The Kill Clause

by Gregg Hurwitz

  “Fine. Then I drive off right now and you can explain my absence to Dumone and Rayner and carry out the mission by yourself.”

  Robert leaned back and tapped ash out the window with a flick of his thumb, a sharp, efficient gesture. His movements were uniformly tense, anger simmering, violence barely contained. Tim didn’t know or trust his steadiness or that of the other operators—no small part of why—on a high-risk mission that carried the potential for collateral damage and civilian injury; he preferred to keep them focused on specific, isolated tasks.

  Finally Robert said, “Maybe you should show a little respect. I got the shit you asked for. And then some.”

  “So give it to me.”

  Robert shot a jet of smoke in Tim’s direction and began. “The skeleton is steel, walls are concrete with plaster overlay, the floors are twenty feet high and supported by metal ceiling joists and metal posts, twelve to a floor. Each floor is a rebar-reinforced poured-concrete slab base, nine inches thick, with a polished finish. The roof is plywood and tar, and it houses twenty-one air diffusers with fans and fifteen three-by-seven skylights with metal bars securing entry. Gas-fed AC and heat-pump units with shutoff valves located in the ground-floor maintenance area. Electrical power enters the building from the southwest corner, heads into an electrical closet through a main disconnect, and gets routed from there. The closet wiring’s a mess—more fucked up than a nigger’s checkbook.”

  “Lovely,” Tim said, but Robert had already moved on.

  “Each floor has roughly five electrical-distribution panels around the interior perimeters, rated from two-to three-hundred-amp service. Emergency power is provided by battery, but there are two high-capacity backup generators. Fire enunciator is located at the northeast point on each floor—zoned single-partition system, monitored locally via phone line, FireKing–manufactured panel. Extensive smoke-and flame-detection devices, fire extinguishers, fire hoses in the stairwell. The elevator does go down to the underground garage—my guess is they bring Lane in there in an armored car. The building core is very well protected—no outside windows into the inner rooms, so we have dick on a sniper angle if that’s what you’re thinking…?” Cocked eyebrow, pause. “Windows don’t open. Garbage chutes located to the right of the service elevator on each floor. The doors on the way to the stairwells are metal, push-handle, and they all have mag strikes. Flip-style light switches are to the left of each door, interior side. Stairwell’s vacuum-sealed, no floor-to-floor access—you get locked out there, you’re going all the way down to the first floor. The stairwell door locks are single-cylinder handle-turns that autolock, and they open into a rear kitchen on odd floors, a conference room on evens. Interview recording usually takes place on the third floor, but—clever fuckers—they’re building a replica of Yueh’s set on the eleventh floor. The switched locale is a secret security precaution—I spotted construction workers with bulges at their hips moving set backdrops across the floor.”

  Tim made a mental note to confirm that.

  “They’ve started installing metal detectors on several floors today, I assume to have them good to go by the time Lane arrives. Access-control-card checkpoints on every floor to breach the inner rooms, guard booths to boot before the editing and interview suites. And there’s a brunette on the seventh floor with an ass like Jennifer Lopez who almost made me plummet to my death when she dropped her keys.”

  “All right,” Tim said. “Good job.”

  “I don’t need you to tell me that.” Robert hopped out and slammed the door behind him.

  •Mitchell was just leaving Rayner’s house when Tim drove through the gates in the rental van and parked beside his own car. Mitchell ignored him, climbing into his truck. He was backing up fast when Tim knocked the side panel with a fist. Mitchell hit the brakes.

  “What?”

  Tim pulled a pencil from behind his ear and pointed at the eraser. “Can you make me a contained explosive charge this size?”

  “What for?”

  “I need something I can hide inside a small item.”

  “Like in a watch?”

  “Right, like in a watch.”

  Mitchell’s mouth shifted and clamped. “It’ll be tricky. I’d have to build a minuscule, custom-made detonator.”

  “What’ll you use? C4?”

  “C4? And why don’t we throw around a few sticks of dynamite or fire off an ACME cannon while we’re at it?” He shook his head. “Leave the pyrotechnics to me. We’ll need a sensitive primary explosive, like mercury fulminate or DDNT.”

  “And you’re thinking an electronically initiated receiver?”

  “Yeah, but that’ll be the problem. There’s not much space—especially if you’re wiring this shit into the existing circuitry of a watch— so I doubt I can fit anything that’ll pick up a specialized electrical transmission from any sort of distance. Maybe I can get you a couple hundred yards’ range on a remote-control device.”

  “A couple hundred yards would be fine. And the charge can’t send out shrapnel. We can’t hurt any bystanders with the explosion.”

  Mitchell ground his teeth. “Ya think?” He started the truck rolling again, and Tim had to step back so the tire wouldn’t run over his foot.

  •Tim drove to the Moorpark firing range to break in the .357, practicing his draw, getting a sense of the new metal. It felt like home.

  When he left, he inadvertently drove several blocks toward his and Dray’s house before realizing his mistake and turning around. Passing a park where he used to take Ginny, he broke out in a clammy sweat. He detoured, heading past the long drive leading to Kindell’s garage. The .357 fit snugly in his old hip holster. He removed it and pressed it to his thigh, felt its heat even through his jeans. The fact that he had again moved from grief to anger was not lost on him.

  Anger was easier.

  After driving downtown, showering, and cleaning his gun, he stretched out on his bed and finally checked the Nokia’s messages. Two, both from Dray, over the past couple hours.

  She sounded discouraged on the first. “I’ve been hitting walls in every direction on the accomplice angle. I finally caved and called the LAPD detectives who worked Kindell’s priors—they were actually really kind, had heard about Ginny….” She cleared her throat, hard. “They still wouldn’t give me specifics, but they took a turn through their case logs and assured me there weren’t any trails or red flags. Almost all of what they had, they said, would be in the court transcripts, which I already have. I played the guilt card with Gutierez and Harrison, pressed them pretty hard, and they rousted Kindell for us one last time. Said he’s not talking—his lawyer made real clear that keeping his mouth shut is what’s gonna keep him out of jail. He’s a regular constitutional expert now, even ordered them off his property unless they were gonna press charges. We’re not gonna get anything from him. Ever.” A deep sigh. “I hope things are panning out better on your end.”

  The sadness expressed in her voice on the first message gave way to irritation on the second, since Tim hadn’t gotten back to her. He tried her first at the office, then at home, finally leaving a vague message saying he had nothing to report on his end and explaining he’d wanted to wait until he was alone to talk to her. Hearing her voice, even on a recording, set the hook of his grief more firmly.

  He took a moment to consider how lucky he was to have so much to do.

  He relieved Robert at four o’clock. Robert slid out of the coffee-shop booth, leaving a clipboard full of notes and charts on the table, hidden in the Newsweek. Tim sat and glanced through his jottings. Calendar of movements, times the trash went out, security positions. It was impossible to deny Robert’s proficiency.

  Tim sipped coffee and watched who came out of which exits and when. Just before five he crossed the street, passing the immense window full of suspended TVs, and entered the lobby—a large marble cavern with a grotesquely baroque chandelier, oddly dated given the building’s exterior. Just inside, a newly positioned gu
ard directed a perfunctory glance at Tim’s license—thank you, Tom Altman, RIP—before letting him pass. A huge screen, composed of sixteen close-set TVs, formed the west wall. No side doors, no open stairs, no pillars behind which to hide. About twenty yards in from the revolving doors, a massive security console greeted visitors.

  Tim took note of the cameras at each corner of the ceiling before acknowledging the security guard with a nervous smile. “Yeah, hi, I, uh, I was wondering if I could fill out a job application form. For, you know, maintenance or whatever.”

  “Sorry, sir, there’s a hiring freeze right now. You might want to try ABC. I’ve heard they’re looking.”

  Tim leaned forward on the counter for a moment, taking in the bank of bluish-white screens the guard was monitoring. The angles were largely south-facing, capturing the faces of visitors as they entered. Tim searched them for blind spots. “Thanks anyways.”

  “No problem, sir.”

  Tim turned and headed out. The security lenses above the revolving doors represented the sole cameras devoted to recording people as they exited. Tim kept his head lowered when he pushed through onto the sidewalk.

  He took a new post in the window booth of a deli next door to Lipson’s Pharmacy and Medical Supplies. Munching on pastrami, he recorded the order of the office lights blinking out on the eleventh floor.

  17

  THE SURVEILLANCE WAS continuous over the next forty-eight hours, an endless cycle of coffee and leg cramps. Meanwhile, public outrage against Lane continued to grow, and death threats kept pouring in. KCOM had begun promoting the interview almost around the clock—ads graced buses and taxi tops, and commercials launched on KCOM’s affiliated radio station supplemented the aggressive TV campaign.

  The entire city seemed to be holding its breath, awaiting the event.

  Tim observed the intensifying circus atmosphere with equal parts awe and concern—the security machinations, gleaned through the Stork’s wiretapping and Rayner’s rooting, were ever shifting. Tim’s plan nearly had to be scrapped several times, the first when KCOM’s legal department started making noises about retracting the live aspect of the interview, wanting to prerecord Lane at an unspecified time as a security precaution. Next Lane wanted to shift the meeting to a secret location, for his own safety and cachet, but Yueh was understandably uncomfortable with this, given Lane’s history and notorious hatred of the media. With the support of the brass, KCOM security finally threw down a veto, preferring to deal with variables contained in-plant rather than opening up a new locale. For this concession Lane extracted the promise that the interview would remain live, so his gospel couldn’t get misrepresented or chopped up in edit. KCOM marketing and Yueh herself were more than happy to comply—putting a live spin on Event TV had already served to up the PR ante. To exploit the hype further, an added fifteen-minute viewer-call-in segment at the end ensured that Lane could respond to the Angry Public.

  The next dogfight predictably involved jurisdiction—LAPD, KCOM security, and Lane’s crackpot bodyguard team were locked in a protracted and bellicose set of negotiations over everything from employee-and public-safety concerns to personnel screening. LAPD predictably forbade nearly half of Lane’s crew from entering the building; the hired replacements, once selected by Lane, would be vetted extensively.

  Tuesday night found Tim in the Chevy van’s passenger seat, parked on the narrow street on the north side of the KCOM building, staring at the still-lit window that would have provided a view of the service elevator and the numeric keypad had the run-down truck not remained, infuriatingly unbudged, blocking any useful vantage. The last courier usually arrived between 7:57 and 8:01 P.M.; Tim’s watch showed 6:45.

  In his lap he held a stack of photographs, each containing a shot of a KCOM employee, identified by name on the back. Black-op flash cards.

  Humming the theme to The Roy Rogers Show, the Stork continued to fuss over what appeared to be a parabolic microphone attached to a small calculator. He fiddled with some wiring, set it down, and pulled a can of red spray paint from the center console.

  “What are you doing?” Tim asked for perhaps the fifth time.

  The Stork slid out from the driver’s seat. He darted across the street in an approximation of a crouch that he probably thought inconspicuous, but that in reality made him look like a constipated hunchback. He disappeared behind the dilapidated truck and moments later emerged on the far side, bent down, spraying the curb fire-engine red.

  He dashed back to the van, leapt in, and sat, recovering his breath. He removed a cell phone from his pocket—yesterday Dumone had brought them all matching Nextels so they’d be operating on the same network—and flipped it open. He dialed 411 and at the prompt asked for Fredo’s Towing.

  He spoke in a deepened voice. “Yes, hello. This is KCOM security, over at Wilshire and Roxbury. I have a truck parked here in a red zone we need moved ASAP. Yeah, okay. Thanks.”

  He closed the phone and leaned back in his seat, pleased with himself.

  “Smart idea, but even if the truck’s moved, we’re not gonna be able to see through the courier’s back to read the code he’s punching in.”

  The Stork raised the cone-shaped piece of equipment he’d been tinkering with earlier. “That’s why I brought Betty.”

  “Betty?”

  “Betty trains a laser on the windowpane. She can pick up every vibration in the glass.”

  Tim shook his head, still not understanding.

  “Every number on a keypad emits a slightly different frequency. These frequencies will cause a windowpane to vibrate almost undetectably. Betty reads these vibrations and translates them back to numbers for me.”

  “How about other, stronger vibrations? Won’t they interfere?”

  “It’s pretty quiet now,” the Stork said. “That’s why we’re doing this at eight o’clock. No gates rolling up, no loading going on at the dock.”

  Tim gestured at the piece of equipment. “And you…you designed it?”

  “Her. And I wrote the computer program she utilizes.” The Stork sniffed, and his glasses slid a notch down his nose. “Let’s just say they didn’t let me in the FBI for my bench press.”

  The tow truck arrived twenty minutes later and hauled off the truck, leaving the Stork a clear angle to the window. The courier arrived earlier than expected—7:53—but the Stork had Betty propped against his door and locked on the glass before the courier entered the code on the keypad. By the time the service-elevator doors slammed shut behind the courier, Betty’s small screen had rendered the code: 78564.

  The Stork stroked the top of the parabola and whispered something to it.

  “I have to say, Stork, pretty impressive.”

  The Stork put the van back in drive and eased out from the curb. “If my aim was to impress you, Mr. Rackley, I would have brought Donna.”

  •Rayner pulled Tim inside as soon as he opened the front door. “Good, good. You’re back. Come—we got the tapes you asked for.”

  When Tim entered the conference room, Mitchell’s head snapped up from his work. His hair looked slightly frayed; he needed a haircut. Hunched over a phone book, he was tinkering with the explosive device. It lay dissected on the yellow cover, its tiny components spread beside it like electronic innards. Breaching reports were scattered across the table, the pages sporting Mitchell’s chicken-scratch calculations for determining overpressure. Mumbling to himself, Mitchell pried open a coil with the tip of a screwdriver.

  Robert and the Stork were still out on surveillance, but the others were present.

  Ananberg, cat-languid and smug, arched an eyebrow at Tim by way of greeting. She pointed to a stack of tapes with her pencil. “There’s the rest. View ’em at your leisure.”

  “Thank you.”

  Dumone tossed Tim the remote. Tim aimed it at the TV, and the video unfroze—a Melissa Yueh interview with Arnold Schwarzenegger from last April, about the prospects of his running for mayor.

  One of Tim
’s cell phones vibrated—the Nokia, left pocket, not the Nextel supplied by Dumone. He checked Caller ID and turned it off—for Dray’s protection he didn’t want anyone to hear him talking to her.

  But Ananberg took note of his expression, pressing a pencil against her lips. “Trouble on the home front?”

  Tim ignored her, shifting the tape into slo-mo with another click of the remote. Arnie’s laugh, viewed at eight frames per second, made him look like a man seeking to devour something. He slapped his knee, turned his head, revealing a shaving nick and the tan plug of the earpiece. The lighting made his skin look glossy.

  Mitchell watched the screen, trying to figure out what Tim was looking for, tapping his tweezers against the phone book.

  Rayner smoothed his mustache with his thumb and forefinger. “Now that we’ve done all the legwork, why don’t you let us in on your plan? We don’t know anything at this point. How are we even supposed to know when it happens?”

  “Oh, believe me,” Tim said, eyes still on the screen, “you’ll know when it happens.”

  •Parked in the driveway, Tim stared at the house numbers nailed just beneath the porch light, beside the front door: 96775. Years ago he’d pencil-sketched their placement before nailing them to the wall, using a framing square turned at an angle to calculate the slant. The 9 had lost its bottom nail and had swung upside down; it was now a misaligned 6.

  He replayed Dray’s last message on his cell phone.

  “Well, since you’re too hard to get right now, I’m leaving this on your voice mail. Don’t think you can disappear and work things out at the same time. Since I don’t know where you live, I can’t stop by and try to talk some sense into you, but I’m only gonna wait so long. Come over and let’s talk. I’m working a full schedule again, so call first to make sure I’m around.”

  Her voice, hurt veiled thinly with anger, matched his mood. One part of her message in particular stuck in his head: I’m only gonna wait so long. Before she moved on? Before she came looking for him? Because of the demands of the operation, he’d put himself out of touch with her at the worst time. He could hardly be surprised that his remoteness had raised resentment in her.