No more than four feet across, the opening extended up beyond the reach of the light, equally distant to both his left and right. It was as if a four-foot wedge had been yanked from the center of the building, leaving this hollow tucked deep within. The light caught on a group of pipes perhaps twelve feet above him, open space above that, then another set of pipes twelve feet above that, so on and so on, the crude demarcation of the floors of the building. Kleist slid himself through and stood, pulling the door shut. He then flattened himself against the cement-block wall and again checked the schematic. The flashlight found what he was looking for off to his left-the iron rungs of a ladder built directly into the wall. Not an easy climb, but certainly manageable.
When he reached the “fourth floor,” he stepped out from the ladder and onto the piping, using his hands along the walls to keep his balance. Flashlight in his mouth, he counted off four heating ducts before bringing out a razor knife from his pocket. At the fifth, he sliced an opening into the aluminum, then tossed both knife and flashlight into the vent and hoisted himself up.
Fifteen minutes later, he sliced a second hole for his exit. This one dropped him down into another narrow passage, Sheetrock having replaced cement. He aimed the light to his left and slowly traced it along the wall. About a third of the way back to him, the light flashed momentarily. It had caught on something. Quickly, he made his way to the spot. A hinge. Two feet below it, a second. He placed his flattened palm on the wall and pushed.
It gave way with surprising ease. Again on his knees, Kleist ducked his head under, then pulled the rest of himself through. He was met by a cushioning of wall-to-wall carpeting beneath him. To his left, a bed. He stood and shut the door.
“You’re late.”
Kleist turned to see Cardinal von Neurath seated in a chair across the room. It had been von Neurath who had discovered the approach to the room in the plans. Nothing easier than to install a door and arrange the room assignments.
“Yes, Eminence.”
“Keep your voice down. These walls are paper-thin.”
Kleist nodded and moved toward the cardinal. A chair waited for him; he sat.
“I want one of those children taken. And I want it on the news quickly.” Von Neurath saw the momentary confusion on Kleist’s face. “Doesn’t matter which one. Any of them will send the message to the rest. I need those six votes, and I need them tomorrow.”
“The news? How would that-”
“We’re sequestered, Stefan. We’re not sealed in a vacuum. We all managed to hear about this morning’s events in Bilbao and Gottingen, and whatever that place is called near the Yugoslav border. You take the child, we’ll hear about it.” He let the words sink in. “Those weren’t supposed to go off for another few days, were they?”
“No.”
“What happened?”
“Miscommunication.”
Von Neurath waited before answering. “Get word to Harris. He has a tendency to overreact. Tell him, nothing changes.”
Kleist nodded.
“If for some reason the vote doesn’t come through tomorrow, I want you to leak the Syrian link to the bank. And keep Arturo’s name at the forefront.” Even more pointedly, he added, “And remember, nothing about this to the contessa or Blaney. You don’t have to understand why.”
Another nod.
“Now, where’s our priest?”
“Most recent contact was last night. He phoned.”
“That was good of him.” The irritation lasted less than a second. “Does he have the ‘Hodoporia’?”
“He will in a few days.”
“I see.” Von Neurath saw the moment’s hesitation in Kleist’s eyes. “What?”
“At the refugee camp-he says four men were tracking him.”
“What four men?”
“We don’t know.”
“You believe him.”
“Yes.”
“Do we know who they are?”
“No.”
“Excellent.” The word was laced with sarcasm. Another pause. “I want this cleared up by tomorrow. If he doesn’t have the ‘Hodoporia’ by then, find him, take the book from him, and find it yourself. No more distractions. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Eminence.”
“Good.” Von Neurath stood. “Then unless you have something else …” Kleist shook his head. “They’ll be coming around to call us for dinner soon. They’re very keen that we all eat together in silence. Given the food, I can understand why.”
Kleist wasn’t sure if he was meant to smile or not. Instead, he simply nodded and stood.
“Oh, which reminds me,” added von Neurath. “Send Mr. Harris my congratulations on his recent approval rating. Make it an egg. A hard-boiled egg. He’ll understand.” He nodded Kleist toward the tiny door.
Two minutes later, Kleist was crawling his way back through the heating duct, a constant trickle of sweat dropping from face to aluminum.
Hard-boiled egg. He wondered if he’d somehow missed something. Or maybe it was simply the cardinal’s way of putting him in his place; it wouldn’t have been the first time. Whatever he had meant, though, Kleist was sure of one thing.
The priest would be dead within the day.
At least now there was no confusion on that front.
“Nige … you’re sure we can’t get you some dessert?”
Nigel Harris smiled to the man across the table from him. “I’m fine. Thank you.” Three others sat across from him, as well. A lunch meeting engineered by Steve Grimaldi’s office, very “developmental,” high on the “no turnaround time,” given Harris’s current “breakthrough” status. The colonel was beginning to understand the advertising industry’s lingo, although he couldn’t be sure if it was the industry or Grimaldi himself, the latter more than happy to toss whatever happened to be running through his mind into the conversation. That notwithstanding, the rest of his staff seemed to understand his every word-everyone “on the same page”-especially when they took their little breaks to “detox” the details.
The lunch meeting had started at eleven. It was now nearly one.
While the plates were being cleared, Harris glanced out the window. He’d never gotten his LA geography down, not sure if he was actually in what they considered downtown. From the thirty-eighth floor, it certainly looked like a downtown, though with conspicuously few people on the streets. Maybe the trendy restaurants weren’t in this neck of the woods, he mused. Or maybe in-house catering had just become too good across the board. From what he’d just had to suffer through-something “blackened” beyond hope-he was guessing the former.
“I think you’re going to like what we’ve put together, Nige. It’s very early-”
“Developmental.” Harris nodded.
“Exactly. So we’re not sure just exactly how we need to play with it. But we want to get them out there quick.” Grimaldi nodded to one of his associates; she pressed a button at the center of the table and a large TV screen lowered from the ceiling at the far end of the room. A second button, and the shades began to close. Harris turned to Grimaldi and raised his eyebrows as if duly impressed. The adman seemed to preen. The lights dimmed. “Your group’s getting a lot of press right now, Nige, and we thought it might be nice to pick up on that newsy quality. An election kind of thing. Get people in your camp. This is one possibility. And don’t be afraid to tell me exactly how it makes you feel.”
Grimaldi pressed yet one more button, and the screen came to life, black at first, a counter running in white numbers along the bottom edge, the words “Nigel Harris Promo 1” next to it. When the counter reached ten seconds, the center of the screen filled with one of the quotes from a recent article on the alliance. The now-familiar voice from every movie preview produced in the last five years began to read the text in slow, sonorous tones.
“Its vision is for our future…. Its message is clear…. It’s time we put our faith back into something we believe in….”
A classroom of children filled the screen, eleven- and twelve-year-olds, a perfect hodgepodge of ethnic and racial backgrounds, all smiling faces, the word Tolerance written in large letters on the board, the children clearly in the midst of a discussion. The screen darkened, another quote. The voice returned.