Or you can leave it too late.
Throughout my time in the navy I’ve observed a kind of law that governs the process of looking for things. It states that whatever you need to find, you never come across it in the first place you try. It seems like there’s a kind of invisible force at work, making sure you put in an arbitrarily determined amount of effort before being allowed to walk away with your prize. And though it might sound crazy, this principle certainly held true when I was sneaking around in the Sears Tower, searching for the Spektra gas.
In the absence of any rational way to choose between the most likely locations, I flipped a mental coin and decided to start at the bottom of the building and work my way up. And even though the lower basement was the closest of the three destinations to the entrance I’d used, it still took a good ten minutes to reach it. The floor plan helped me avoid any wrong turns—as well as the security stations—but it didn’t do justice to the size and scale of the corridors and stairwells. Close your eyes and you could easily believe you were on a treadmill, it took so long to get from one end of the building to the other.
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.”