by Ray Deeg
“Good evening again, Mr. Holland,” the butler said. “Where would you like this?”
“On the coffee table,” Randall said, scanning the length of the outside hallway.
“I’m delighted you’re enjoying the crab cocktails; they’re one of my favorites, too,” the butler said, setting the cocktail down. As he did, he noticed the key resting on the table. The man did a double take and picked up the key, overcome by pure awe.
“Where did you get this, Mr. Holland?” the butler asked, holding the key to the light as if it were the Hope Diamond.
Randall stepped closer, staring at the man and studying the look on his face.
“I’ve only read about these,” the butler continued. “And in all the years I’ve worked here, I’ve never actually seen one—I mean, not in real life.”
Randall realized the opportunity—enjoy the room service—and chose his next words carefully. “I’m so very pleased to meet someone who appreciates it as much as I do. Please tell me what you know about it.”
“Well,” the butler said, cradling the key in disbelief. “In 1938, the hotel’s management ordered twelve universal VIP keys. They were to be fabricated by a New York jeweler named Paul Edmund Flato, if I’m not mistaken. The keys were designed to unlock several doors here at the Waldorf and provide those in possession with access to the train platform beneath the hotel.” The butler pointed to the top of the key. “This one opens the heavy door on Forty-Ninth Street, which leads to the east side of the platform. See the E here? And this sixty one is the track number—E61.”
Randall nodded and smiled. “That’s correct,” he said and then shut up.
The silence pushed the butler to open his mouth again. “These keys were assigned to the Secret Service, the FBI, and the police, but only under the strictest of confidence and in order to provide the VIPs who they protected with access to the track and freight elevator underneath the hotel. They were only used on special occasions, such as the arrival or departure of distinguished guests traveling by private railroad cars.”
“You’re very good,” Randall said. “I’m impressed. Please go on.”
“I know General John J. Pershing was the first to use the private train station, in 1938. But its most famous use came in 1944. Franklin Roosevelt gave a foreign policy address, arriving in secrecy on the track. The president was taken off his armored train car and ascended into the hotel on the lift. After his speeches, he descended to the presidential rail car for the journey home to Hyde Park. FDR used the station many times, and the Secret Service had a key just like this one. You know, the Secret Service was hiding the fact that FDR had polio—he couldn’t walk, but no one knew.”
“Sure, sure,” Randall said, keeping him going. He stepped a little closer as he listened.
“Most of the keys have been lost, but one turned up in 1965 when someone unlocked the station for an underground party thrown by Andy Warhol.”
Listening to him speak, Randall came to the conclusion that the butler was gay—whether the man knew it himself or not. If he thought otherwise, he had clearly never checked the mirror.
“But no one knew the station existed until the 1980s, when it finally came out. Yup, these keys are legendary now. A few were auctioned over the years too. The last one I know of was by Sotheby’s, sold to a billionaire. But this one is simply magnificent. It’s really in superb condition, Mr. Holland.”
Randall gently took the key from the butler’s hand with a forced smile. He began moving toward the front door, herding the excited butler out.
“Well, there isn’t much more I can tell you,” Randall said. “You seem to know its history even better than me.” Randall forced a laugh.
The butler stared at the key in Randall’s hand. “Our hotel manager would love to see that. Would you mind allowing him and some of the staff to view the key? It would mean the world.”
“Call me tomorrow, and I’m sure we can arrange something.”
“Well, thank you so much, Mr. Holland,” the butler said. He moved toward the door but turned back. “Can I ask how you acquired the key, Mr. Holland?”
Randall stared into the man’s eyes, trying to read his thoughts. “My grandfather gave it to me,” Randall said, holding the man’s gaze.
“Your grandfather?” the butler said, standing his ground. “Did he acquire the key at auction, too?”
Randall was sweating. “No, no, he, um—actually, yes. He did get it at an auction, a private auction. Listen, let’s talk tomorrow. I’ll tell you and your friends all about it.”
“Of course—it’s getting late,” the butler said with a smile.
But Randall recognized the look on the man’s face. He imagined him leaving the suite and immediately telling anyone who would listen all about the amazing key he’d seen inside Mr. Holland’s suite. Mr. Holland, the guy who hadn’t shown up for any of his scheduled meetings, whose family and friends were likely asking questions and beginning to make phone calls, and whose body was sitting in the trunk of a car in the parking lot.
As they walked the short distance to the door, Randall realized that the little man was now a time bomb waiting to go off. “I’d appreciate it if you would keep my key a secret for now,” Randall said.
The butler stopped and turned again. “Of course, Mr. Holland,” he said becoming noticeably uncomfortable.
Randall’s smile disappeared.
As the butler turned toward the door, Randall reached back and retrieved the Glock. He raised it over the butler’s head and came down with all his strength. The blow sent the little man crumbling to the floor. He was completely still for a moment but slowly came back to life and began inching his way forward. Randall watched for a moment and then looked around. He walked to the couch and retrieved a large, ornate throw pillow with yellow pinstripes and golden tassels. He picked up the remote control and pushed the TV volume all the way up, and then he flipped through a few channels until he found just the right soundtrack. He walked back to the butler and placed the pillow over the back of the man’s head then pushed the gun into the pillow and pulled the trigger. There was a loud pop, and the little man stopped moving. Like snow, little white feathers began descending around the two men.
Randall grabbed the butler’s feet, dragged his body to the closet, and jammed him inside awkwardly. He forced the door closed with a heavy push. “Well, If he wasn’t in the closet before—” Randall said out loud to no one in particular. He turned off the TV, cleaned himself up, and left the suite.
As he entered the elevator, he heard the butler’s words once more. This one opens the heavy door on Forty-Ninth Street.
CHAPTER 53
JOLANDA KULISH SAILED over the Manhattan skyline in the bureau’s surveillance chopper. Through her headset, she listened to the FBI command center call out orders to various teams. Her mouth felt dry and rubbery as the gravity of the moment set in. The FBI, Homeland Security, and the NYPD were all descending on the Waldorf Astoria because of her former mentor and a machine. Monty and Agent Deleon were just collateral damage, she thought.
The voice of the FBI command center came over the headset again. “Sky Twenty-Eight, be advised, NYPD is clearing the intersection at Fiftieth and Park. They’ll mark your landing site with an orange flare.”
“Roger. We’ll touch down in about sixty seconds,” the pilot replied.
Kulish glanced down and saw Union Square passing below. The lights from the city’s buildings reflected on the helicopter’s windows. She saw Madison Park, and just as she recognized Bryant Park, she could feel them begin to descend.
“Sky Twenty-Eight,” the command center voice said, “activate Stingray and NGI; acknowledge.”
The pilot flipped some switches, and a small screen lit up. Within another moment, the faces of people on the street below appeared on the screen along with their full names, which were matched with police and other government data. “Roger, active and streaming,” the pilot said.
Randall steppe
d into the lobby with new purpose. He moved quickly toward the main entrance. As he passed the main lobby, he strode right past Ian Heckie, who looked up and couldn’t believe his eyes. Filled with homicidal bliss, Randall hadn’t noticed the cop sitting in a comfortable leather chair not ten feet away. Heckie calmly stood up and followed.
Randall exited the front entrance onto Park Avenue and made a left toward Forty-Ninth Street. He heard the helicopter overhead and glanced up to see it descending. He recognized the aircraft as one of the bureau’s surveillance choppers. He’d flown in Sky 28 several times himself. He knew the FBI kept a fleet of surveillance planes and choppers registered to phony shell companies. He knew the aircraft were equipped with an array of technology that provided operators in the air and on the ground with the ability to identify license plates, cell phones, and human faces at great distances. He knew the cameras could beam live footage to bureau or police command centers, or even to wireless devices in the hands of agents, police, or other operatives.
He turned his face quickly away, realizing they’d found him—or, at the very least, found Esha Durga and the credit card receipt. He shut his cell phone off. He knew that Sky 28, like most of the bureau’s choppers, was equipped with an IMSI-catcher—a dirt box—which simulates a cell phone tower in order to trick mobile phones into connecting and revealing a suspect’s exact location. He quickened his pace, hurrying past oblivious guests loading and unloading luggage from cars along the curb.
Heckie exited the hotel calmly, keeping his distance but with his eye firmly on the prize. He watched Randall turn left on Forty-Ninth and lifted his face to see the chopper descending.
As they descended, Kulish turned to spot the man whose photo had, at that very moment, appeared on the screen. She saw Ian Heckie walking slowly in front of the Waldorf Astoria while guests and staff scrambled around him in response to the noise, wind, and general hysteria that occurs when a helicopter lands in a busy intersection. The headset erupted again. “Sky Twenty-Eight, Tactical. Clear the hotel, locate and secure the entrance to the train station; we have three teams arriving in nine minutes.”
Kulish pulled off her headset and opened the door as they touched down. She emerged just in time to see Heckie disappear around the corner of Forty-Ninth Street.
As Randall approached the middle of the block, he noticed a heavy, nondescript metal door. It was nearly the same shade of tan as the building, and if you weren’t paying attention, you’d surely pass it by. He remembered Divya Sharma’s words: The entrance to the garden of paradise is blocked by a heavy door; to enter, you will need the key. Everything was falling into place. He noticed a keyhole on a metal cover below an engraving. The entire plate had developed a fine, glossy black patina, but he understood the symbol: East 61.
The helicopter’s engine echoed off buildings and down side streets. Randall slid the key into the hole and twisted it clockwise. A knock sounded, and the door came ajar. He stepped into the darkness and allowed his eyes to adjust. He was standing in a deserted alcove littered with trash. He saw a steel staircase leading down, but the steps were completely rusted. He stepped lightly and heard the staircase groan as he descended its three flights. As he approached the bottom, the sound of the helicopter faded behind him. Various pipes and tubes lined the walls in the subterranean passageway. He detected the faint sound of voices ahead and followed a long, poorly lit corridor. He sensed his destiny was close. He felt it in his bones.
CHAPTER 54
TOM AND GWEN stood in silence, watching as the three Indians checked and rechecked the machine. Tom wanted out, but he felt Gwen’s hand in his, and his tolerance for risk was greatly diminished. Still, he took careful inventory of their surroundings. He saw a large stack of metal girders and a dozen or so wooden crates scattered around them. There were only two ways out: the door where they’d entered, which was now closed, and the dark tunnel at the end of the station’s platform.
“There’s no need for us to be here,” Tom said sternly.
Esha checked his watch, tapping it several times, and then gestured to Ashok, who nodded and began pecking on a laptop. When he clicked Enter, the machine vibrated and the three monitors lit up. “We’re on schedule,” he said.
“Your grandfather wanted you to be here,” Esha finally replied.
Tom eyed the men and their computers. He couldn’t help himself; he was hopelessly curious. “How was it that no one found out how my grandfather became disfigured?”
“Loomis, Tesla, and the other scientists at the lab were horrified by the accident,” Esha replied. “They never intended for anyone to get hurt, especially a child. They couldn’t forgive themselves, but there were larger issues. It wasn’t just their lives that would be affected by a scandal—it would be the lives of the other scientists and the vital research they were conducting. They would have been shut down if anyone found out, so they destroyed their research and all evidence of Everett’s and Phillip’s involvement. The scientists were sworn to secrecy—paid off by Loomis, who promised to continue his generosity as long as everyone kept their mouths shut. Phillip was placed in a top hospital, and, thanks to a generous anonymous donation on his behalf, that boy received the best care money could buy.
“Phillip didn’t tell anyone because he couldn’t speak; he was catatonic for two years, and once he was well enough to communicate, he had made the decision not to tell. Loomis had promised to take care of him. But it wasn’t just the money. Phillip kept the secret for another reason: he’d seen the future. You can’t imagine how peering behind the curtain affects you. You’re gifted with a foresight no soul could hope to imagine. In an instant, you understand this place. You finally understand why—why there is something rather than nothing.
“After years of therapy, Phillip recovered. He learned to speak; he became independent again. He was sixteen when he was released, and he had so many ideas. The things he’d seen had been trapped in his mind, and now he had money. It’s well known that Alfred Loomis gave each of his three sons one million dollars each to experiment with. He gave Phillip the same, one million dollars.”
“Empyrean Ventures was born,” Tom said out loud in a tone that was about as accepting as it was disappointed.
“Naturally,” Esha agreed. He picked up a circuit board and held it to the light. “Those boys saw the future. They saw the computer age coming into being in their lifetime. The acquisition of technology, the acceleration of knowledge, connectedness. Computer hardware and electronics, communications, the Internet, life sciences, medical devices, agriculture—they were brimming with knowledge. They began filing patents right away. And they bought many others that they knew would be valuable, having the insight of Gods. Everett became Phillip’s silent partner.”
“Why silent?”
“After the accident, Everett Lemily went into hiding. The Bureau of Investigation ramped up its efforts, based on rumors as to why the stock market had collapsed. Your government claimed it was investigating Tesla’s death ray, but that was a cover story. At the time, Henry Stimson was the secretary of state—he was Loomis’s first cousin. And your president, FDR, had been collaborating with Loomis on technology for use in military applications. This made Loomis untouchable. But several of the bureau’s agents, including Walter Evans, did obtain information about what was happening at the lab—and he wanted to get his hands on the technology for his own selfish reasons. Those agents had uncovered enough information to know that Everett Lemily had been the guinea pig. That’s why he changed his name and went into hiding. Everett became the silent partner at Empyrean Ventures; he became a rich man hiding in the shadows.”
Esha checked his watch again. “But both of those boys knew something terrible had happened, something only they could understand. Your model train, Tom, wasn’t just a hiding place for the reflector wheel and the third harmonic coil; it was a time capsule keeping destiny dormant until the right moment. In a way, your train was another reflection of our lives in their endless cycl
e—the same starts and stops, the same scenes over and over. You have so many lingering memories, Tom—the déjà vu, the dreams. You’re so close to understanding, and then it slips away. We’ve had this chase and played this game many times; do you remember? In one version, you were killed by Randall Evans in New Hope. In another, Chandran was electrocuted right over there while repairing the machine.” Chandran cocked his head sideways and retracted his hands from the machine with a frown. “Over and over this game has been played, but in order for this set of circumstances to exist—the one you see right now—each piece on the board was required to move in precise order and time. And if the tear in space-time, the one created by the explosion that maimed your grandfather in 1932, isn’t corrected before the particle collider fires…”
“Everything starts over again,” Tom said in the same breath. “It starts at the moment the two events became fused: 11:23 a.m. on January 13, 1932.”
“You remembered,” Esha replied.
Tom imagined a perfect circle, the machine’s reflector wheel spinning. It became his model train racing around the track. The circular track and train morphed into a particle speeding around the super collider’s seventeen-mile loop at the speed of light. He saw the sacred math of the universe, the Mandelbrot shining off the Hudson, and the light from the hallway shining into his childhood bedroom. His mind was racing, and the buzzing in his ear was coming back again. He saw Phillip’s face being erased and Loomis crying in his lab, the man’s heart laden with guilt.
“There’s only seven minutes left. Please stay calm so we get it right this time,” Esha said, motioning with the Beretta.
Gwen took Tom’s hand in hers while she stared. Tom looked at the painting and heard Esha’s words—Gwen’s blood. Tom felt weak in the knees, but what could he do?