Elevator Pitch

by Linwood Barclay

  “Yes, I know. I heard from the ambassador a short while ago.”

  “I don’t like it when we’ve got any of those in the building. They’re all spies, you know. Rockefeller’s full of them.”

  Headley smiled. “Always good to be on your guard.”

  She smiled. “Will you be at the party Thursday?”

  Headley had to think a moment. “Top of the Park?” he said.

  Margaret nodded. “It’s going to be the event of the year. A party in the sky.”

  “I’ll be there. Wouldn’t miss it. Are you on the list?”

  Margaret looked incensed at the suggestion she might not have been invited. “Please,” she said. “It’s Rodney Coughlin’s project. He and I go way back.” She winked.

  Headley grinned. “He’s been a close friend to me for a long time, as well. Perhaps not as close.”

  Margaret sniffed. “He only gave you a bigger party to show me up, you know.”

  Headley gave her bony arm a friendly squeeze. “You could always throw another one.”

  She laughed.

  “Mr. Mayor?”

  Headley turned. Annette Washington, the city’s chief of police, the first black woman to ever hold the position, wanted his attention. “Chief,” he said.

  “Sorry to interrupt.” She tipped her head to draw him away.

  “See you Thursday, Margaret,” Headley said. “Bring your dancing shoes.”

  He pulled himself away and followed Washington into the building’s management office off the lobby. Already there were the fire chief and a small, balding man in his forties, and a formidable-looking man in a dark suit. Early sixties, just over six feet, strong jaw. The kind of guy who, if he wasn’t already in charge, looked like he was about to assume that role.

  Headley looked at him and thought: Federal.

  The man extended a hand. “Mr. Mayor. Brian Cartland, Homeland Security.”

  Yup, Headley thought.

  What was a guy from Homeland doing at an accident like this? It didn’t make any sense to Headley, unless it had something to do with the fact that the person killed in this accident was some noted Russian scientist who was an expert in who the fuck knew what? What a crazy world, where a malfunctioning elevator could lead to a diplomatic incident. Headley was betting the ambassador had been on the line to the White House before he’d called him at City Hall. That would explain Homeland’s attendance.

  “Good to meet you,” Headley said warily. “What’s going on?” He looked at the fire and police chiefs and then turned his attention to the small, balding man.

  He said, “Mayor Headley, Martin Fleck. I work for you.” He flashed a smile. “Department of Buildings, elevator inspection division.”

  “So again I ask, what’s going on?” Headley asked.

  “That’s very much what we want to determine,” Cartland said. “Elevator accidents don’t happen every day. You’ve had two this week, and it’s only Tuesday. As a matter of routine, after yesterday’s incident, we got in touch with Mr. Fleck here. As it turns out, Homeland has a suboffice in that building, so our interest was piqued. Needless to say, how an elevator goes up and down is not Homeland’s area of expertise, so Mr. Fleck was able to enlighten me.”

  “It’s true,” Fleck said. “Elevator accidents don’t happen every day. Although about thirty people, on average, are killed in elevator mishaps every year, and some seventeen thousand Americans are injured on an annual basis, although those numbers also include escalators.”

  “Okay,” said Headley slowly.

  “And of those thirty who are killed, probably about half of them are going to be folks who work on them. An elevator technician slips and falls down the shaft, or he’s at the base of the shaft and an elevator comes down and crushes him, or he gets caught between the moving parts. All totally avoidable, but someone gets careless. Horrible when it happens, but not totally shocking, given the dangerous conditions in which an elevator technician works.”

  Headley was getting impatient, but decided to let Fleck continue with Elevator 101.

  “Stats show that one in every twelve million elevator trips results in a mishap, and often that may be as simple as a door failing to close or open properly,” Fleck continued. “When passengers in an elevator are injured, it’s not usually a fault of the elevator itself. For example, a woman goes into an elevator with some big flowing scarf and it gets caught in the doors, and the elevator stars to rise and that scarf is stuck at the floor below and the other end is still wrapped tightly around the woman’s neck and—”

  “I get the picture,” the mayor said.

  “Sometimes you get an idiot who wants to elevator-surf and—”

  “I’m sorry, what?” asked Headley.

  “Elevator-surf. Gaining access to the shaft and riding on top of the car for the thrill of it. Kids do it. The problem is, there are cables galore and parts that stick out, and the cables are greasy, and you’re either going to fall and get caught between the car and the shaft, or—”

  “Just tell me what happened here,” the mayor said.

  “Well,” Fleck said, “Petrov, this Russian science lady, she’s partly to blame.”

  Headley gave the Homeland agent a weary glance. “If it was her fault, why are we all standing here?”

  “It wasn’t her fault that the elevator stopped,” Fleck said. “It was her mistake to climb out. Actually, if she’d stopped there, she’d have been okay, but according to the boy, she reached back into the opening for her purse and that was when the elevator suddenly continued its descent, and she got caught and, well, lost her head. But the fact that the elevator stopped in the first place is the thing we’re looking at.”

  “We think it may have been sabotaged,” Cartland said.

  “Sabotaged how?”

  “We’re not sure,” the Homeland Security agent said.

  “Not sure?”

  “It might have been hacked.”

  The mayor’s eyes widened. “Hacked? Is that possible?”

  “Yes,” Cartland said. “It’s not an easy thing to do, but it can be done. The elevator system here was recently upgraded. Loads of high-tech stuff. The more high-tech things get, the greater chance there is of messing about with them. Those old-fashioned ones, with the big metal gates you had to close, that needed a guy to run them, those didn’t get hacked.”

  “But you don’t have any actual proof that that’s what happened,” the mayor said.

  “No,” said Cartland.

  This time, Fleck weighed in. “In yesterday’s incident, as far as we can tell, given that there are no survivors, the car started acting like it had a mind of its own. Passing floors riders had pressed buttons for. That part sounds a bit like a hack, like someone was messing with the system. They’ve got an upgraded system over there, too. So up and down they went, and then, when they were around the twentieth floor, the car plummeted. That suggests a total override of the system.”

  “How could that happen?”

  “If someone had control of it. Someone outside the elevator itself.”

  Headley looked at Cartland. “What the fuck are we looking at here?”

  The Homeland Security agent looked grim. “We’re still assessing. But we have to consider the possibility that one or both of these elevator accidents were not accidents at all.”

  Headley studied the man. “So if they weren’t accidents, who’s doing it? If you’re here, does that mean terrorism? Does ISIS know how to hack elevators? They’ve decided to stop running cars and trucks into crowds? Do you know how ridiculous that sounds? I mean, as far as terrorism is concerned, it’s about the most inefficient method I can imagine. And not only that, the level of expertise required would be off the scale. You want to kill a bunch of people, there are lots of easier ways to go about it.”

  “I don’t disagree,” Cartland said. “But it doesn’t change the facts that have been presented to us.”

  “Let me see if I get what you’re saying. Som
eone might have tampered with one or two elevators. Someone might have hacked in, or sabotaged the mechanism, but you really don’t know yet. Has anyone claimed responsibility?”

  Cartland shook his head. “Not for this, specifically.”

  “Is there anyone you think might claim responsibility?”

  “We have been dealing, lately, with an uptick in domestic terrorist acts. In Seattle, in Portland. Just yesterday in Boston. The group responsible for those incidents might be looking for a higher profile. They’re very much on our watch list. But there’s no shortage, in this country, of crazy individuals with an ax to grind.”

  “But so far, no one’s taking credit.”

  Cartland shook his head again.

  “Could it be you guys are blowing something out of proportion, looking for something that’s not there, to justify your existence?”

  Cartland clearly did not think that deserved a response, and said nothing.

  “What would you have me do?” Headley asked. “Tell New Yorkers to stop using the elevators until further notice? You have any idea what kind of chaos that would create in a vertical city like this? The entire fucking town would come to a halt.”

  “We should show him,” Fleck said to Cartland.

  “Show me what?” the mayor said.

  Cartland said, “Let’s take a walk upstairs. There’s something you need to see.”

  Twenty-Two

  Welcome back to New York Day,” said the woman, looking into the camera. “I’m Anjelica Briscoe.”

  Briscoe adopted a stern expression. “A bombing in a Seattle coffee shop. More bombings in Portland and Boston. People dead, and wounded. Disgusting, cowardly acts. What do they have in common, and what do these cities have in common? Many things, of course, but one is that they’re coastal cities, and that makes them, symbolically, targets for those who identify themselves as members of the Flyovers, a domestic extremist group whose somewhat self-deprecating name is actually a shot at the so-called coastal elites, the people who fly from New York or Boston to Los Angeles and San Francisco and back again. They feel these elites literally look down on the rest of the country and hold the people who live there in contempt. Our guest here today is the head of the Flyovers, Eugene Clement. Mr. Clement, thank you for coming in to speak with us here today.”

  The camera panned to the other end of the desk, where Clement sat, grim-faced.

  “I think your characterization of what the Flyovers stand for is grossly unfair and inaccurate,” Clement said.

  Briscoe looked him straight in the eye and said, “The Flyovers has been branded by some as a terrorist group. Is it?”

  “Absolutely not. That’s a reckless assertion,” he said. “The Flyovers is made up of good, decent American citizens who want nothing more than to be recognized for their contributions to this great country.”

  “You heard what I said off the top. Law enforcement officials say these bombings in various coastal cities are very possibly the work of Flyovers adherents.”

  The blood vessel in Clement’s right temple could be seen pulsing as he leaned forward in his chair and said, “These bombings are despicable, horrible acts. To even suggest they have anything to do with us breaks my heart, outrages me.”

  “So the Flyovers eschew violence as a means to highlight their issues?”

  “Without question,” he said.

  “And yet, you were among the armed militants involved in the occupation of a national wildlife refuge in Colorado last year. Are you going to tell me that wasn’t a violent act?”

  Eugene Clement appeared slighty taken aback by the question. He took a moment to respond. “A couple of things, Anjelica. First, that was not an event connected in any way to the Flyovers. Second, no one was injured in that, well, what you call an occupation. I would call it a demonstration against abusive federal authority. Washington controls millions of acres of land in the state that it has no business being involved in. That was a protest aimed directly at the federal government. Which, thank God, did not come in with guns blazing and kill a peaceful protester, as they did at a similar demonstration a few years ago.”

  “But there’s a lot of crossover in beliefs between those groups and the Flyovers.”

  “Some, perhaps,” he acknowledged. “But that’s very true on the left, as well. We haven’t held all liberals to account for the actions of the Black Panthers or the Symbionese Liberation Army or, more recently, groups like Antifa.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “What the Flyovers is seeking to address is the current cultural divide, not government interference in our lives. Our goal is an attitude change. We want to … educate the Americans living along the coasts, the folks who seem to be unaware that there is another America. We’re more than a caricature, more than a bunch of NASCAR-loving, ribeating, beer-swilling rubes. Not that being a NASCAR-loving, ribeating beer drinker is anything to be ashamed of.” He managed a rueful smile. “That sounds like a great afternoon to me. Anyway, the coast is something of a metaphor. There are people throughout the country who hold the views we seek to challenge. You can find them right here in New York, I would imagine.”

  “But isn’t that exactly what you have reduced the so-called coasters to? A cliché? Sushi-eating, latte-drinking, gluten-avoiding, Prius-driving elites?”

  Clement shook his head. “Not at all. As I said, we’re just trying to educate.”

  “By blowing things up.”

  Clement’s cheeks flushed. “No. That Greatest Generation you’ve heard so much about? You’ll find it in the heart of the country. And you’ll find their sons and daughters and grandsons and granddaughters there, too. But some of this country’s most prominent politicians seem to have forgotten that. Only a couple of years ago, that woman who nearly became president, who even won the popular vote, said, and I quote, ‘I won the places that are optimistic, diverse, dynamic, moving forward.’” He sneered. “You know, coastal places. What an insult to the rest of the country.”

  “You have to admit that many of the people who swear allegiance to the Flyovers organization—”

  “That’s laying it on a bit heavy. We hardly have a pledge of allegiance.”

  “Many of your followers, your adherents, those that speak their mind on your comments page, have advocated the kinds of terrorist acts we’ve seen lately.”

  “You know, Anjelica, many urbanites believe the only amendment we care about is the second one. Well, nothing could be further from the truth. We believe, as all good Americans do, in the First Amendment. Freedom of speech. I may not like what some of these people have to say, but I would defend their right to say it. Just as I defend your right to speak to me in condescending and belittling terms.”

  The host was unfazed. “Some of the things your followers say constitute hate speech.”

  Clement frowned. “What is hate speech, exactly? It’s hate speech when you don’t like something I’ve said. But when you attack me for what I said, can’t your words also be defined as hateful?” He leaned in again. “What we need to do is find common ground. You speak your mind and I’ll speak mine, and that way we’ll find a way to meet in the middle. Think of all the things that we have in common. We want good jobs, we want the best for our families, we want a secure future.”

  “You make yourself sound like a peacemaker when the FBI and Homeland Security have suggested the exact opposite. Many of your members also belong to white supremacist, white nationalist organizations. Some are members of the KKK.”

  Clement shrugged. “And I can find you plenty of people of color who share their sentiments when it comes to coastal folks looking down their noses at us. That’s what I mean about meeting in the middle, which is an apt metaphor when you’re talking about the middle of the country. We’ve got people talking to each other who otherwise might never do so. We want to bring people together, to start a dialogue. We won’t get anywhere throwing insults at each other.”

  The interviewer grinned slyly. “If you
can take a mild criticism here, Mr. Clement, wouldn’t it be more accurate to call your group the Flown Overs, since that’s who you are. It’s the coastal folks who are flying over you.”

  Clement gave her a withering look. “And there you have it in a single question. The contempt. The ‘we’re so much smarter than you’ comeback.”

  Briscoe suddenly looked regretful, aware she had gone too far. She touched her ear, an indication she was getting a message from the control room. “Mr. Clement, we’ve run a bit over here, but I wanted to thank you for agreeing to come in and speak to us.”

  He said nothing.

  “I do have one last question.”

  “Of course.”

  “Given the way your organization feels about coastal cities and the people who live there, what are you doing in New York?”

  “My wife and I are celebrating our anniversary. Or we were, until you dragged me in here.” He offered up a self-deprecating laugh and a smile. “The fact is,” he said, “I love New York.”

  “How dare she say those things to you,” Estelle Clement said when her husband returned to the TV studio’s green room, where guests waited for their turn to go on air. There was a monitor in the room, and she had watched the segment. She lowered her voice and said, “What a bitch.”

  Clement scowled. “The way she talked to me,” he said, his voice trailing off as he grabbed her by the arm and steered her into the hallway.

  “You’re hurting me,” she said.

  He eased his grip but did not let go of her as they headed for the lobby.

  “You should sue,” Estelle said. “You could sue her for what she said.”

  The studio was on the fourth floor of a building on Columbus Circle. There were several people waiting at the bank of elevators by the reception desk. Clement said, “Let’s take the stairs.”

  “Do we have—”

  “I just want to get out of here as fast as I can,” he said, already leading her toward a door with an Exit sign over it. Estelle, sensing his anger, did not object.

  When they came out onto the street, Clement stopped for a moment to compose himself.