pieces on the floor.
“Where's our glue?” he asked.
She pulled it out of the toolkit that he had been carrying at the bottom of the shopping bag, then began laying out an assortment of files and paints and portable sanding machines.
“Let me uncap a couple of these so it'll look like we've been working on it for a couple of hours,” suggested Jaimie. “And brush a little paint and glue onto your outfit; it looks too crisp and new.”
“You do the same,” he said, reaching for a brush.
A few minutes later she started filing away at David's right elbow and shoulder.
“What's that all about?” he asked.
“It'll make it look like we've already put the arm back on,” she said. “It'll
seem less suspicious than our magically appearing to fix a broken hand five minutes before he steps out of the apartment or the elevator.”
“You mean he might be in there?” asked Becker, gesturing toward the apartment door.
She shrugged. “Who knows? Two star generals don't have to keep the same hours as lowly majors.”
“What if he stays inside all day?”
“Then he'll come out for dinner.”
“Maybe he won't.”
“He will.”
“Why?”
She grinned. “He's got to. I can't make it til tomorrow morning without a bathroom.” She paused. “If you've got to worry about something, worry about his next door neighbors.”
“Why? We're covered. We're fixing a statue.”
“We're gonna move the first time anybody opens Roth's door. But what if the neighbors come and go three or four times before Roth shows up? We're not going to seem to be making much progress.”
“If they look suspicious, you'll invite them back into their apartment and keep a gun on them until Roth shows up and I can talk to him,” said Becker.
“I won't kill them,” she said. “If Roth attacks me and I have to go to court on a legitimate plea of self-defense, I will ... but I don't plan to kill someone just because he's in the way.”
“I don't want us to kill anyone. I just want some answers.”
“And I just want you to know what can go wrong.”
“This probably won't come as a surprise to you,” he replied wryly, “but I've already envisioned more things that can go wrong that you could come up with in a year.”
“My hero,” she said with a low chuckle.
“Roth's a hero,” said Becker. “I'm just a goddamned lawyer who everybody seems to want dead.”
“Not me,” said Jaimie. “I'll be just as happy if you live through all this.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“You're welcome.”
They fell silent for a few moments, and then Becker spoke again.
“You know, Jaimie,” he said, “I've been thinking.”
“Oh? About what?”
“Roth.”
“And?”
“We both know he's not the last link in the chain, that he gets his orders from somewhere.”
“Right.”
“Once we leave here, even if we've got a name, the whole goddamned military is going to be waiting for us—and for all I know, even that name won't be the top of the chain. Is there any way you can use his personal computer to tie into his office and see what the actual chain of command is?”
She considered the suggestion briefly, then shook her head. “Probably not. He's got to have some kind of personal code, and if I don't know it, I can't get in.”
“Can't you rig the computer to hit every conceivable code?”
“Not unless I know the programming language,” she replied. “I could use every word ever spoken on Earth and every number known to man and still not get in.”
“Maybe that's what I should be asking him, then.”
“The language?”
“Yes.”
“Not a chance. He'll give us the wrong one, and we'll set off alarms from here to Jupiter.” She paused. “Still...”
“Yes?”
“There might be a way, but it's awfully risky.”
“Name it.”
“If I can get to his computer without his knowing it, I can rig it not to send his signal, but to remember his code.”
“What's risky about that?”
“You'd have to let him get the drop on you and try to notify his base via the computer. If he used the phone, or just marched you down to security, or shot you, it wouldn't work. And I'd have to have about four uninterrupted minutes at the computer.”
“Well, if his wife or a servant comes by first, maybe we'll take a crack at it.”
“I don't know,” she said. “This is an awfully dangerous man. He's capable of killing both of us with his bare hands.”
“Well, it was a thought.”
They fell silent again, and after a while Becker, who had been kneeling next to the statue in order to look like he was working on it, found his leg muscles tightening up.
“You got a soft drink in there?” he asked, gesturing to the toolkit.
“Two beers,” she said.
“Good,” he replied. “Toss one over and open one yourself.”
“I'm not thirsty.”
“Neither am I—but I can't stay in this position any longer, and if someone comes into the foyer, I don't want it to look like we're just sitting around waiting on him. This way we'll simply be taking a break.”
“It's early in the day for beer.”
“Not if you've been breathing in plaster dust all morning.”
She considered his answer, then nodded and tossed him a beer. He sat down with his back propped up against the wall a few feet from the statue, then opened the container.
He was about to actually take a sip when the elevator door opened and General Benjamin Roth stepped out, a briefcase under his arm.
“What's going on here?” he demanded.
Becker leaped to his feet. “We were just taking a break.”
“I can see that. But what happened to the statue? It was fine when I left this morning.”
Becker shrugged. “I don't know, sir. We got a call about an hour ago to come up and fix it.”
Roth looked at the statue and grimaced. “Ugly piece of work anyway. They ought to throw the damned thing out and give us something more modern.”
“I can speak to the management about it if you'd like, sir.”
Roth shook his head. “No matter.” He paused. “I wonder who reported it?”
“I believe they said it was a woman, sir,” chimed in Jaimie. “Perhaps it was your wife?”
“She's out of town. Must have been my neighbors. Probably broke it themselves; they were drinking enough last night.” He approached his door. “Well, don't let me interfere with your work.”
“We won't, sir,” said Becker, withdrawing his pistol and quietly approaching him. “I hope you don't mind if we interfere with yours, though.”
“What are you talking about?” demanded Roth, turning to face him.
“I'm talking about blowing the top of your head off if you don't cooperate, General,” said Becker. “I'm a very desperate man.”
Roth studied his face for a moment. “You're Maxwell Becker,” he said at last.
“Yes I am,” said Becker. “And you're the man who has been trying to kill me for the past two days. We've got a lot to talk about.”
“Well,” said the general, “you might as well come into the apartment and talk in comfort.”
“I don't think so.”
“You've got me covered. What can I do?”
“You can start by not deactivating your security system,” said Jaimie.
“Who is she?” asked Roth.
“A friend,” replied Becker. “General, please turn and face the wall. We're going to have to frisk you.”
“And if I don't?”
“Your entire department is out to kill me,” said Becker. “How much more harm can they do me if I kill you?”
Roth sighed, placed his briefcase gently on the floor, and turned toward the wall.
“Assume the position, General,” said Jaimie, and he leaned his hands against the wall. “Legs farther apart.”
“I'm an old man,” he said. “I'll fall down.”
“You're an old man who's killed more than fifty men in hand-to-hand combat,” remarked Becker. “Do as she says.”
Roth spread his legs farther apart, and Jaimie, looking like she was ready to jump away at any instant, quickly examined him for weapons.
“He's clean,” she said, stepping back.
“I hardly expected to be accosted in my own apartment,” said Roth dryly.
“We're not in your apartment yet, General,” said Becker. “We're outside of it.”
&nbs
p; “May I turn around and face you?” asked Roth.
“By all means.”
Roth turned, and Becker noted that he still had the animal grace of a natural athlete.
“That's close enough,” said Becker as Roth took a step toward him.
“I was just getting this,” said the general, picking up his briefcase.
“There may be a weapon in it,” suggested Becker.
“There isn't.”
“I don't think we can take your word on that, sir,” said Becker. “Please toss it over here so we can examine it.”
Roth shook his head. “I give you my word that there's no weapon in it.”
“Then why won't you let us see it?”
“That briefcase contains top secret documents. If you want to see them, you'll have to kill me first.”
Becker stared at him for a moment, then nodded. “Fair enough.”
“I'll also give you my word that if you allow us to enter my apartment, I'll deactivate the alarm system before it can give out any warning.”
“Do you love your wife, General?” asked Becker.
“Of course I do. Why?”
“Because I give you my word that if you set off an alarm, I'll not only kill you on the spot, but I'll kill her before I leave town.”
“You don't know where she is.”
“But I have friends who do,” said Becker, amazed that he could lie with such conviction. “That's why we picked today to come here—because our friends told us she was out.”
“Why would you want to kill her?” asked the general. “She's not part of this.”
“Because, no matter what you think and what you've been told, I'm not part of this either.” Becker pointed his pistol right between Roth's eyes. “I'm not a killer, General. I'd much rather talk to you than shoot you, and I have no desire to kill your wife. But if you do anything further to endanger me, I won't have any choice.”
Roth looked into Becker's eyes, didn't like what he saw there, and nodded.
“It's a deal,” he said. “Come on in.”
Becker shook his head. “We don't get within arm's reach of you, General. First you open the door, then you step aside while my friend enters the apartment, then you go in, and then I go in.”