Preston grinned, reaching for the gaffer tape. “Yeah,” he said. “It might give us a place to hide, at least for a while.”
Ryan tapped his foot against the cans, thinking. “We need somewhere spacious,” he said. “Somewhere luxurious with a decent PC and better web access. A nice little hidey-hole. We stick the sign up on the door and no one will disturb us.”
“Great,” whispered Ryan through a dark, sarcastic grimace. “Just great.”
There was just enough room for four of them in the toilet cubicle. It was all they could find in the time they had. At the end of the service corridor where they’d entered, Ryan had shown the group what lay beyond a set of fire doors: the wide-open convention center spaces, rooms the size of aircraft hangars under the high arched roof, blue carpets with corporate designs, and white walls hung with black-and-white photographs.
And then there were the people. There seemed to be thousands of them milling out there—women in dinner dresses with their hair up, men in suits, straight-backed waiters with trays of little pastries, girls in black catering uniforms deftly weaving through the crowds with champagne, camera crews and media types, assistants with phones making frantic calls and checking the news websites.
There was nowhere to hide out there, no way they could scout out a nice little office and tape an Out of Order sign to the door. “Besides,” Preston had hissed as they watched the ebb and flow of the crowd. “Why hang an Out of Order sign on an office door? There needs to be working parts for something to be out of order.”
So they’d all reluctantly agreed.
It was the Charter Foyer men’s bathrooms—the closest and quietest space they could find. The four of them stood for a moment, arms around each other’s shoulders in a kind of crazy kinship, staring at the tiled floor at their feet.
Preston felt Ellwood’s closeness and wondered whether he maybe loved her.
Then they started talking in low whispers, partly to force down the fear, partly to make sense of it all, partly planning the final few hours of their togetherness before it would all end.
Ellwood was sharper with every minute, thriving on the fear. “If we can get hold of a conference program, we can work out what’s happening when,” she whispered.
“And people leave stuff around, right?” Ryan said. “If we’re lucky, someone will leave a program and we’ll be able to … ” Before he could carry on, the outside door opened and someone crossed the tiles in polished brogues.
Terror stifled them into silence. Ryan, Preston, then Mace all lifted themselves slowly and carefully up onto the toilet seat, backs pressed against the cubicle wall, so their feet wouldn’t be seen. Ellwood followed suit, crouching between them. It was ridiculous. The four of them held their breath, curled up and silent.
A second man entered. There was some brief talk and a cell phone rang. A voice began a series of confirmations and instructions. Someone cleared his throat and told an incomprehensible joke. Scratchy laughter. Then the doors swung shut again and silence descended.
They lowered themselves carefully. “We could have put this sign up on any bloody door we liked,” Mace said. “And we chose this.”
The next half hour was excruciating. Every minute or so, the four of them were forced to mount the toilet seat as silently as they could, hold each other up, heads silently down, waiting as conversations meandered on and phone calls were made. Then they’d descend again to their more comfortable standing position—slowly and silently, hoping they’d counted the men in and out correctly—then check the Explore Our Venue section of the website again, swap an idea or two about where they might go next, fret about where the hell Shade was, whether Alice was safely home yet, then the doors would go again and they’d be hauling themselves upward and the cycle would begin anew.
They were rewarded, eventually. After a period of promising silence, Ryan peeped over the door of the cubicle and saw a booklet abandoned near the sinks.
“Thank God,” he said as he shut the door behind him again and held it aloft between the four of them. But then, in their eagerness to look, and because of the closeness of their arms and hands, they conspired to knock it out of his grasp as he tried to open it, and the conference program fell between them and then Ellwood, trying to shift her position, accidentally kicked it along the floor and it spun away into the next cubicle.
The outside door opened for the millionth time and the four of them immediately raised themselves up off the floor to stand, almost heartbroken, on the toilet seat, all furious at each other. Ellwood ground her teeth, her eyes ablaze. Preston stared at the anonymous tiles on the wall, blaming himself. It was his upraised hand that had knocked it out of Ryan’s grasp, wasn’t it? He couldn’t be sure.
They were all so preoccupied and angry, they weren’t counting in and out. They’d lost track of who was there and who wasn’t. Had the bloke with the stupid ringtone gone yet? What about the one with the sore throat who’d been gargling aspirin? That stock trader in a shitty mood? After a period of silence, Ellwood gave him the nod and Ryan lowered himself down to the tiled floor, delicately, holding his breath.
Silence.
He let it out. “Jesus,” he said, his voice bitter. “I’ll have to go and get it now. That was your fault, Faulkner.”
It was while Ryan was speaking that Preston realized they’d dropped to the floor too soon. There was someone still out there. His heart fired hard and fast. Ellwood had realized too. Her eyes went wide and furious. Ryan put a hand across his face, wincing.
“Who’s that?” said a stern voice. A guy, middle-aged, maybe. “Who’s in there?” he barked.
The group looked silently at each other, each willing someone else to say something clever. Ellwood raised a critical eyebrow. It had to be one of the boys who answered, given where they were. Mace cleared his throat and tried a husky voice. “It’s just me,” he said. He improvised, blushing. “I’m helping a friend.”
“Good God!” barked the other voice. There was a pause, long and cold and dreadful. Then he said, “I’m calling security. I’m calling security now.”
The outer doors swished open and shut.
“Bloody hell,” said Ellwood.
That pretty much summed it up.
There was no alternative. When the guy went, they had to move quickly. Ellwood slid the lock free, swearing at their stupidity, and they piled out. The bathrooms were empty. Ellwood pointed in the direction of the dropped program and Mace checked the cubicles for it.
Then they had to go.
This was it, Preston thought as they loitered at the door. Out into the open. It would all end very quickly and painfully if security were close. Ellwood sensed this too and took a deep breath. Then she pulled the door open and sneaked out.
Outside, the conference had begun. Speeches and meetings were under way, and the crowds had dispersed. Across the open blue of the carpet near the bar area were a group of men drinking and talking. A gaggle of journalists were hunched over a video camera checking their shots from earlier, and the sound guy was sorting out his microphones. Most of the security must have been out in the entrance foyer; there was one chunky bloke in padded black and that was it—all quiet except for the low babble of the drinkers and the muffled sounds of meetings and presentations.
To their right was a place Preston recognized from the online map as the Gallery—a broad corridor lined with black-and-white photographs. The doors off to the left and right were meeting rooms, but the map showed smaller units down there too. Ellwood knew it as well; she cocked her head in that direction and they began a light-footed jog away from the main hall and entrance foyer, along the gallery toward the smaller spaces.
One was free, its door propped open with a wooden wedge. Mace raised a hand as they passed it, halting their nervy progress. They retreated inside, closing the door. No lock, Preston noticed.
Inside, they talked in low, relieved whispers. The meeting room had a small central table with a vase of flowers on it. T
here was a Smart Board and a projector.
Between them Mace opened and flattened out the official event program. “This thing’d better be worth it,” he said, flicking through the pages with trembling fingers. Soon, he found it—a full-page summary of the evening’s events.
The five of them leaned closer.
Ellwood got there first. “Here.” She placed a fingertip firmly on the page. “He starts at nine.”
“What’s the time?” said Press. His phone was dead.
“Eight forty,” Mace confirmed. “So where do we have to be?”
“Somewhere called the Exchange Auditorium,” Ryan muttered, studying the program. He had his phone out. He clicked a couple of times. “Purpose-built eight-hundred-seat lecture hall,” he read aloud. “It’s … ”—he looked up, getting his bearings—“a couple of minutes along that way.”
Mace rubbed his eyes. “So do we try and get in there now and hide?” He looked at each of them expectantly. “Or do we, like—burst in later?”
For a second no one spoke. There was no plan. This was as far as their thinking had gotten. Preston looked at Ellwood expectantly.
She scowled. “This is my battle,” she said. She’d gone cold and indignant. “If you don’t want any part of it, Faulkner, fine. I get that.”
“No,” Preston said. “That’s not what I—”
“Well pack it in with the stares, then. It’s not like I’m made of answers here.”
Preston swallowed, not sure what she wanted. “Whatever,” he said.
Ryan curled a lip. “Jesus, you two,” he said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” said Ellwood. The tiny room fell still then. Mace took a step backward, as if the extra distance might help. Preston thought about that moment back in Axle Six; the whole rebellion thing when Ryan stalked off with Hoyle in tow. Don’t bloody overthink this like you do everything else, he’d yelled at her. For a second, it looked as if this was going to be payback. But she just stayed silent, staring at him.
“It means,” said Ryan slowly, “that you’re doing that whole Chloe Ellwood thing again, but with Faulkner this time.”
“The Chloe Ellwood thing?” she said with fierce emphasis.
Ryan simmered. “Yeah. The thing you did with me.” Ryan looked coldly at Preston. “Don’t get involved, Faulkner. It’ll mean trouble.”
Ellwood gave a hollow laugh. “You know what trouble is, Ryan?” She crossed her arms. “You’re all cut up about cheating on your girlfriend and now you’re trying to blame me. But I don’t remember you putting up much of a fight at the time.”
“Bitch.”
Ellwood stabbed a finger at him. “Where is she now, Ryan? Ditched her again, have you?”
Ryan exploded at that. He threw himself across the table at her. The vase of flowers went down in a spray of cold water. Mace grabbed his arms, trying to restrain him, but Ryan pulled himself free. Ellwood stepped backward, evading his grasp.
Preston leapt between them, arms out, separating them. The noise was going to attract attention. “Stop!” he hissed. “Both of you!”
The heat went out of it all as suddenly as it had come. Ryan stepped clear of the table, pushing the hair out of his face, shrugging Mace off his back. Ellwood wiped her eyes. Her hands were shaking.
Preston said, “We don’t have to like each other, right?” Silent stares and brooding. “But we need to keep it together for another hour and then it’ll all be done.” Mace was trying to tidy the flowers. “We need to keep moving,” Preston said. “If security know we’re here, they’ll find us soon enough.”
Ryan seemed convinced eventually. He swore a couple of times under his breath. Then he checked the floor plan on his phone again. “Okay. Let’s see what this auditorium looks like,” he said, straightening his clothes.
Ellwood nodded.
They made their way out of the office, bunched together. Their line of sight was broken by the curved white wall of the meeting rooms to their left, so they couldn’t immediately check what was going on in the Gallery and Charter Foyer beyond—they had to sneak forward, Ellwood at the front, Preston and Ryan following, and dip their heads around the corner for a moment.
Preston watched a guard move farther down the Gallery, walking ponderously with his hands behind his back, looking at the photography. Ryan turned back to the group and gave a nod, and they moved out into the open, walking swiftly, heads down. Preston felt his pulse scamper, but soon they were across the exposed space and against the doors of the Exchange Hall undetected, tucked up against the lush greenery of a couple of broad-leaved indoor plants. There was a low table with a slew of abandoned drinks and three empty chairs. Ellwood looked through the glass panels of the hall doors—ducking down and scowling.
Ryan referred to his phone again, squinting at the floor plan, then looked up at the doors. “Through here,” he said, “is the hall. Then, out of the far doors, we come to the Exchange Foyer. From there we can get into the Auditorium.”
“It’s busier in there,” Ellwood said. “Is there another way?”
“Not according to this.” Ryan held up his phone. “Through the hall, out the other side.”
Mace was at the window now. Preston joined him, glancing swiftly at the space beyond and pulling back. “Dammit,” he said.
Mace nodded, agreeing with the assessment. Beyond was another large exhibition space: a high curved roof, a bar area, groups of circular tables ringed with leather chairs, an area of relaxed seating across the far side. And the double doors at the far end that Ryan was talking about.
But there must have been thirty people in there, grouped informally around the tables toward the front of the space. They had tablets, newspapers, briefcases, and drinks. Some sort of discussion or debate was going on.
“They’ve got their backs to the doors,” Preston said hopefully.
“All they’ve got to do is turn, though … ” Mace murmured.
Ryan said, “Could we crawl?”
“Across three hundred feet of carpet with no cover?” Ellwood said, ducking back from the window with a scowl. Ryan bristled, clenching his fists. Ellwood calmly checked her father’s watch: 8:45 p.m. “Fifteen minutes,” she said, ignoring his slow-burning resentment, “then it’ll be all change, and these spaces will be full of delegates.”
“So what’s the plan?” said Mace.
“Okay. Let’s walk through,” Ellwood said. There was a pause. Ryan snorted at her. It sounded ridiculously simple. “We just walk. Really calm. Look like we belong here.”
Ryan indicated his clothes. “Are you kidding?”
Preston scowled. They were all grime encrusted and stinking. He indicated Mace’s goggles, perched in his hair, and his friend pulled them off and pocketed them. Still, this was never going to work. Mace raised his phone to his chin. “We’re about to infiltrate a high-security conference of the country’s most powerful politicians,” he said into it, “by walking in the front door with a cheery wave.”
“Put it away, Mace, for God’s sake,” said Preston.
“My colleague Preston Faulkner also present,” hissed Mace, disappointed. “And others too.” He held the phone out in the center of their huddle. “Introduce yourselves, guys.” Nobody spoke. Ryan looked ready for murder. “What?” said Mace.
Against the clock and in the absence of any other plan, they lined up, hearts hammering. Ellwood first, Ryan second. Then came Mace, then Preston bringing up the rear. They were all terrified. They readied themselves, pointlessly straightening their filthy clothes.
Then Ellwood pushed open the door and they began to walk.
It didn’t start well.
At the swish of the doors, a couple of faces from the group turned, and even though Preston had sworn he wouldn’t make eye contact, he found himself turning his head their way—three or four anonymous faces looking across the hall at them. Preston walked, staring at Mace’s back. But looking casual was impossible; his limbs had gone all rusty and angular
and he felt like he was marching. He actually managed to trip at one point, though how he couldn’t tell.
Halfway across now. Preston realized with a sense of clinging dread that the talk from the group had dried up to nothing; they’d fallen silent. That could mean only one thing—they were watching the little procession of grubby kids. Preston daren’t look to confirm this. Stay calm. Walk.
The double doors seemed possible now. Thirty feet away. Maybe only twenty. Someone from the group had stood up. Then a voice, upraised, said, “Excuse me.” Preston closed his eyes, tried to keep going. Someone ahead slowed and Preston found himself bundling awkwardly into Mace. They ground to a halt. “Excuse me!” This time the voice was sharper. Preston could hear footsteps on soft carpet. Someone was coming. Dammit.
Then it got immeasurably worse.
The double doors ahead of them opened.
Security were there. Three armed guys in black padded jackets and heavy boots. And with them, Armstrong’s assistant, the one who’d discovered them back at M.I.S.T., hiding in the stockroom. Ellwood stopped then, and the line drew to a halt. Two of the security guys had guns. Actual proper guns.
The man in front held a radio to his face and spoke. “We have them apprehended, sir,” he said, giving a nod to one of his accomplices, a squat figure with a squashed face and a broad flat nose, who responded by lowering his weapon and making his way carefully around them. Armstrong’s sidekick regarded them with steely disdain. Security was surrounding them now, three guys each at the point of a silent triangle, looking all secret police at them, cold, hard eyes, square jaws. Armstrong’s assistant spoke, and his gaze never left Preston’s. “These are the kids who’ve been hiding in the bathrooms.”
The delegates from the meeting had backed away now, white-faced. Preston closed his eyes.
“We are in so much trouble,” said Mace. “My dad’s going to kill me.” He was at the door of the office where they’d been held, craning to get a view of the guard outside. They’d been frog-marched through the exhibition halls and out toward the rear of the center where they wouldn’t be seen. There, in a collection of workspaces and meeting rooms, an airless little cell had been cleared and they’d been locked up. Mace completed his assessment of the guards outside. “There’ll be black helicopters on the roof,” he said mysteriously.
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