Die Twice

by Andrew Grant

  Fothergill’s lack of accuracy meant I had to lug the drinks twice as far as I’d expected, but when I arrived at the correct address they did the trick just as beautifully as usual. The architects had the top floor of an anonymous building on Washington and State, not far from the old Marshall Field’s department store. I loitered outside for a moment, observing the steady stream of office workers, before a young woman in a plum-colored suit paused to open the door for me. I followed her inside, glanced up at the list of tenants displayed over the concierge’s desk, and made my way across to join a gaggle of telemarketers who were waiting to head back up to their suite.

  No one else asked for the same floor as me, but when the elevator doors opened I realized that wasn’t just a happy coincidence. It was because the architects’ firm had closed for the day. The lights were off, and the place looked locked down and deserted. Which wasn’t necessarily a problem. It just meant that getting inside would be a different kind of challenge.

  I stepped out of the elevator car and into the reception area. A single chair was tucked neatly away behind a pale wooden counter, next to a computer screen and a phone. A blue leather couch was pushed back against the wall to the right, beneath two large black-and-white prints of the Chicago skyline. A pair of frosted glass doors filled the space to the left, with the partners’ names etched vertically in bold, modern letters. There wasn’t much else to see. Except for a digital keypad that was fixed to the frame. And a CCTV camera above my head, keeping watch over everything.

  A drop of coffee slopped onto the floor as I flipped the lid off the backup cappuccino I’d bought. It was lucky I wasn’t planning on drinking it. All I needed was the foam. I scooped some out with my fingers, stretched up, and daubed it all over the camera’s lens. It wasn’t an ideal substance—not sticky enough—but I figured it would keep any images sufficiently indistinct as long as I didn’t hang around too long. I’d known people improvise with all kinds of foodstuffs before. Mayonnaise. Peanut butter. Hummus. And while steamed milk may have been a little more unorthodox, necessity is, after all, the mother of invention.

  My next priority was the alarm, and that was just as easy to find. The control box was mounted on the far side of the counter, under the main shelf, at knee level for anyone who was sitting down. It had a keypad, an LCD display that confirmed it was armed, and a key switch to reset the system. I quickly searched the receptionist’s drawers, just in case. That wasn’t as long a shot as it sounds—human laziness and stupidity dictate that you can find either the override key or a note of the code in probably three tries out of ten—but it wasn’t to be this time. Instead I took a six-inch ruler, a well-sharpened pencil, and returned to the control box. I’d noticed that the manufacturer’s logo was attached to a circle of metal about the size of a dime at the top left of the case, and that had given me an idea. I eased the pointed corner of the ruler under the edge of the little disc and pressed down hard. It pinged off, snapping the ruler in the process, and rolled away under the counter. But I wasn’t concerned about the damage or the loss. Because at the center of the circle I’d just exposed was exactly what I’d been hoping to see. A tiny hole. I inserted the tip of the pencil into it and pushed. The box beeped. All the LCD characters flashed in unison. Then a message appeared:

  ENTER RESET CODE?

  I was relying on the fact that while practically all users changed their PINs to something secure after installation, not many of them knew how to reset their systems. That’s because you only find out if you lose your keys, forget your code, and call the manufacturer’s helpline. So I took a deep breath, crossed my fingers, and keyed in the most common factory default:

  0 0 0 0

  The system beeped twice. The LCD characters flashed. And a new message scrolled across the screen:

  DISARMED

  The cappuccino foam on the camera lens seemed to be holding up pretty well, but I smeared a little more on for luck before moving on to the final hurdle. The keypad next to the door. I took a closer look and saw it was divided into three sections. A narrow rectangle at the top, which housed a red and a green LED. An empty central section, the approximate size of a credit card. And the numbered buttons at the bottom—0 through 9, plus * and #.

  I guessed the central panel would be a proximity card reader. That would probably be the way most employees would gain access, because it’s quicker and easier than having to enter a code. The keypad would be used by people who’d forgotten their cards, guests—unless they were given temporary passes—and contractors, and to allow the system to be disabled in case of emergency. Which I guess was a fair description of the situation I found myself in right then.

  The emergency services can’t be expected to memorize the codes for all the alarms in all the offices in all the buildings they protect, so the systems come with what’s known as a fire number. In a sane world, there’d be just one of these. In fact, there are close to twenty. I knew six of them from past cases I’d been involved with, and I was pretty sure Fothergill could get me the others if I needed them. I started with the ones I could remember. The little red light glowed in response to the first three I keyed in. But when I entered the fourth, it turned to green. Life was good. I was clear to enter.

  The moment the door swung open I could see why the architects had chosen that particular office. The place was incredibly bright. Even at that time, the late afternoon sun was flooding in through a huge rectangular light well in the ceiling. Four draftsmen’s desks were arranged beneath it, to take full advantage of the natural light. Six tall document cupboards, large enough to hold full-sized plans, were lined up along the left-hand wall. Regular desks and filing cabinets filled the space to the right, with one at the end reserved for a giant printer and photocopier. The area straight ahead was divided into three glass-fronted offices. There was a fair selection of the usual office paraphernalia lying around—phone chargers, pens and paper, coasters with advertising slogans on them—and lots more specialized items like containers full of rolled-up plans and piles of half-finished plastic foam building models. But there was one kind of thing that was conspicuously absent. The thing I’d specifically come to find. Their computers.

  Except for one.

  I stepped back into the foyer, jogged the mouse that was lying on the countertop, and the receptionist’s screen sprang back to life. The desktop picture showed a bloated ginger cat curled up on a floral sofa. That wasn’t a promising sign. I did my best to ignore it, and clicked on the Internet Explorer icon instead. The cursor gave way to an hour glass, and I had to wait for what seemed like an hour until a little box appeared in the center of the cat’s stomach.

  You are not connected to the Internet. Would you like to

  launch the Network Connection Wizard?

  I clicked on “No,” pulled out my phone, and called Fothergill.

  “I need another address,” I said.

  “Why?” he said. “Couldn’t you get in?”

  “Of course I could. I’m inside now. But their computers aren’t here. They must use laptops, and have taken them home.”

  “The people aren’t there?”

  “No. The place is empty.”

  “Damn. I hadn’t expected that. OK. Let’s think. What else can we do?”

  “Is there any way to trace the computer McIntyre’s contact was using? Can you talk to the IT guys? See if they can trace it, if it’s gone online from another location?”

  “I’ll talk to them. I don’t know if that kind of trace is possible, though.”

  “I don’t either. But this place is a wash, otherwise. And it might be too late if I have to come back tomorrow, when they’re back at work.”

  “Tomorrow could well be too late.”

  “What about their home addresses? Could you track any of them down? Starting with the partners. I could pay a couple of them a visit. See if I can’t loosen some tongues.”

  “That’s a good thought. I’ll get the boffins on it, right away. But depending
on where they live, it might not be quick. There might be a lot of running around involved, and these guys might not even be home. So before we go down that road, are you sure there’s nothing at your end we could use? Already in the office?”

  “Maybe. I’ll nose around, see if I can find the personnel files.”

  “No. I wasn’t thinking about addresses. I was thinking about these guys’ jobs. If they’re trying to buy this gas, there’s a chance it’s related to something they’re working on.”

  “It could be. Or it’s just as likely that whatever pie they’ve got their fingers in is completely separate.”

  “It could go either way. But we know that someone who works there is the linchpin. The only one left who can connect us with Tony and the gas. So while you’re there, it makes sense to take a thorough look, doesn’t it?”

  “I want to find that computer. And the guy who was using it.”

  “I understand. But here’s how I see it. The guy’s computer is what led us to that office, but it doesn’t follow that the information we need is on it, too. The key could be right there, on a desk, in a drawer, on the wall, who knows?”

  “Maybe they signed a confession and left it in a sealed envelope?”

  “I’m serious, David. This used to be my specialty. Residual Analysis. You can always tell what someone’s up to by what they leave behind.”

  “If they leave anything behind.”

  “You’re right. Sometimes they leave nothing. Sometimes you figure it out by what’s missing. But either way, the clues are always there. You just need to know how to find them, and how to put them together. And the starting point is always careful observation. So come on. Let’s try. Is it a large place?”

  “No.”

  “OK. Why don’t you walk me through it. Start with the shared areas. For some reason people are always more careful in their personal spaces. We’re looking for something current, not lost in the mists of time. And something big, if they need multiple canisters of this gas to poison it with.”

  I did what he asked, and as I made my way from desk to desk I found the firm was keeping itself pretty busy. It was involved with all kinds of diverse projects. High-end housing developments. New build, as well as conversions. Boutique-style shop renovations. And interior design, for a couple of fancy restaurants and cafés. With some of the buildings, they were handling the design from scratch. With others, they were supervising the work the contractors were doing. And in one case, they’d been hired to validate the structural calculations another practice from out of state had come up with.

  The hardest part of assessing the threat came from the inherent versatility of the gas. Houses are small. They hold five or six people at most. You’d think an apartment building would make a better target. Or an office. But houses are rarely built on their own. Especially in the suburbs. Factor in wind patterns and climatic conditions, and one residence could be used as a springboard to infect hundreds of others. Or maybe thousands. Which meant that several of their projects could be suspicious. Or none of them. A number of schemes had the potential, but nothing really stood out. And most of them were still in the “possible” pile when we reached the final item. It was the only thing I hadn’t been able to identify right away. One of the plastic foam models. It didn’t look familiar, and at the same time it didn’t look finished. Fothergill seemed suspicious. It was like his internal antennae had picked up on something, and he just wouldn’t let it drop.

  “Describe it to me again,” he said. “I’m just not getting it.”

  “It looks like the cross-section of a room,” I said. “It’s rectangular. There’s nothing inside. One of the long walls is missing. The two shorter walls have floor-to-ceiling windows. But the other long wall is where it gets strange. Three boxes are sticking right out of it.”

  “Boxes?” Like cardboard boxes?”

  “Right. Like the kind you get at arenas and stadiums. Only smaller. They look like they can move, in and out. And they’re transparent.”

  “Transparent? Like they’re made of glass?”

  “These are plastic. I have no idea what the real ones are made of. But glass wouldn’t be impossible, I guess. If it was properly strengthened.”

  “And the place, itself. Is it definitely just a room? Or could it be a whole floor?”

  “Not a whole floor, I’d guess, since one of the walls is missing. Maybe a third of a floor. Perhaps a quarter.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Then, yes. It probably represents a whole floor.”

  “Is there any way to tell how high up a floor it is?”

  “No.”

  “Is there anything attached to the top? Like aerials? Ventilation equipment? Anything to suggest it could be a roof?”

  “No.”

  “That’s a shame. It would make things clearer. But David, I think I’ve got it. I think I know what we’re talking about.”

  “I’m excited. Did you ever think about the stage? You could be one of those illusionists who resurface every Christmas. I saw one for real, once, at a ball. He was called the Regurgitator. I bet you can’t guess what his act involved.”

  “David, will you listen? Do you want to know what the model’s of, or not?”

  “OK. Go ahead. Surprise me. But I bet it can’t beat what the Regurgitator did with a goldfish and a cigarette.”

  “I think it’s the Sears Tower.”

  “Oh well. I was right again. Never mind.”

  “What do you mean, you were right?”

  “About the Regurgitator. He was far more entertaining. I thought so, anyway. The goldfish would probably have been in your camp, though.”

  Fothergill didn’t reply.

  “And you should have seen his outfit,” I said. “Yellow spandex. Very tight. You’re a bit of a fashionista. You’d have loved it.”

  He didn’t respond. I thought perhaps he was sulking a little bit.

  “And if you want to be pedantic, it’s the Willis Tower, now, apparently,” I said.

  “No one in Chicago will ever call it that,” he said.

  “If you’re even right about it being the Sears Tower, of course.”

  “I am. It has to be that. The glass boxes are the clue. They were added to the observation level a little while back. They’re pretty cool, actually.”

  “And they’re broken, I heard. Or the mechanism is, at least. The magazine in my hotel said the whole of that level was closed again while they were being fixed.”

  “That’s right. I’d forgotten. I wonder—David, stay on the line a moment, will you please?”

  I heard some rapid typing from Fothergill’s end; then everything was quiet for a moment.

  “Listen to this,” he said, when he returned. “Guess which structural engineer is involved in the repair project?”

  “Can I go for best of three?” I said. “OK. I’m going right out on a limb, here. Is it Pascoe?”

  “No.”

  “Kershaw?”

  “No.”

  “OK. Reith?”

  “Yes. It’s Reith. And guess what? There’s more. He’s not charging a dime for the work.”

  “What a public-spirited kind of guy. Sounds like the city could use more people like him.”

  Fothergill sighed.

  “You don’t understand,” he said. “I think we’re onto something here. Think about it. Everything fits.”

  “What fits?” I said. “I don’t see it.”

  “You’ve got the tallest building in the United States. It’s taller than the World Trade Center was. Goodness knows how many people work in it. And there are all the tourists. Talk about a juicy target. Now here’s a guy, trying to buy poison gas, with engineering knowledge, bending over backward to get access to the inner workings of the place.”

  “You seriously think there’s a genuine terrorist threat against the Sears Tower?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Then why are we even messing around? You should ki
ck it to Homeland Security, right away.”

  “I don’t know about that. If we’re wrong, we could cause a panic. People could be killed. And we would expose everything to do with McIntyre and the missing Spektra gas, which is just what London doesn’t want to happen.”

  “I think you’re jumping the gun. We don’t know it was Reith who was chumming up to McIntyre. Any one of their staff could have been using that dating service. Or someone entirely unrelated could have been piggybacking off their wireless, even.”

  “You’re reaching, David. It’s just too big a coincidence.”

  “Maybe. But I’m not convinced. And I still want those guys’ home addresses.”

  “Yes, we’ll get them for you. But in the meantime, do any of their other projects honestly seem like a hotter target?”

  “No. But we don’t know the target has anything to do with their work.”

  “True. But think about it. Right now, this minute, have we got anything better to go on?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “I think you should head over there and take a look,” he said. “Will you go?”

  I didn’t reply.

  “I’ll meet you there, if you like,” he said. “We’ll check the place together.”

  “I’d like you to check their home addresses,” I said. “That’s how we’ll move this forward. Not by replacing one wild-goose chase with another.”

  “I’ll get the analysts on it. Straightaway. All of them. But while they’re doing that, what else are you going to do? Sit around in your hotel? See a movie? Go shopping? Get a pedicure?”

  I didn’t want to wait, at all. I didn’t see why finding three addresses had to be so time-consuming. None of Fothergill’s suggestions had even crossed my mind. I was just going to tell him to turn the heat up under the IT guys when my eyes fell on a flyer pinned to a notice board near the photocopier. It was advertising Richard III at one of the local theaters. That was Tanya’s favorite play. We’d seen it together, years ago, in Madrid. I could almost feel her head on my shoulder, and the tension building in her body as we waited for the curtain to go up. And I knew that memory would only grow on me, if I allowed any time to hang on my hands.