Gibson flipped open the wallet. It contained Leh Zwald's ID and a bundle of notes. Gibson didn't count it, as at that moment Klein had come into the room with a generous measure of booze in a tumbler. Gibson took the glass gratefully and downed its contents in two swallows. When he spoke, the words came out as a hoarse gasp. "Damn but that's better."
He glanced at French. "What about my makeup?"
"The woman will be here momentarily."
The makeup woman was as good as French's word. In a matter of minutes, the door buzzer sounded and Klein let her in. She quickly rendered Gibson blue and left again. After she'd left, Gibson was thoughtful. "Aren't you running a risk using her? I mean, she could talk. She knows that I'm an albino."
French didn't look in the least perturbed. "She won't talk."
"She won't?"
"As we speak, she's being picked up by Raus's people on her way out of the building."
"What's going to happen to her?"
French was putting things in his own pockets. "That's none of your concern."
"Are you saying that she's going to be killed? Christ, she was an attractive young woman and has nothing to do with any of this."
"She was a drug addict, deliberately selected because of that. No one cares what happens to them."
Gibson's expression was grim. "Oh, of course. No one cares about drug addicts, do they?"
French gestured to the door. "Shall we go?"
"Where are we going?"
"I'll explain in the car."
On the way down to the street, another question came up.
"Where are Smith and Rampton?"
"Smith has duties elsewhere. I don't know what Rampton might be up to."
"How come he isn't along on this little junket? Shouldn't he be observing or something?"
French scowled. For once, he seemed to agree with Gibson's sentiments. "I don't think Rampton does field work."
A beat-up blue car that was completely in keeping with the two men's blue-collar image was parked at the curb. French got behind the wheel, and they pulled out into the stream of traffic. French talked as he drove. "We are heading for a warehouse building across town. It belongs to the Crown Electrical Company, and the reason that we're going there is that it overlooks the point where Lancer's motorcade will pass through Craven Plaza."
Gibson nodded. "This is the building that Zwald was going to shoot from? "
"Exactly. It was arranged some four weeks ago that Zwald would go to work there. We're going to park the car in the employees' lot and go into the building just like two regular guys on their way to work. From the moment that you enter the building, you will be Zwald. Fortunately, he kept very much to himself and it's unlikely that anyone will engage you in anything but the briefest conversation."
"What if they do?"
"Make an excuse, say that you're busy and have to be somewhere."
"Wouldn't that appear a little weird?"
"Not for Zwald, believe me. He was weird, you can take my word for that."
"So what do I do once I'm inside the building?"
"You punch in just like anyone else. I know you can't read but I'll indicate which card to use. After you've punched in, we take the elevator up to the sixth floor. Turn right out of the elevator and the fourth door along the corridor will be that of a large, empty storeroom. We go inside and wait."
"That's it?"
"That's it."
"And you'll be with me?"
French smiled nastily. "I'll be right behind you, Gibson. There's no way you'll be able to give me the slip."
Gibson sighed. "I think you've made that point."
"So, is there anything else you need to know?"
"There is one thing. What's your cover story when we get to Crown Electrical? I mean, do you have a job there or are you just going to wing it on the strength of wearing the work clothes?"
"I have a job there. I'm due to start this morning."
"Isn't that asking for trouble? Surely the local equivalent of the FBI or whatever are going to be checking on all newly hired employees and stuff like that."
This time French's smile was grim. "By the time they start doing that kind of checking, I'll be a long way away."
They drove across town for about fifteen minutes, but Gibson, not having even the foggiest idea of the geography of Luxor, had no idea where they were going. They left the residential neighborhood and passed through an area of industrial buildings. All along the route there were the signs of a city waking up and starting the day. Lines of gray-faced workers waited for buses while others thronged the roads in their own almost uniformly run-down cars. For anything but the closest examination, Gibson and French fitted right in with nothing to make them stand out from the crowd. During the last five minutes of the trip, they were diverted by a number of police sawhorse barriers and temporary detour signs. They were obviously near an area that was being kept clear for the presidential motorcade.
The Crown Electrical building was a square brick structure and, apart from the fact that it overlooked the open space of Craven Plaza, was totally unremarkable. There were probably a thousand commercial buildings just like it in the city. French parked and locked the car, and he and Gibson walked to the staff entrance just like any other poor bastards on their way to work. The act of punching in went without a hitch, even though Gibson hadn't punched a clock since sometime in the sixties when, as a struggling rock 'n' roller, he'd worked in a bakery before the advent of fame and fortune.
He and French rode up in the elevator together with two other characters in the same tan overalls. One of the characters nodded in a routine way to Gibson. "How you doing, Zwald? Heard you went out sick."
Gibson fought down panic and nodded back. "I must have ate something that didn't agree with me."
"That's a bitch, ain't it. You still look a bit under the weather. You want to take it easy."
Gibson grinned. "I'll sure do that."
To Gibson's relief, the two men got out on four and he and French continued to the sixth floor on their own. As soon as the elevator door closed, Gibson let out a long sigh. "I could have done without that."
"You're doing fine, just hold it together."
Gibson blinked. As far as he could remember, it was the first time that he'd ever heard French utter an encouraging word.
They emerged from the elevator, turned right, and went through the fourth door they came to. As French had predicted, there was nothing behind it apart from a large dusty storeroom containing a half-dozen or so empty boxes. French immediately went to the window and looked out; then, apparently satisfied that all was as it should be, he turned to Gibson and pointed at the radiator against the wall. "Look down behind that radiator and see what you can find."
"The radiator?"
"Just do it."
Gibson gingerly reached down the back of the radiator. He had once heard a story about how, in Australia, they had something called the funnel web spider whose bite could kill a grown man in a matter of seconds. Since the coming of modern civilization, the funnel web had taken to living behind radiators in hotels, factories, and apartment buildings. He hoped there was nothing similar in Luxor. His fingers touched wrapping paper. A package of some kind was hidden down there, long and narrow. When he lifted it out, he could feel its hard metallic contents: it contained either curtain rods or a broken-down rifle.
"Is this Zwald's gun?"
French nodded. "It's been hidden there for over a week."
"You want me to unwrap it?"
"No, come and help me with these boxes."
French was walking a packing case over to the window. As Gibson brought more, he arranged them into a low wall in front of the window so they formed a perfect sniper's nest. Gibson scratched his head. He didn't know if it was a side effect of the hero serum but the modest exertion had made him sweat. "Did we really need to do that?"