Harper’s eyes suddenly flicked wide open. ‘An air cannon.’
‘Sir?’ said Baxter.
‘That’s what he’s making, it has to be! The pipe’s the barrel – and the football’s like the cork in a popgun.’ There was a laptop in the Cadillac’s rear; Harper opened it.
‘Why would he need to build an air cannon?’
‘To fire the rope he bought over the perimeter fence, would be my guess.’ He hurriedly tapped at the keyboard, logging on to the secure USIC network via the car’s wireless link and bringing up a global map of high-resolution satellite imagery. He typed in the address of the Gorman Building, then waited for the results to download. ‘Yeah,’ he said when the picture appeared. ‘If he got on to the roof of the next building, he could easily shoot a line over from there. How far out are your teams?’
‘Spence’s team are right behind us. Fallon’s is a few minutes away.’
‘Tell Spence’s unit to send someone up to check the neighbouring roof. Childs might be waiting for him there. Everyone else searches the repository.’ Baxter nodded and took out his phone, while the Admiral called his office on Reed’s. Security checks completed, he barked: ‘I need to talk to whoever’s in charge at the federal data repository in Suitland. It’s a matter of extreme urgency.’ He waited impatiently for the connection to be made.
Finally, he heard a timorous voice. ‘Hello?’
‘This is Admiral Gordon Harper, Director of National Intelligence,’ Harper announced imperiously. ‘Who am I talking to?’
‘I’m, ah, I’m Jerome Butterworth, sir. Night-shift duty officer at the Walter J. Gorman facility. What can I do for you, sir?’
‘What you can do, Butterworth, is put your facility on full security alert, right now. Someone is trying to steal classified data from your repository – he may be there already. He’ll probably be trying to gain entry via the roof.’ When there was no immediate response, he barked: ‘Now, Butterworth!’
‘Uh, yes, sir!’ The official’s voice was muffled as he covered the phone with one hand to shout orders. An alarm bell rang in the background. ‘We’ve gone to full alert, sir. I’ve put the facility on lockdown.’
‘Good. I’m on my way to you with a tac team. The intruder is to be considered armed and extremely dangerous. If your people find him, I want them to contain him until I arrive. Do not attempt to engage him – just make sure that he doesn’t get away.’
‘Understood, sir,’ said Butterworth nervously.
Harper disconnected and pocketed the phone. Baxter finished issuing instructions to the other members of his team. ‘We’re all set, sir.’
‘Good.’ Harper sat back, watching other cars pull out of the way as the Cadillac sped towards Suitland behind the Suburban, the SUV’s lights flashing and siren blaring.
Bianca waited anxiously, checking her watch for the third time in under a minute. Something had just happened at the Gorman Building, more exterior lights snapping on and an alarm ringing. Had Adam been caught? She didn’t know. From the Mustang’s position a little way down the street from the offices, she hadn’t even been able to see him make the crossing.
How long should she wait for him? He’d seemed confident that he could get what he needed, but confidence alone was no guarantor of success. At what point should she cut and run? Ten minutes? Five?
Maybe sooner than that. The wail of an approaching siren reached her. She hunched lower and peered down the road. A large SUV came into view, horn blaring as it bullied its way through traffic. An expensive-looking car was right behind it. They reached the government facility’s main entrance and squealed to a halt at the gates. The driver waved furiously for the guard inside the little gatehouse to open the barrier. It swung upwards, and the vehicles surged through to stop at the doors of the building.
A man in a shirt and tie hurried out to meet the occupants as they emerged. Even at a distance through the chain-link fence, she recognised two of them: Harper and Baxter. The latter was carrying a sub-machine gun, as was the SUV’s driver.
‘Oh God, Adam,’ she whispered as they hurried inside. Another siren sounded in the distance, drawing nearer. ‘Get out of there . . .’
‘The man trying to break in here is after one specific disk,’ Harper told Butterworth as they marched into the building. ‘I want it located and taken to safety before he can get it.’
The duty officer, a pudgy, balding man in his late forties, was sweating at the unexpected turn of events. ‘Couldn’t we just, uh, put all our security around the section where the disk’s stored?’
Harper glared at him. ‘This isn’t some crack-addict burglar we’re talking about, Butterworth! You’ve got no idea what this man is capable of. I’m not willing to take any chances with people’s lives. Get me that disk, right now.’
‘Yes, yes. Right away, sir.’ They reached Butterworth’s office. ‘Do you know its ID number?’
‘No, but if I give you the criteria, how long will it take you to locate it?’
‘Everything’s fully archived on the system, sir.’ He gestured at a computer. ‘If you put in the details, it should find it immediately.’
Harper sat at the terminal. Baxter was still on his phone. ‘Spence’s team is here,’ he reported.
Bianca watched as a second Suburban powered towards the gates . . .
And drove past them.
The blood froze in her heart. They were coming for her! She grabbed the override, about to start the engine—
The Suburban braked hard, stopping outside the offices. Two men dressed in black combat gear and carrying sub-machine guns jumped out and ran towards the building. The SUV reversed, slewing around and powering back to the repository.
Her relief that the men weren’t coming for her was immediately overcome by alarm. The pair rounded the rear of the offices and started to climb the ladder to the roof.
Adam’s escape route was cut off.
‘The first team is on site,’ Baxter told Harper as he listened to his phone. ‘Two men are going up to the roof – Spence just entered the facility’s grounds.’
Harper finished entering the information into the computer. ‘Here,’ he said, jabbing a finger at the results. ‘Is that enough to find the disk?’
Butterworth looked over his shoulder. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. Then do it!’ As Butterworth gave orders to a subordinate, Harper went to Baxter. ‘Have they found Gray? Or Childs?’
‘No sign yet, but—’
He broke off as a new alarm, a shrill, rapid bleeping, sounded. ‘My God!’ gasped Butterworth, rushing back to the computer. ‘That’s – that’s the internal alarm. Someone’s broken into the building!’
Baxter brought up his gun. ‘Where?’
‘It looks like, ah . . .’ He brought up a schematic of the building, a small area flashing red. ‘You were right, Admiral – he’s on the roof! One of the vent covers for the HVAC system has been opened. He must be trying to get in through the ducts.’
‘Do you know where he’ll come out?’ said Harper.
Butterworth clicked through to another layer of the schematic, exposing the rectilinear mazework of the inner structure. ‘Yes! The only place he can get out is in section K-6.’
Baxter looked round as Spence and another man ran into the room, accompanied by one of the Gorman Building’s security personnel. ‘With me,’ he ordered.
‘Take them to K-6,’ Butterworth told the guard. ‘Quick!’ The group of armed men hurried out.
Harper’s phone rang. ‘Yes?’
‘Sir, this is Morrow – Mr Baxter told me to call you,’ came the reply. ‘I’m on the roof of the next building.’
‘Have you found Childs?’ demanded Harper. ‘Tell me what you can see!’
The two men moved across the rooftop, the tactical lights mounted on their weapons illuminating the dark crannies amongst its ventilation ductwork with pitiless intensity. There was no sign of their target – but they knew he had been there. ‘
There’s a long piece of pipe pointing at the next building,’ said Morrow into his headset, shining his beam upon the bizarre apparatus. ‘It’s hooked up to a gas cylinder of some kind – it’s still hissing.’ He cautiously prodded the half-inflated inner tube with the muzzle of his gun. Nothing happened.
‘There’s a rope here,’ said his companion, moving past him and aiming his light out across the gap between the buildings. A line of blue nylon ran between them.
‘Sir, he’s got across to the federal facility.’ Both men swept the other roof with their flashlights, but spotted no signs of life. ‘He must be inside – we can’t see him.’
‘What about Childs?’ asked Harper. ‘Is she up there?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Damn it!’ Harper growled. ‘All right, keep watch in case he tries to get out that way.’ Capturing the Englishwoman would have given him considerable leverage over Gray – although, it occurred to him, if the agent really was thinking like him, would he sacrifice her to achieve his objective?
His musing was interrupted as Butterworth’s subordinate ran back into the office. ‘I’ve got the disk, sir,’ he gasped.
‘Give it to me.’ Harper all but snatched it from the man’s hand. It was nothing special to look at, a mirror-like optical disk in a protective transparent plastic caddy. A label bore a barcode and a string of numbers. ‘Are you absolutely sure this is the right one?’
Butterworth checked the digits against the search results. ‘Yes, sir. This is it.’
Harper attempted to conceal his relief. ‘Good. I’m taking this to a secure location. And remember,’ he added, raising a threatening finger, ‘all of this is a matter of national security and is strictly classified. Nobody in this facility is to discuss it without first receiving written authorisation from my office. Is that understood?’
‘Yes, Admiral,’ said Butterworth, nodding repeatedly.
‘Good. Liaise with Mr Baxter – he’ll give you further instructions once the situation has been dealt with.’ He turned and without another word strode from the office, heading back to the main entrance.
The disk felt bizarrely heavy in his hand. He had to fight the temptation to smash it there and then. That would lead to unwelcome questions, suspicion.
But he already had a plan. He would return to his home, where a fire – some booby trap set by the intruders, or so it would seem – would destroy it. Again, there would be questions, but they would be much easier to handle. In this scenario, he was the victim, attacked by a paranoid and unbalanced rogue agent in his own home. The Persona Project would take the blame for the mental breakdown of its operative. A shame to lose a program that had proved its worth as an intelligence-gathering asset, but it was a price he was more than willing to pay.
Harper emerged into the night air and got into the Cadillac. He put the disk on the passenger seat, then started the engine.
A small, gloating smile curled his lips as he set off. He had the logs – and all Gray would find waiting for him when he emerged from the ducts were bullets.
‘It’s just down here,’ said the guard, leading the way as Baxter and his men hurried through the storage facility. The building was divided into blocks allocated to different agencies of the US government, grids of tall shelving racks holding countless disks and tapes. ‘On the right.’
Baxter took the lead, raising his MP5. Spence and the others followed suit. ‘Okay, we’ll handle this,’ he told the guard. ‘You stay back.’ The man obeyed, with evident relief. Baxter rounded the corner, seeing a door ahead marked with a small sign: K-6.
‘Cover me,’ he said. He pressed his back against the wall beside the door and took hold of the handle as his men aimed their weapons. ‘In three, two . . .’
He silently mouthed one, then threw open the door.
There was nobody beyond.
Baxter frowned, surveying the room with suspicion. Ranks of gunmetal-grey filing cabinets lined the walls, not enough space for anyone to hide behind them. Giving his men another non-verbal signal, he darted through the entrance and whipped round, finger on the trigger in case his target was lurking behind the door.
No one there.
That only left . . .
‘The vent,’ he whispered as his team entered, looking up at the ceiling. There was a large grille in its centre. One corner, he realised, was not quite flush, hanging down from the frame. Something was putting weight on it from above.
Gray. It had to be. If he had left the room, he would have been seen on the CCTV cameras.
He gestured to Spence: open it.
Spence clambered up on to the cabinets. He reached across and hooked his fingertips over the grille’s edge. All the guns were fixed on the vent.
Baxter nodded. Spence pulled—
The grille swung down. Something dropped from the opening and hit the floor with a muffled thud. Shock raced through Baxter: a grenade!
But it didn’t explode.
It wasn’t a grenade. It was . . .
‘A football?’ said Spence, bewildered.
Baxter signalled for his men to check the vent. They shone their tactical lights into the darkness above, seeing nothing but the bare metal sides of the duct. He crouched and picked up the football. It was only partially inflated, sagging limply in his hands, but was far heavier than he’d expected. He shook it, hearing something rattling dully about inside.
Lead shot, he remembered. Gray and Childs had bought lead shot. Now he knew what they had used it for: to add weight to the football. But why?
‘Morrow!’ he said into his headset. ‘Gray’s not here – are you sure he’s not on the roof?’
The two men atop the offices swept their powerful flashlight beams over the Gorman Building’s wide, flat rooftop. All they saw was machinery and ductwork. ‘No sight of him, sir,’ said Morrow.
The frustration in his commander’s voice was clear. ‘He’s not inside the building either. Tell me exactly what you see up there.’
Morrow gave the now swollen inner tube a brief glance before turning his attention to the rest of the apparatus. ‘Okay, there’s a rope tied to the air-con system on this side, and it goes all the way over to the building you’re in. The other end . . .’ He fixed his light on one particular spot, catching something in the beam. ‘There’s what looks like a football attached to the end of the rope, and a hook . . .’
His companion added his own light to the search. ‘That vent’s broken,’ he said, illuminating an opening in the ductwork on the far side of the gap. A slatted grille was bent back as if it had taken a powerful kick.
‘He must have gone in through the vent, but—’
Whump!
A sudden detonation made them both jump. ‘Jesus!’ yelped Morrow, spinning and bringing his gun up before realising what had happened.
‘Morrow!’ shouted Baxter. ‘What happened? Report!’
‘Sir, the air cannon – it just fired again.’
‘What? How?’
‘The gas cylinder was still filling a big inner tube. There’s a valve taped to it – it must have released when it got to a certain pressure. Like a time-delay system. But there wasn’t anything in the pipe, so the air just blew out through it.’
Baxter was silent, trying to make sense of what had happened. Gray had used the first football to fire a rope across the gap. But why would he need to shoot a second one?
He looked at the flaccid leather ovoid in his hand. It was brand new, but the leather at one end was scuffed and torn, scratches on it looking as if they had been made by knives.
No, not knives – but still something metal and sharp-edged . . .
The vent cover on the roof. Its grille would be made of thin sheet steel, intended only to keep out the weather and birds, not to withstand a projectile weighing close to three pounds fired at it with great force.
Gray had rigged the cannon to hit the vent – and set off the alarm. Why, though? And where was he? If he hadn’t come down the duct, then .
. .
The answer hit him like a truck. ‘Shit!’ he cried. ‘This whole thing – it’s a decoy! It’s all some goddamn Mission: Impossible crap! Gray never came in here at all!’
Spence jumped down from the cabinets. ‘Then where is he?’
Baxter already had a horrible suspicion. He took out his phone. ‘What’s your number?’ he asked Reed. ‘Quick, your cell number! I need to reach the Admiral, now!’
47
End Run
Harper turned at a junction, heading back towards Washington. Given favourable traffic, if he took the Suitland Parkway into DC he would reach his home in around twenty-five minutes. Then he could destroy the WORM disk, and the only piece of evidence linking him to the death of Sandra Easton would be gone.
Lights flashed in his mirrors, some impatient idiot in a muscle car wanting to get past. Despite being in a hurry, he allowed the black car to overtake. The last thing he needed was for a highway cop to pull him over for speeding.
The Mustang powered past with a V8 snarl – then cut back in right ahead of him, slowing to the legal limit. ‘I gave you the road, asshole,’ Harper muttered. He was about to give the other driver a piece of his mind with the horn when Reed’s phone rang. He fumbled in his pocket, taking it out—
‘Don’t answer it,’ said a voice right behind him. ‘It’s dangerous to use the phone while you’re driving.’
A shape rose up in the rear-view mirror. ‘Gray!’
‘Yeah.’ Adam pushed the gun he had taken from the Admiral’s house against its owner’s head. ‘Put it down and pull over.’
Harper reluctantly tossed the phone on to the passenger seat beside the disk. He brought the Cadillac to the kerb. The Mustang ahead also stopped, then backed up, its reversing lights turning Adam’s reflection a demonic red. ‘So are you going to kill me?’
‘No. I just want the disk.’
‘What for? Blackmail?’
‘Justice.’
Harper made a sarcastic sound. ‘There’s no such thing in this world.’
‘I know you think that – but I also know that not everybody else does. So maybe there’s hope for us all yet. Get out. Slowly.’