Caitlin blinked. “I beg your pardon.”
“What’s your bin number, miss?”
“Oh, I’m not here about a storage bin. I saw the help wanted sign on the door and, well, I—”
The woman made a face. “You’ll have to fill out an application. Follow me.”
Mamie Greene lifted a section of the counter and Caitlin stepped through to the other side. They went through the door, into the office where the woman ushered Caitlin to a chair in front of a cluttered desk. Mamie crossed the room, rifled through a filing cabinet. When she returned she laid a sheaf of papers in front of Caitlin.
“Do you have a copy of your résumé?”
“My what?”
“Your résumé. You have worked before?”
“Yes, oh yes,” Caitlin replied.
“Can you use a computer? Word processor?”
“No, not really. But I learn quick.”
“Can you use a Xerox machine? We only use Xerox around here. Company policy.”
“I used one once. In a Staples store.”
“You better fill out the form, miss.”
“But I don’t have a pen.”
Mamie Greene threw up her hands. “I’ll give you a ballpoint, we have lots of those. But nobody’s using my felt tip.”
A suitable pen was found, and Caitlin began filling out the application. A moment later the doorbell rang again.
“I’ll be right back,” said Mamie.
Caitlin watched through the window as Mamie Greene spoke with the UPS man. Then she reached into her pocket and took out the lighter Jack had bought for her at a convenience store. She quickly stuffed a bunch of loose papers into the bottom of a nearly empty aluminum trash can, touched them with fire. Flames leaped up immediately, too many.
As per Jack’s instructions, she tossed more paper onto the fire, not quite smothering it but almost. She wanted a lot of smoke and a little bit of fire, nothing more dangerous than that.
She looked for a place to hide the trash can, heard Mamie Greene say goodbye to the delivery man. Hurriedly Caitlin slid the smoldering can into a walk-in closet, too quickly to see what was inside. She only just made it back to her chair when Mamie returned.
“You aren’t done yet?”
Caitlin smiled sheepishly. “There’s a lot of writing.”
“That’s why we have computers.”
“Are you the manager, then? Or is it Mr. Wexler?”
Mamie Greene chuckled. “Mr. Wexler died in 1957. I was working here then, too. I was the assistant office manager when Mr. Wexler was in charge. I was the office manager when his son took over the business. And I’m still the office manager now, after Junior sold the company to that Arab fellow last year.”
“I see.”
Mamie cocked her head, sniffed the air. “Do you smell smoke? I smell smoke. ”
The woman spied brown smoke wafting out of the closet. “My stars!” she cried.
With a speed that was impressive considering her advanced age and considerable girth, Mamie hurried across the room and yanked an unwieldy fire extinguisher off the wall. Before Mamie could drag the heavy extinguisher to the fire, Caitlin hit the red emergency button on the wall next to the desk.
Shrill fire alarms echoed throughout the building. Stubbornly, Mamie crossed the room with the bulky extinguisher. But when she yanked the closet door open, roaring hot smoke rolled out, followed by licking orange flames. The woman squawked and dropped the canister. Caitlin peered inside the closet. In the rippling flames, she could see cardboard boxes and reams of papers lining the walls.
“My god!” Caitlin gasped. She wasn’t supposed to set a real fire, only make some smoke. She jumped when she felt a heavy hand on her shoulder.
“Honey, let’s get out of here,” Mamie cried.
Caitlin raced into the waiting room, hands clutching her head. She didn’t even have to fake panic as she began to scream.
“Fire! Fire! Mother of Mercy, the whole building is on fire!”
Three cups of joe and two Cokes. Liam had to piss but he was still knackered. He’d been up all night, mugged, almost run down by a subway, caught in a police raid, then an explosion — no wonder he couldn’t keep his bleedin’ peepers open!
He swung the stool around, ready to make a trip to the head, when he spied the Lynch brothers’ Mercedes swing into a parking spot in front of the computer store across the road.
Finally.
Liam fumbled in his pockets, dumped money for the bill and a tip on the counter. Then he lifted the metal attaché case and left the diner. He would be glad to get this over with. Tell Shamus about the raid in Brooklyn, and get rid of the case — he’d been carrying the damned thing for nearly twelve hours!
17. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 1 P.M. AND 2 P.M. EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME
Jack Bauer watched the entrance to Wexler Storage from a recessed doorway across busy Houston Street, waiting for Caitlin to make her move. Around him the bohemians of the West Village — women in black dresses, stacked shoes, and wide-rimmed glasses; men with shaved heads, tattoos, and multiple body piercings — crowded the sidewalks, the shops, the sidewalk cafés. Jack ignored the locals, focused attention on the police car parked at the curb, the lone officer inside.
When the fire alarm wailed, Jack was ready. He burst out of hiding, into the street. Dodging cars, he watched the policeman hurriedly report the fire on his radio, then climb out to offer assistance.
A large black woman stumbled out of the storefront, collapsed with a coughing fit on the sidewalk. Caitlin appeared a moment later, screaming her head off. She spotted Jack and the cop at the same time.
Thinking fast, the woman literally jumped into the young policeman’s arms.
“There’s smoke and fire! The building is burning.”
As she babbled, Caitlin swung the cop around so Jack could race past the man unseen.
The waiting room was already filled with black smoke. Jack blinked against the burning haze. Through the window behind the counter, he saw orange flames racing through the inner office. The plasterboard wall around that window began to smolder; beige paint bubbled and curled from the tremendous heat.
He’d wanted Caitlin to set a small fire with enough smoke to empty the building. Clearly, she had gone overboard. Jack thought about escaping the building, too, but a sudden noise changed his mind.
Jack heard a clang as a steel door burst open. A Hispanic man in a gray uniform stumbled out of a stairwell, choking against the billowing smoke. Jack pushed the man toward the exit, then ran into the stairwell and slammed the door behind him.
The stairwell was relatively free of smoke. There was no way down; the stairs ended on the ground floor. So Jack climbed the stairs to the second floor. He found another steel door, this one locked from the other side. Cautiously Jack peered through a small wire-lined window in the center of the door. He saw long rows of storage bins, each with its own door and padlock — none of them large enough to hold a North Korean missile launcher.
At the opposite side of the room Jack saw sliding metal-mesh doors blocking an empty elevator shaft. Smoke was beginning to penetrate the second floor through the floorboards and elevator shaft. It hung in the air.
Jack climbed to the third floor, the fourth, then the fifth. On each floor the steel doors were locked, the floors themselves seemingly deserted — just row upon row of storage bins, and an empty elevator shaft on the opposite wall. No sign of a terrorist cell, no trace of the Long Tooth missile launchers.