Die Twice (30 page)

The facilities in the lower basement were fantastically well organized. The plan referred to a plant room, but plant suite would have been a more accurate description. There was one room for the wet services, and another for the dry. Everything was clearly labeled. All the service and maintenance logs were present and complete. I checked everything thoroughly, and found no sign of anything untoward attached to the ventilation system. And no record of anyone having worked on it recently, either.

It was the same story in the second place I tried, on the thirty-fourth floor. The rooms were smaller and there was less documentation, but I saw nothing to make me suspicious. And while I’m no expert on heating or air-conditioning, I’ve seen plenty of sabotage
attempts over the years. Consulate staffers all around the world are well trained. They’re told to raise the alarm whenever they’re unsure about any part of their infrastructure, and then we’re called in to investigate. I’ve been sent to look into strange additions to water systems. Electric cabling. Data networks. E-mail servers. Even kitchen appliances, in one strange case. And because the overall attitude is better safe than sorry, a lot of the things I’ve seen are perfectly innocent. Which has helped me develop a pretty good sense of when things have been tampered with, and when they haven’t. And how people disguise the things they’d rather you didn’t see.

By the time I reached the sixty-eighth floor, I was getting a real feeling for life in the building. It reminded me of several of the organizations I’d been sent to infiltrate over the last decade. The offices looked perfectly ordinary, with all the trappings of people’s daily lives left strewn around for anyone to see. There were birthday cards on six different desks on four separate floors. Cardigans hanging on the back of chairs. Chipped mugs left to drain in sinks. Small soft toys displayed in cubicles like mascots. All kinds of little details that brought home the reality of the corporate routine. It was starting to feel so familiar that when I reached the service position, despite what that would mean in terms of searching the risers, I was actively hoping I wouldn’t find anything.

And once again, I was disappointed.

Space was tight in the utility area, but right away I could see that something was wrong over on the left-hand side. Someone had managed to divert one of the core ventilation pipes so that it ran in a D-shape just in front of the wall. A line of connecting valves had been added along the lower horizontal section. There were four. Two were empty. Two weren’t, and when I saw what had been attached, my stomach knotted and my hand reached immediately for my phone. It was a pair of matte green cylinders.
Spektra gas. There was no doubt. And on the floor, next to an old, scratched wrench, was another one waiting to be installed.

Fothergill had just correctly predicted the most audacious terrorist threat since 9/11. He’d convinced me to break into the Sears Tower to find proof of it. And I was happy to take my hat off to him. But when I called his number to tell him he was right, I got his voice mail. I hung up, and decided to give him another minute. If he still didn’t respond, I’d be left with no choice. This was too important to gamble with, or worry about saving face. We needed all hands to the pumps. So as much as he’d be upset, I’d have to call the police. And then London.

My next attempt at reaching Fothergill produced the same result, and I’d got as far as dialing the 9 of 911 when I heard movement. It was nearby. Someone was in the corridor. No. It sounded like two people. They were approaching fast. I dodged back against the wall to the side of the door and held my breath. The footsteps paused for a moment, right outside the little room. I heard voices. There were definitely two people. Both were men. They had heavy South African accents, and were discussing recent football matches in the Dutch league, of all things. One guy reached the punch line of his story, the other laughed, and the door swung open. Both guys came in, and when the door closed again they were less than four feet away from me. Close enough for me to smell their aftershave. I saw they were dressed identically. They had crisp blue coveralls, with
W
logos on their chests. Shiny black safety boots on their feet. And on chains strung around their necks, building security passes. Just like the one I was using.

Thoughts of calling anyone had to go on hold.

“Gentlemen,” I said, slipping the phone in my pocket and leveling my Beretta at the nearer guy’s chest. “I hope you have an eye for a bargain. Because you’re in luck. Today’s two-for-one day.”

Neither of the guys reacted.

“Let me be more specific,” I said. “You’re going to be disconnecting two gas canisters, instead of installing one.”

Neither guy moved.

“Or, we could try an alternative version,” I said. “Two of you get shot in the head by one of me. Two bullets each. Your choice.”

The guys glanced at each other, shrugged, and raised their hands to chest level. Then they looked at me straight in the face, calmly and sensibly, and evaluated the situation. I knew they were considering jumping me. They had the confident, controlled manner of people who were used to taking care of themselves. The confined conditions were in their favor, as well as their numerical advantage. And if they were professionals, they’d know the odds were that one of them would end up taking the gun.

But they’d also know the odds were that the other would end up taking a bullet.

Discretion won the day.

Until the third guy arrived. He was older. Most likely in his fifties. He was dressed in an expensive-looking black ribbed sweater and loose beige cord pants. And he had a gun. It was already in his hand when I saw him, standing in the doorway. But instead of pointing it at me, he aimed it at the loose cylinder on the ground.

“Hi,” I said. “I’m actually over here.”

The guy raised one eyebrow, but didn’t speak.

“I’m just telling you because if you want to shoot me, you’d be better off pointing your gun in my general direction,” I said.

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.”

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.”