The Sacred Vault nwaec-6

by Andy McDermott

Keep moving. Pull. Pull. Another foot covered—

  The duct floor flexed under his weight. A flat metallic clonk echoed through the vent. He froze.

  ‘Eddie!’ Karima’s voice was anxious. ‘What was that?’

  ‘Are the guards moving?’ he whispered.

  ‘Yes! One of them just stood up!’

  ‘Eddie?’ called Jablonsky. The noise sounded like something being dropped. He looked at the monitors. Eddie was still in the booth, apparently not having heard anything. The noise wasn’t him, then. So what was it?

  ‘Maybe a locker popped open,’ Vernio suggested. It had happened before.

  ‘I’ll take a look.’ Jablonsky set off down the aisle.

  Rad switched the laptop’s video grid to show the untampered feeds from all the cameras so he could track the guard. ‘Eddie!’ Karima said. ‘He’s moving, he’s coming towards—’

  The boat suddenly lurched as waves slapped the hull. A shaft of dazzling light shone through the open porthole. ‘You on the boat!’ boomed an amplified voice from outside. ‘This is the NYPD Harbor Unit. Come out on the deck, right now!’

  13

  Eddie heard a faint clacking somewhere below: the guard’s footsteps.

  Getting closer.

  What had happened to Karima? She had cut off mid-sentence. ‘Karima!’ he hissed. ‘Can you hear me? Karima!’

  The beam of light shifted as the NYPD boat closed in. ‘I say again,’ the cop barked through his bullhorn, ‘this is the police! Show yourselves!’

  Rad looked at Karima. ‘What do we do? If they board us—’

  ‘Forget that!’ cried Matt. The spool of fibre-optic line was unwinding in fits and starts. ‘Their boat’s snagged the line! If it breaks, we’ll lose the link - and the cameras’ll come back on!’ He spun the drum to pay out more line. The fibre-optic thread was strong and flexible - but ultimately it was nothing more than glass, and would snap if overstressed. ‘Try to stall ’em until I can get this loose!’

  Karima and Rad shared nervous looks, then Karima opened the hatch, taking off her headset before slowly climbing to the deck. A dazzling light shone in her face. Through the glare she made out a larger blue and white boat alongside their vessel. ‘Come on out where we can see you, miss,’ ordered the cop.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ she called as Rad emerged behind her. Glancing back through the hatch, she saw Matt still desperately turning the spool.

  ‘Yeah, you could say that. Weighing anchor in the middle of the East River ain’t a smart move.’ On the police boat’s deck, two officers moved to board the smaller craft. The light played over the two Jordanians. ‘Now, would I be right in thinking that you’re not American citizens?’

  The footsteps got closer. Eddie forced himself to remain statue-still, trying to suppress even his breathing.

  Click-click-click . . . click . . . click. The guard had stopped - almost directly below him.

  The first cop jumped aboard, making the boat sway. He regarded Karima and Rad with evident suspicion, then looked across at the dark crystal tower of the Secretariat Building. Even without speaking, his thought processes were clear: Arabs . . . sky-scraper . . . terrorists. One hand moved to the butt of his holstered gun. ‘You better have a damn good reason for being out here.’

  Jablonsky put his hands on his hips, looking round. None of the lockers was open. Maybe the noise had been a gust of wind through the ventilation system, or something heavy being moved on the floor above.

  He was about to return to his post - then decided that since he was up, he might as well do a round of the archives.

  He started towards the reading area.

  ‘All right, okay, I’m coming!’ came a voice from below deck. Matt clambered through the hatch, glaring at the cop. ‘What’s going on? You almost screwed everything up!’

  The second cop came aboard behind his partner. ‘Screwed what up, sir? You mind telling us who you are?’

  ‘Matt Trulli,’ said Matt, fumbling in a pocket.

  ‘Hey!’ warned the first cop, his gun now out of its holster. ‘Slowly.’

  Matt grimaced. ‘Whoa! Just getting my ID, okay? I work for the United Nations.’ He gestured towards the tower as he produced his UN identity card. ‘Oceanic Survey Organisation. These are my assistants.’

  ‘This ain’t the ocean,’ the gun-happy cop pointed out.

  ‘It’s a tidal waterway, so it counts for what we’re doing.’

  The second cop appeared satisfied by his ID. ‘And what would that be?’ he asked, returning the card.

  ‘Pollution survey. We’re trying to track how far upriver ocean-borne pollutants are being carried by tidal currents. And you nearly lost a hundred grand’s worth of equipment when your boat snagged my control line!’

  The cop peered over the side. ‘What equipment?’

  ‘I’ve got an ROV collecting samples from the riverbed. It’s using a fibre-optic line - I had to unwind it before you snapped it.’

  ‘Why are you working this late at night?’ the first cop asked, still suspicious.

  ‘Because we’re looking at the tides. And it’s, well, high tide.’

  He narrowed his eyes. ‘There’s a high tide during the day, too.’

  ‘Yeah, and a lot more river traffic! Just having you guys go by almost finished us; imagine what it’d be like with everyone else chugging past.’

  The second cop crouched to look into the cabin. Whatever he was expecting to see - stacks of explosives, bags of drugs - it didn’t match the reality of the computer equipment on the table. He straightened. ‘How much longer will you be out here?’

  ‘Depends how long it takes me to get all my samples. An hour, probably less.’

  ‘Huh.’ The cop stared at him for a long moment, then turned to return to his own vessel, ushering his partner with him. ‘We’ll be back in forty-five minutes. It’d be best if you’re done by then.’

  ‘We know who you are,’ the first cop added menacingly, sliding his gun back into its holster as he re-boarded the patrol boat. With a burble from its diesel engine, the police vessel swung away, heading downriver.

  The trio quickly returned to the cabin, Karima retrieving the headset. ‘Eddie!’

  Eddie heard the guard walk away in the direction of the booths - which he would find empty.

  A buzz in one ear. ‘Eddie? Are you there?’

  ‘What happened?’ he whispered.

  ‘A police boat. They’ve gone, but they’ll be back.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter right now. Tell me what the guards are doing.’

  Jablonsky reached the reading area - and stopped in surprise. Papers and files were spread out on the desk where he had left Eddie, but the man himself was not there.

  ‘Eddie?’ No reply. He paced up and down the aisles, seeing no sign of anyone. Frowning, he returned to the security desk. ‘Where is he?’ he asked.

  Vernio looked up from his DS. ‘What?’

  ‘Eddie. Where’d he go?’

  ‘He’s in the reading area. Look.’ The Haitian pointed at the monitors.

  Eddie was indeed back in his booth. ‘Huh,’ said Jablonsky. ‘I musta just missed him.’ He returned to his seat, deciding that the visitor must have got up to stretch his legs.

  At that moment, Eddie would have given almost anything to be able to stretch his legs. He couldn’t hear any more footsteps, but didn’t dare move until he got an all-clear. ‘Karima? What’s happening?’

  ‘He just got back to the desk,’ she said, interference still breaking up her words.

  ‘About fucking time.’ Slowly, extremely carefully, Eddie moved forward again. There was a faint thump as his weight shifted, but the sound was not loud enough to carry. He gripped the suction cup and resumed his advance, more deliberately than before.

  The remaining distance crawled by, inch by sweat-dripping inch. Ten feet to go. He could see the baffles clearly now. Six feet. Three. Two. Just a little further . . .

  The suction cup tapped a
gainst one of the metal plates. ‘Thank Christ,’ he gasped, mouth bone-dry. He unfastened the cutter from his wrist. ‘Okay, I’m about to start cutting. Ask Matt how long it’ll take.’

  ‘He wants to know how thick the metal is,’ Karima replied after a moment.

  ‘Not very. A millimetre, maybe. The plates are about, oh . . . eight inches long.’

  ‘Okay. Matt thinks about four or five minutes to remove each plate.’

  ‘How long before the river police come back?’

  ‘About thirty minutes.’

  Eddie chewed his lower lip. Adding the time it would take him to traverse the last length of duct inside the vault itself would leave only fifteen minutes for him to do everything he needed - and Zec had told him the rapid prototyper would need about eight minutes to carry out its job. Tight timing. Maybe too tight.

  But he had no choice. ‘Okay, I’m switching on the cutter.’ Its tip quickly became red hot.

  The heat was concentrated in a small area, but he could already feel it. The tool was designed to be used underwater, the liquid medium acting as a natural radiator. Here, trapped in the duct’s confines, the hot air had nowhere to go.

  He touched the cutter to the plate where it was welded to the duct’s ceiling. The metal started to soften. He had to be precise with his cutting. If he left any protruding metal, he could slice himself wide open as he crawled past it.

  The work was painfully slow, progress measured in millimetres. But a gap gradually opened up along the top of the plate. A minute passed, and it extended about halfway along. Matt’s estimate seemed accurate. He kept working.

  Jablonsky was, not for the first time, envying his companion’s electronic time-killer. He checked the monitors again. The archive’s aisles were empty, the images seeming almost like still photos; only the timecodes assured him that they were live. The only sign of life was in the reading area. Whatever Eddie was doing for Dr Wilde, it was obviously engrossing - he had barely moved since returning to his seat.

  He considered making another patrol . . . but resisted. He still had three more hours on duty - might as well spread out the ‘excitement’. In twenty minutes, maybe.

  After another minute, the plate had been entirely separated from the ceiling. Eddie switched to the bottom. More care was needed here; if he accidentally cut through the duct floor, molten metal could drop on to the suspended ceiling below and start a fire.

  The need for greater accuracy slowed him down. Over three minutes passed before the plate finally came loose. He caught it with his thumb and forefinger before it fell. ‘Ow, ow, shit,’ he hissed, carefully laying the hot piece of steel flat before blowing on his fingers. A quick check of the duct; there were some sharp-looking edges, but nothing capable of giving him more than a superficial cut.

  He started on the other plate. With the cutter at full temperature it took slightly less time, but by the end he felt as though he was working inside an oven. He lowered the second piece of metal, then checked his watch. The obstacle had cost him over ten minutes, and he still had to reach the vent.

  He switched off the cutter. ‘I’m going through.’

  ‘Okay.’ Karima sounded more tense than before. ‘We’ve got less than twenty minutes before the police come back. If they make us leave, we’ll have to cut the camera feeds. You’ve got to be out of there by then.’

  ‘No pressure, then . . .’ He fastened the cutter back on to his arm, careful to keep the still-hot tip clear of his skin, and raised the suction cup. The routine of movement began again, six inches at a time. He passed over the cuts, feeling the metal tugging at his bodysuit - then something gave. ‘Shit.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Got a cut.’ He moved forward again, trying to push himself upwards. Nothing seemed to snag this time. ‘Hope it’s just the suit and not me. I don’t want to leave a nipple in here.’ He had hoped to raise a laugh from the other end of the line, but Karima was too worried.

  He was now above the vault itself. Directly ahead was his next obstacle. Blocking the duct was a rack of ventilator fans, blowing air down into the vault. ‘Okay, I’m at the fans. Let’s have a look . . .’

  He tilted his head to direct the torch beam over the machinery - and didn’t like what he saw. ‘Shit. The screws holding the grille in place go right into the frame - I can’t get at them. I’ll have to cut them out.’ He took the cutter from his wrist again. The rack’s frame reached to the duct’s top, bolted to the ceiling above. If he cut the vertical supports, he might be able to slide the entire unit out of his way into the section of ducting on the other side of the vent . . .

  He reached round the fans and cut one of the supports farthest from him first. That corner of the rack dropped slightly, rattling. One down. He repeated the task on the other side—

  The whole far end of the assembly lurched, the edge of the grille dropping two inches from the opening in the duct. Shit! The fan system was heavier than it looked. He saw that the separate power cords to each fan joined into one thicker cable that disappeared through a hole in the duct roof. A plan formed: cut through the third support, then keep a firm hold on the cable as he severed the last strut to stop the entire thing from crashing down on the vault’s weight-sensitive floor.

  He started cutting the first of the nearer supports. Through the grille, he could make out the vault’s interior, dimly lit by emergency lights: another safety feature to help anyone who got locked inside. At least he wouldn’t have to work entirely by the glow of his little head-mounted torch—

  The cutter severed the third strut - and the entire fan assembly, grille and all, plunged as the final overstressed support was torn from the ceiling.

  Eddie’s free hand lashed out, clamping round the cable as it shot past. The weight slammed his elbow painfully against the edge of the opening. The power line slithered through his sweat-soaked grip. He tossed the cutter across to the other side of the hole and grabbed the cable with his other hand—

  Knocking the suction cup over the edge.

  If it hit the floor, the alarm would go off . . .

  He heard a thump of impact—

  The faint sound was not followed by the scream of sirens. Instead, Eddie heard a rapid fluttering like the beating of a moth’s wings. Grimacing at the pain in his arm, he squirmed forward and looked down. The assembly hung an inch above the floor. The suction cup had landed on one of the fans, jammed against the frame as the whirling blades beat against it.

  ‘What was that noise?’ Karima asked, alarmed.

  ‘My fan club,’ he rasped, pulling the cable back up. ‘Did those guys hear it?’

  ‘It doesn’t look like it.’ The vault’s thick walls had muffled the sound.

  He hauled up the rack until it was swaying about two feet off the floor, then knotted the cable into a butterfly loop to hold it there. ‘How much time?’

  ‘Thirteen minutes - but Eddie, they could come back before then.’

  ‘Yeah, I needed to hear that, Karima. Okay, I’m going to climb down.’

  Forcing the cable out of his way, Eddie dragged himself forward. The opening beneath him made movement easier, but he didn’t drop through it - yet. Instead, he pulled himself over the gap, still towing his cargo, then unfastened the strap from his belt, leaving it hanging over the edge, and carefully lowered his legs into the vault.

  The fans swung on their makeshift tether, the flapping sound still coming from the suction cup. The pedestal desk containing the security terminal was about two feet to one side. Eddie swung down to land on it with a thump.

  He was in!

  Leaning down, he recovered the suction cup . . . and realised he was screwed.

  The fan blades had slashed a ragged tear in the synthetic rubber. He tested it on the desktop, but knew even before he pulled the lever that it was useless. A pathetic puff of air came through the rip. It couldn’t create a vacuum.

  Which meant he had no way to get back through the duct.

  ‘Buggera
tion,’ he whispered. He would have to find another way out, and soon.

  First things first. He stood and pulled the strap, slowly tugging the case over the edge. It dropped - he caught it, gripping the second strap and dragging the plastic container after it. Both bulky items retrieved, he put them on the desk and opened the case.

  The rapid prototyper was inside. He lifted it out, closed the case and set the machine on top of it, pouring the glutinous liquid into the tank. As soon as it was full he switched on the machine, darkly cursing as it ran through a self-test mode, the laser head whining along its tracks. Thirty seconds, wasted. Finally it was ready.

  He inserted the memory card and pushed the start button.

  Two beams flickered across the tank, the liquid hardening where they crossed. The laser head slowly moved along the machine’s length. A ghostly shape took on form beneath it. A hand, wraithlike and insubstantial.

  And two-dimensional. The prototyper built up objects layer by layer, the lasers gradually focusing higher as they moved back and forth. Each layer was less than a millimetre thick, so making something substantial enough to trick the handprint scanner would take time.

  Time that was running out.

  Eddie looked round the vault. The simplest way out would be to set off the alarm by dropping something on the floor; the guards would open the door to investigate. But they were armed, and he wasn’t, and even if he got past them he didn’t fancy his chances of escaping the building. A man in a skin-tight bodysuit carrying a large book made of gold would be hard to miss.

  What else could he do? He glanced at the hole in the ceiling. No way out there without the suction cup.

  But there was something else he could use . . .

  While Rad and Karima kept watch on the monitors, Matt went up on deck. He regarded the UN building for a moment, hoping Eddie would get his arse in gear, then looked downriver. At this time of night, water traffic was minimal, the lights of other vessels standing out clearly even from a distance.