“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.”
TWENTY-ONE
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.”
“I see. So, if you don’t mind me asking, why are a bunch—does three count as a bunch? Anyway, why are South Africans in Chicago trying to poison people?”
“ ’Cause we work for whoever pays us the most. A bit like you.”