Torque

by Glenn Muller

  Before letting Svoljsak fend for himself, though, the Peruvian located a telephone from which they could each make calls. For his help, Svoljsak wanted to give the man a small golden amulet that he’d managed to conceal. The jeweller’s wife had given it to him ‘for protection and luck’, but with typical South American graciousness his comrade bade him to keep it for the journey ahead.

  “Vaya con Dios, Amigo!”

  Svoljsak echoed back, “Go with God, my friend,” and the Peruvian vanished into the marketplace like a ghost into a tapestry.

  His telephone contacts eventually provided a forged passport, an exit visa, and transport, all acquired with wired funds that emptied his accounts. By way of Moquegua and Tacha, and several greased palms, the would-be drug czar from Quebec finally managed to quit Peru via the Chilean border.

  CHAPTER 12

  The large FOUR on a steel door brought Svoljsak out of his reverie like a hypnotist’s finger snap. He dropped the cigarette butt on the landing for his boot to snuff out and flicked the telltale ashes from the lapel of his uniform, or whoever’s uniform it used to be.

  He opened the door and stepped cautiously into the hall. He’d left the other security guard checking the ground level accesses but didn’t know the man’s routine, and preferred not to find out about it here.

  This floor, like the others at Simedyne Corporation, had been freshly painted in neutral tones and given new light-blue carpeting. Framed watercolours basked in a diffused light and a false ceiling of white fiberboard helped to mute the sounds of commerce down to an executive hush.

  The quiet emptiness amplified the clicks and pops of settling joints and cooling pipes. The aging edifice had undergone an extensive makeover but that didn’t change the fact she was an old broad that slept fitfully at night. The low rumble of her respiration came through sheet metal sinuses as mechanical lungs, floors below, pumped her breath into the corridors.

  There were only two offices to Svoljsak’s left. Role-playing he gave their doorknobs a perfunctory turn then continued on, testing all the others to the same result. He reached the far EXIT sign, checked out the stairwell, then strode directly back to the room labeled: DOCUMENTATION LIBRARY–RESEARCH AND DEVELOPMENT.

  He scrutinized both door and frame, and devoted several seconds to the push-button combination lock. He stood his large flashlight, lens down, on the floor and wriggled his fingers into a pair of latex gloves. From his wallet he plucked a white plastic card with a magnetic strip on one side. On the other side was the embossed name of its former owner: ROGER AIRD—RDL 01565.

  Svoljsak had been in the game long enough to know that every caper had a point of no return. To swipe this card through the reader of the lockbox would be akin to playing Russian roulette. The coded strip could either unlock the door or open a Pandora’s box of flashing lights and clanging bells.

  He looked at the rectangular pass again and tried to divine its effect. He knew the PIN code for the card and he knew there was a chance it was no longer valid. It didn’t help his confidence any that the plan had been drafted by someone he’d only recently met. In these situations sex, even great sex, didn’t count for much. A court conviction for industrial espionage meant serious time in a penitentiary, and he had been set-up before.

  He ran a dry tongue across parched lips and made a visual pace count to the stairs. As if expecting an explosion he took a half step toward the exit and pulled the card through the groove.

  The silence deafened.

  He punched in the numbers. It was still quiet. He discounted the possibility of silent alarms. Those were generally backed up with cameras of which there were none inside the building. That’s what the guards were for.

  Putting the card in his pocket he opened the door to a dimly lit room that was about four metres square with a high ceiling. Illumination from the outside stadium lights and a twin set of computer monitors running screensavers of swimming fish provided adequate visibility to spot the target.

  On the left wall, large and looming, was a fireproof safe that likely housed all of the sensitive material. Next to it, to hold less crucial data, was a pair of four-drawer filing cabinets. The sturdy American Vault Corporation strongbox would be a formidable challenge to any safecracker—certainly beyond Svoljsak’s skills. Fortunately, his objective was stored in one of the two filing cabinets, and a quick appraisal told him it didn’t really matter which one. They were both locked but with a little effort he wrestled one away from the wall, tipped it back, and released the mechanism from beneath.

  So far, so good.

  Now, Roger, he thought, did you leave something worthwhile in here or is this just a big waste of time?

  The top drawer revealed two rows of compact-disc cases. Some were singles while others held two or more of the discs. The ability to accommodate vast amounts of information made CD’s the current archive choice for many Hi-tech companies.

  The labels had small print and were difficult to read. Svoljsak probed his breast pocket for a penlight and realized he’d left his large flashlight standing, sentry-like, outside the door. He assessed the risk, decided to leave it there, and aimed the penlight’s tiny beam into the drawer. His fingers flipped through the plastic cases until he found one with a sticker marked RA—Archive, and backdated two years.

  The best place to hide a tree is in a forest, he thought, as he pulled the case from its mates.

  There was a UPC barcode affixed to the back that matched the tag on the disc inside. There was no way of removing the sticker without damaging the disc; and the disc couldn’t pass through the detector downstairs without being officially ‘checked out’. It was a problem Svoljsak had prepared for but he needed to tidy up the room before taking the next step.

  He toyed with the notion of grabbing a few more of the discs but didn’t really know what to look for. The prime stuff was probably locked in the safe, anyway. He shut the drawer and was about to push the cabinet back to the wall when a sustained rattle at the door froze him in place.

  Not daring even to breath, his mind raced for an alibi but the scene would speak for itself. He would have to make a break for it, perhaps even fight his way out. Guards in this building were not issued firearms but the other guy had seemed pretty fit and Svoljsak cursed himself for leaving his flashlight at the door.

  The door that wasn’t opening.

  The vent above it rattled again as more turbulence moved through the ducts. Svoljsak lowered his head, exhaled slowly, then straightened up and willed himself to finish the job.

  Original to the building, the large wood-framed windows had three sections of which the tops and bottoms cranked open. On the outer side, bars and mesh had been added at some point in time to keep out undesirables which, at this height, consisted mostly of pigeons.

  From his breast pocket he extracted a small square of cardboard around which was spooled a long length of nylon fishing line. Attached to it, by a paper clip, was a six-inch piece of electrical tape on wax paper.

  The bars placed some restriction on how far Svoljsak could open the lower window, but he managed to hook his fingers through the mesh and pull it a couple of inches up from the sill. In preparation the monofilament had been wound from its middle around the cardboard so that, now, he had the two ends available together. Passing one end around a window bar he then fixed them both securely with the electrical tape to the plastic case. This he slid under the mesh and lowered over the edge of the sill. He controlled its descent by unraveling line from the spool until it hung at length from the bar.

  It was useless to try and look down the wall so Svoljsak just hoped he’d calculated the length correctly. He straightened the pigeon mesh as best he could and closed the window.

  3:42 a.m. Better get moving. He’d scheduled a page call for 3:50 that would get him out of the building before the end of the shift. It would allow him to retrieve his take without being seen. More or less. The monitor for the exterior cameras was located at the reception area where
the other guard spent most of his time.

  He patted dust off his uniform and tucked his shirt in where it had pulled out during his tango with the storage cabinet. Like the jacket, the pants had been a little snug so he’d left the button on the waistband undone and used his own belt.

  A final scan of the room confirmed that personal items were pocketed, the filing units were back in place, and the make-believe fish were still in their virtual tank. It was time to go.

  == == ==

  The rain that had been forecast ticked cold against Svoljsak’s face as he stepped from the portico into the parking lot and walked in the general direction of his car. He’d changed into his civvies; dark slacks, sweatshirt, and gabardine. The uniform was in the bag that he hung casually over his shoulder.

  He scoped the area for signs of life but nothing moved. The security cameras were now hidden in the glare of the stadium lights but Svoljsak knew they were on and wondered how long his piece of folded cardboard, jammed into the door rubber of the building’s elevator, would keep the other guard occupied on the top floor.

  He veered toward the shrubbery that sat beneath the first floor windows. The small bushes dripped raindrops and, animated by the breeze, appeared to shiver. Behind a particularly damp evergreen hung the plastic box. He stepped toward it and a wet branch stroked his inner thigh. It darkened the pant leg like a streak of cold urine. Svoljsak swore and reached for his prize.

  He pulled one end of the monofilament free of the tape then spooled it around the plastic case as it slipped from the window bar four floors up. With a small twig he raked his boot print from the flowerless bed then retreated to his car. He sat for a moment, and gazed upon the red brick expanse of the Georgian institution. After a moment he started to laugh.

  “You are mine,” he said pointing at the front entrance. “I own you!”

  In his younger days, he and the rest of his posse would have released their exuberance with war whoops and the odd rock tossed through an abandoned shop window. These days the older Svoljsak was content to celebrate his victories with a fine cigar. Cuban. Always Cuban.

  CHAPTER 13

  Svoljsak twisted the screwdriver sticking out of the ignition cylinder and the little four-banger came to life. Compared to the powerful V-8 in his Buick, this engine sounded more like an egg-beater. He lit the cigar and glanced once more at the entrance to Simedyne. There was no sign of a guard running out and yelling ‘Stop thief!’ so he put the car into gear and drove sedately through the parking lot to the exit.

  A couple of vehicles were parked down the block but the wet street was devoid of traffic. He flicked on the wipers and turned right keeping the car in Second rather than Drive. The greater engine speed of the higher gear gave the illusion of traveling faster, which made it easier to stay within the speed limit. Still, the nervous energy he’d kept reined in now began to manifest itself and, between checking his mirror every few seconds and adjusting his seat, he stabbed at the radio buttons trying to find something to match his mood.

  Commercials. Stab. Country. Stab. Rap crap. Stab. Praise the Lord. Stab.

  Opting for the hiss of wet tires and the metronome beat of the wipers he settled into ejecting cigar ash, a millimeter at a time, through the small gap in the window. A single set of headlights, sedan wide, appeared about a half a block back. No telltale reflections off roof bars or any other feature suggested it was a cop following him; nonetheless, Svoljsak’s rules for self-preservation prescribed a random turn at the next intersection.

  The little import had been left for him at a shopping mall with the ignition already rigged and the security guard uniform on the front seat. He’d almost given up the job right there; not because getaway cars are invariably stolen, that was standard practice, but because size invariably matters. Decent wheels have big doors, a wide stance for strength and stability, and most importantly pack some muscle under the hood. Dark blue, black, or green is a good colour choice. White, even dirty white with rust stains on the hatch, is not.

  He’d briefly contemplated boosting something more substantial but the mall lot was busy and time was short. A quick test drive assured him that the aged gerbils under the flimsy hood would still hop on their treadmill when asked, and that a sprint or two remained in their tiny legs.

  Getting into Simedyne had been a cinch, the resident guard had scarcely reacted to the new face. Stan had only been the second replacement he’d worked with that month.

  He drove on. The car behind was still there, had even closed up a little since his random turn. At the intersection ahead a flashing ‘Do Not Walk’ sign indicated an imminent light change. He adjusted speed to catch the light as it turned from amber to red, and then accelerated. The headlights in the mirror tilted briefly upwards, a sure sign that the other driver had also hit the gas.

  Svoljsak turned left, cutting the corner. He signaled only to cover his ass in case his pursuer was indeed a cop in an unmarked car, then put more pressure on the accelerator. The headlights behind came around the corner with speed and continued to close the gap.

  He reached over and turned the latch on the glove box. The lid dropped and a bubblepack envelope slid onto it. Empty and with a blank label, it was to be his back-up courier should there be complications. Steering with his knees he took the CD case from the bag on the passenger seat. He put it in the envelope and then put the package in the glove box and snapped it shut.

  Industrial secrets are worth a good price, he thought, and more if there’s danger involved. He had always intended to up the ante. The only question was by how much?

  He sat back just as the silvery-blue glare of the sedan’s lights slid from the rear-view mirror to his side-view mirror. The sedan roared forward to sit even with him in the next lane. Svoljsak held his speed and looked over at the vehicle on his wing. The passenger window was down. Light glinted off a metal tube and he could see into the small circular opening on the end of it. Not good.

  He punched the gas, then with both feet hammered on the brakes. The move could well have been his last but the guy riding shotgun was thrown off his aim when the sedan also lurched ahead then braked. The sawn-off weapon belched fire and sent a sparking hail of shrapnel across the hood of Svoljsak’s car.

  Both vehicles screeched to a halt askew in their lanes, Svoljsak’s a full length behind the other car and beside the crosswalk of a side street. The gun withdrew and the shooter’s boot shoved open the sedan’s passenger door. Svoljsak watched the heel hit the ground then cranked his steering wheel hard to the right and stomped on the accelerator.

  Burning as much oil as rubber the little Korean compact scrabbled for traction on the asphalt. The shooter’s leg retracted and the sedan’s tires, spinning in reverse, turned the rain on the pavement to steam. Hunched low over the wheel Svoljsak kept his foot to the mat and willed the gerbils to greater efforts. Knowing the more powerful car would catch up in a matter of seconds he looked desperately for a way to escape.

  The buildings on either side appeared endless and the lights of the next intersection seemed as far away as distant suns. The sedan had pulled within fifty metres when, like the dark gap of a missing tooth, an alleyway appeared in the solid brickwork.

  Svoljsak waited until the last possible second then wrenched the steering wheel hard once more and jumped on the brakes. With too much momentum and not enough traction from the worn tires the car kept sliding forward. He was going to overshoot. As a last resort he came off the binders and the front wheels, now released, turned the hood toward the narrow entrance.

  Svoljsak yanked up the handbrake. The rear wheels locked and the back end skidded and hopped in a semi-circle. Both left-side wheels slammed into the curb together nearly tipping the car over. It rocked back onto its shocks just as the sedan slid past with smoking tires. The import’s dash lights dimmed. The sudden stop and shock of the impact had stalled its engine. Svoljsak cursed and reached for the screwdriver. It was no longer in the ignition.

  “Shit!�
��

  The sedan had come to a stop a few car lengths away. He felt around the floor mat and his hand found the screwdriver. He jammed it back into the cylinder and the motor cranked reluctantly.

  “Come on, damn you. Start!”

  Holding his breath, as if straining lungs could help the engine turn over, he looked toward the inviting hole in the wall and then at the sedan’s flaring back-up lights as it reversed toward him. He could just about read the sedan’s trunk emblem when the gerbils came back to life.

  The sedan showed a clear intent to ram. Svoljsak slammed the stick into first gear and his car jumped forward. He aimed for the gap in the wall and got an unexpected boost when the sedan clipped his bumper. He corrected the steering and shot into the alley as a sparking flash of chrome and glass swept past his mirror.

  Fear seemed to warp time. A terrifying montage of streaking bolts of light and booming thunderclaps chased him down the narrow corridor. Picking up speed, Svoljsak cut the lights and willed the darkness to draw in behind him. More flashes of deadly steel ricocheted off a fire escape to his right, then another batch chipped graffiti off the bricks to his left.

  With the side mirrors of the compact car nearly scraping the walls he hurtled along the unknown path until the sheltering darkness of the brick gully mercifully cloaked him from sight.

  CHAPTER 14

  The chirping cell phone was all the more irritating for being over on the vanity and not by the bed. Even the alarm clock had the grace not to ring at this hour. Reis squinted at the soft red time display. Beyond the heavy draperies, drawn tight against unwanted light, rain tip-tapped against the window. Grumbling, she pushed the comforter off and lurched toward the insistent sound.