by Andrew Grant
He didn’t reply. “My name’s David Trevellyan, by the way,” I said. “And you’re who? Pascoe? Kershaw? Or Reith?”
A smile finally broke out across his face.
“The architects?” he said. “You fell for that? I didn’t think anyone would swallow it. But credit to your friend. He told me you would. And he was right.”
“I’m a very sociable person,” I said. “I have literally several friends. Can you narrow the field a little?”
“Don’t try to play me. You know the guy’s name. And anyway, this isn’t the time for twenty questions. It’s time for you to put down your gun and start talking to us about how we can save your life. And spare you from excruciating pain.”
“Let me think. Death. Pain. You paint a very tempting picture. I’m almost inclined to take you up on it. No one’s made a serious attempt to kill me for nearly five hours now, which is tedious. It’s just the putting down of my gun that I’m struggling with. Remind me why I’d want to do that?”
“See where I’m aiming my gun?”
“At the floor? Are you concerned about dust mites?”
“I’m aiming at the canister.”
“Which would kill all four of us if you hit it.”
“Actually, it wouldn’t. It would only harm you. My friends and I are thorough. We’ve been immunized. That stuff wouldn’t even make us sneeze.”
He was bluffing, of course. I was certain of that. There was no way an antidote to this gas existed. And even if one did, he wouldn’t use up a third of his arsenal to eliminate a single person. Especially when the gas would inevitably leak out and contaminate the surrounding areas. Keeping their presence secret had to be a vital part of his plan, and that would be pretty difficult if the neighbors all started dropping like flies.
I really should have just shot them all, there and then, and called in some help to gather up the canisters. But every second I delayed, the riskier that prospect became. The first pair of guys was regrouping. I could almost hear the cogs spinning inside their heads. They were weighing their options all over again, watching me, measuring the angles. The older guy’s presence seemed to have galvanized them. I was intrigued by him. He had a definite air of authority. I wanted to find out what he knew. How he’d found out. And whether I could use him to get farther up the food chain.
“It’s not a good way to go, with the gas,” he said. “I’ve seen it. I wouldn’t recommend it.”
“What’s the alternative?” I said.
“Give me your gun. Then we’ll talk.”
“Just talk?”
“That depends on what you have to say.”
“But you need my gun first, anyway?”
“I do.”
I made a show of considering his offer, then spun the Beretta around and handed it to him, grip first.
“Your phone, as well,” he said.
“Really?” I said.
He nodded.
I sighed and pulled it back out of my pocket.
“Here,” I said. “But take good care of it. And the gun, too. I’ll be needing them back, very soon.”
One of the other guys laughed.
“Just kill him now,” he said.
“No way,” the second guy said. “Not in here. He’ll make too much mess.”
“He won’t. And anyway, listen to him. How he talks. He deserves it.”
“I know he deserves it. But not here. There’s not even room. He’d break something when he fell. Which we’d end up having to fix.”
“Take him upstairs, then. To the observation deck.”
“Why? It’s crawling with German engineers. Someone will find him.”
“No. It’s not, anymore. I heard them talking, yesterday. They’re waiting for parts. From Stuttgart, or somewhere. Two weeks’ delay, minimum. No one will be working up there till then.”
“Two weeks?” the older guy said. “Perfect. Plenty of time. No one’s ever going to find him.”
TWENTY-ONE
According to a report I once read, human beings can suffer from one or more of five hundred and thirty-one recognized phobias.
It’s not the number of them that fascinates me, though. It’s the different reactions they bring out in nonsufferers. I remember a woman at a data networking company I was sent to work at, once. She was acrophobic. In other words, she had a fear of heights. It was so extreme it even affected her when she was in her car. And unfortunately, her job required her to drive regularly across the Severn Bridge, which spans the river separating England and South Wales.
There were times when her fear was so bad it almost paralyzed her. These became so frequent she was in danger of getting the sack, so one of her friends stepped in to help. He found out whenever she was due to make the journey, and always called her a few minutes before she was likely to reach the bridge. Then he’d talk to her all the way across, keeping her mind off the ordeal and making sure she made it in one piece.
The guy would probably have a bright future in intelligence work, because looking out for people’s fears and phobias is a valuable part of what we do, too.
Only when we spot a weakness, we don’t help the victim overcome it.
The regular elevators in the Sears Tower are there to serve the tenants, not the tourists. That means they don’t go to the observation deck. To get there we had to return to the basement, cross to the far corner, and take the number one service elevator. And even that only took us as far as the floor two down from the top.
The older guy gestured for me to head up the final flight of emergency stairs ahead of him. I went through the door, and as soon as we were out of the public areas he gave up making any pretense of hiding his gun. I emerged first onto the observation deck, and I have to say I was impressed. It wasn’t really a deck, though. As Fothergill had deduced from the architects’ model, it was a whole floor. And apart from the square central core, which was covered with displays of information about Chicago, the space was uninterrupted from one wall of glass to the other. With no other people around, it seemed huge. But big as it was, it was completely overshadowed by the view. The lake. The heart of the city. The river. The suburbs. I was spoiled for choice. After a moment I went across to the window on the far side and gazed down, tracing the progress of an El train as it sparked its way around the sharp curves of the central loop. The older guy started to follow, but slowed down and stayed a good fifteen feet away from the glass.
“So why do they need German engineers here?” I said. “And what are these parts they’re short of?”
“They’re for the Ledge,” he said. “To fix it.”
“These dangling glass boxes?”
“Yes.”
I saw a tiny shiver take hold of him as he gave that last answer.
“Where are they?” I said.
He nodded to his left, toward the far end of the area. It had been closed off with coarse sacklike curtains that were hanging from the ceiling.
“Let’s go and look,” I said.
“No, let’s not,” he said. “Let’s stay here and talk.”
“OK. We can talk. But what about?”
“You could start with your name, and why you’re here.”
“I could. Or you could, with why you’re planning on poisoning the entire building with Spektra gas.”
“How do you know what kind of gas it is?”
“Where did you get it from?”
“What’s in my right hand?” he said, raising his gun.
“A Walther P38,” I said.
“And what’s in your right hand?”
There was no need to answer that.
“You have nothing,” he said.
“It’s one thing to have a gun,” I said. “It’s another thing to use one.”
He shot a hole in the floor, directly between my feet.
“No one can hear us, in this place,” he said. “If you’re not going to talk, there’s no reason for you to keep on breathing. The next bullet will be straight through
your skull.”
“I know about Spektra gas because it’s my job to know,” I said. “And I came here to catch the guy who’s been selling it to you.”
“Who do you work for?”
“Whoever pays me the most. A bit like you, I guess. You’re South African?”
“Yes. What of it?”
“Anything to do with the the Republic of Equatorial Myene?”
“Nothing. That’s just a chicken-feed piss-pot of a place that happens to be in the same continent I was born on. I’d nuke it, if I could.”
“I see. So, if you don’t mind me asking, why are a bunch—does three count as a bunch? Anyway, why are South Africans in Chicago trying to poison people?”
“ ’Cause we work for whoever pays us the most. A bit like you.”
“And your employers would be?”
“Even if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you. But I don’t know. And I don’t care. All I want is the money.”
“Excellent. I admire a man of principle. In fact, a woman once told me that principles in a man are sexy. Very sexy, were her actual words. She was exceptionally beautiful. And exceptionally smart. I never knew her to be wrong. About anything.”
“Stop bullshitting me. Who do you really work for? You’re some kind of government agent, right?”
“No. I have issues with rigid authority structures. I’m strictly freelance.”
“Oh, so no one knows you’re here?”
“Sorry, did I say freelance? I meant to say yes, I am a government agent. Lots of people know I’m here. Including twenty-five of my most violent colleagues who are outside right now, desperate for an excuse to storm the place.”
The guy lifted his gun and pointed it at my face.
“You’re an idiot,” he said. “It’s time to say good night.”
“I could do that,” I said. “And I will. In due course. But in the meantime, just one thing. The guy who’s selling the gas to you. What’s his name?”
“Do you not get it? You’re about to die. The guy’s name doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me. I’m curious, like a cat.”
The guy didn’t respond.
“Come on,” I said. “You’re already measuring my life expectancy in seconds. What harm can it do?”
“He’s called Tony McIntyre,” he said, rolling his eyes. “And he’s English, like you.”
“Oh, Tony. I know him, as it happens. He’s Scottish, actually. And out of interest, I think telling me his name could do quite a lot of harm. To you, anyway.”
“You’re in no position to make threats.”
“I’m not threatening. I’m just telling you. He doesn’t look at all happy, right now. And he seemed fine a moment ago. So I’m thinking, has anything else happened that could have changed his mood so fast? Aside from you blurting out his name?”
“Who are you talking about?”
“Tony Mac. Look at the expression on his face.”
The guy didn’t react.
“He came in about two minutes after we did,” I said. “That’s why I stepped over here. To draw you away from him.”
He didn’t speak, but the muzzle of the Walther betrayed a slight tremble in his hand.
“The thing is, I’m working with Tony,” I said. “I’m his loyalty consultant. When he’s not sure if he can trust someone, he calls on me. I come in and run a few little tests. How do you think I knew you’d be here?”
Concern was starting to creep into the corner of his eyes.
“We call this Creating a Moment of Truth,” I said. “Tony always watches and listens when I’m doing one. That way, he sees and hears everything for himself. The results can’t be faked. He’s not relying on someone else’s interpretation. And he’s not left with any worries about false reporting. But right now, I’d say he has major worries about you.”
The guy’s eyes started to flick to the side. Then his whole head began to twitch. The tendons in his neck joined in. And finally, he couldn’t take any more. He turned around to look. Not all the way. And not for very long. But long enough and far enough for what I needed.
Striking someone’s brachial plexus in just the right way to knock him out sounds easy, but in reality it’s one of the hardest things I had to learn. Go in too high, and the person hardly notices you’ve touched him. It’s the same story if you hit too low. Most of the time a fist or a foot or a knee or an elbow is a much more reliable option. But our instructors insisted that we keep trying. They wouldn’t let us move on from the technique until we’d mastered it. All of them were adamant there’d be times when the results would justify the effort. And, as usual, they were right.
I retrieved my phone and Beretta, then hitched the guy’s unconscious body over my right shoulder and carried him across to the curtains that divided the space. I couldn’t find a join, so in the end I just dumped him back on the floor, lifted up the bottom edge, and rolled him underneath. I followed, and could finally see what all the fuss was about with the glass pods. Only to me, they looked more like giant transparent drawers with open ends. There were three of them, spaced out evenly along the wall. Each one looked capable of holding maybe twelve people in comfort at a time. Two had been retracted, leaving only the right-hand one protruding into fresh air. I moved closer, and saw the source of the problem the engineers had been struggling with. It had to do with the rails in the ceiling that supported the box, and allowed it to slide in and out. Or more specifically, the hydraulic motors that provided the power for that to happen. All three rails had been removed and above them someone had begun to strip down the associated pipes and wires. Most of them had been left dangling, but I could see an empty space in the center of the resulting clump of spaghetti. That’s where the part that was being made in Stuttgart would have to be plugged in, I guessed. And then I presumed they’d repeat the procedure with the other two pods.
I retrieved the guy’s body, carried it into the right-hand box and laid it facedown on the glass floor, pressed up against the outside wall. He was still out, but when consciousness returned and he opened his eyes, he was going to be looking straight down into the darkness. All that separated him from the sidewalk was three thin layers of laminated glass. And a quarter of a mile of empty air.
I wanted him to get full value for the view, so I went over to where the overhead rails had been piled up and dragged one back into the box. It was heavy. Close up it was more like a small girder, and it wasn’t easy to lift one end up and position it on the small of the guy’s back. I took a moment to catch my breath, then fetched the second one. That pinned his shoulders. The third, his legs. And with him secured, I sat down to think. I’d let him bring me upstairs because I wanted to know what was inside his head. This would give me the leverage to find out. Only now, there was something else bothering me. Something he’d just said didn’t ring true. I couldn’t put my finger on what. Not yet. But I had the feeling I wouldn’t be able to tie up all the loose ends until I did.
The guy came around with a start. His head jerked back away from the glass floor and when his body didn’t follow he began jerking and twisting and struggling to wriggle out from under the metal rails. I let him thrash around in vain for thirty seconds or so, then stepped up to the entrance to the box.
“Good news,” I said. “I’ve figured out what’s wrong with these things.”
He stopped struggling quite so violently and turned his head to face me, but didn’t speak.
“It’s the mechanism that keeps the boxes from falling right out of the side of the building,” I said. “It’s broken. The whole thing could just plummet at any second. It’s really unstable. I hope the famous Chicago wind doesn’t pick up anytime soon. It’s a shame you can’t get out, really.”
He stopped moving altogether this time, but didn’t break his silence.
“How far can you move your neck?” I said. “Can you see those little buttons up there?”
He didn’t answer.
“There’s a green one,�
� I said. “But I’m not interested in that at all. It makes the box move back inside. I’m thinking more about the red one. ’Cause if I press that, you, and the box, well . . . Let’s just say you’d be the first man to try out a glass parachute. And probably the last.”
He swallowed loudly, but didn’t manage any words.
“It’s a good thing the street is closed, down below here,” I said. “I’d feel awfully guilty if you pulverized any pedestrians, walking by.”
“OK,” he said, after another moment. “Enough. You win. What do you want?”
“A little information. Starting with some background.”
“I can give you that. Just get these things off my back.”
“Questions first, I think. You’re planning on murdering what, several thousand people? Why?”
“I told you. Dollars and cents.”
“There has to be more to it than that.”
“For the people who are paying, maybe. But not for me.”
“Who is paying you?”
“That’s a stupid question. You know it doesn’t work that way. Someone wants a job done. They hire me to do it. Anonymously, through two or three blinds. Afterward, you see their face on TV or the Internet or wherever, claiming responsibility. Sick and cowardly of them, maybe, but it pays the bills.”
“OK. Why are they doing it? Did they tell you that much?”
“Yeah, funnily enough. I made it clear I have no moral scruples whatsoever. That’s why people hire me. But these guys still wanted me to think they were righteous.”
“How, if you weren’t in contact?”
“They sent me a load of crap through some intermediaries. And they have vision, I grant them that. The New York guys, in ’01—they demolished the Twin Towers. So now, there’s nothing left to see. These guys, though, they want this building left intact. What did they call it? A fourteen-hundred-foot-high coffin. A lasting monument to the immorality of Western culture, standing empty and unusable. Something like that. whatever.”
“How would the building be unusable? Spektra gas isn’t radioactive. It doesn’t seep into the fabric of the place. There shouldn’t be any long-term effects.”