`If he knew you could provide an antidote, then he also knew his protection - filling this room with gas -would not work. We'd break in. He knew that.'
`Are you sure?'
`Yes, I'm sure. And he didn't care.'
`Perhaps he was bluffing,' Nordmann said.
`It's too important for a blur. He must have had another part of his system to cover that eventuality. He must have planned it so that if we did break in, he'd still manage to win.'
Nordmann considered it all very carefully. At length he sighed and shook his head. `I'm sorry, John,' he said, `I think you're entirely wrong about this. You're making hypothetical sand castles in the air -'
`No!' Graves snapped his fingers. `No, I'm not. Because there was a second purpose to his system.'
`What second purpose?'
'Wright was going. to Jamaica, or somewhere, correct?'
`Correct.'
`And he was not suicidal, correct?'
`Correct. He expected to get there.'
`All right. Then that establishes the need for a second purpose. His mechanism had to do two things.'
`What two things?'
`Look,' Graves said. He spoke as rapidly as he could, but he was hardly able to keep pace with his racing mind. 'Wright planned all this and planned it carefully. If he succeeded, a million people would die, including the President. A major political party would be wiped out. There would be national panic of incredible proportions. And for some reason, he wanted that.'
`He was insane, yes…'
`But not suicidal. He planned an escape. And the question is, what about afterwards?'
'Afterwards?'
`Sure. Wright is on some beach sunning himself and gloating as he reads the headlines. But for how long?'
`Damn,' Nordmann said, nodding.
Phelps was also listening. `I don't follow you,' he said.
`You never do,' Graves snapped. `But the point is this. Sooner or later, Navy men in protective suits would enter San Diego. They would determine that people died of nerve gas. They would search for the source. They would find this apartment. They would enter it. They would find the tanks. They would put the pieces together.'
`And they would come after Wright,' Nordmann said.
`Exactly,' Graves said.
`Wherever he went, he wouldn't be safe. He would be a mass murderer and he would have left a very clear trail behind him.' He gestured at all the equipment. `Would he really leave such a clear trail for others to follow?'
`It must be true,' Nordmann said, getting excited. `He had to have two purposes - first to discharge the gas, and second to obliterate the evidence.'
`Obliterate the evidence how?' Phelps asked.
Graves leaned on a tank. He turned to Nordmann. `How long would it take this cylinder of gas to discharge?'
Nordmann shrugged. `Ten or fifteen minutes.' Then he said, `I see. You want to know exactly.'
`Yes,' Graves said.
`Why exactly?' Phelps asked.
Graves ignored him.
Nordmann said, `Normal Army pressure tanks are usually stabilized at five hundred pounds per square inch. So these tanks… Anybody got a tape measure?' He looked around the room. One of the cops had a tape. Nordmann measured the tank. `Thirty-seven inches in circumference,' he said. `Eight feet long, that's ninety-six inches, with a radius of…' He wrote on a small pad, doing rapid calculations.
Phelps said to Graves, `Why do you need it exactly?'
`Because,' Graves said, 'Wright didn't care if we broke into this room. He had another contingency plan to cover that. And we need to know when it will take effect.'
Phelps looked totally confused.
`A radius of six inches,' Nordmann was saying. `And a length of ninety-six inches gives a volume… well, figure for a cylinder… at five hundred psi… let me check the nozzles…'
He wandered off. Graves said to a cop, `What time is it?'
`Five oh seven, Mr Graves.'
Nordmann finished his calculations and turned to Graves. `At normal discharge rates, it would take these tanks sixteen minutes to empty.'
`That's it, then,' Graves said. `At five sixteen, a bomb will go off in this room, destroying everything. We've got to find it.'
Everyone paused. They stared at him.
Phelps said, `A bomb?'
`Of course. That's why he knocked out the elevators - to trap us here. In case we managed to disengage the mechanism, he wanted us here when the bomb went off, releasing the gas and eliminating the evidence.'
Phelps said, `But there's no evidence of a bomb '
`Remember the sniffer?' Nordmann asked.
Phelps frowned.
`The sniffer,' Graves said, `picked up oxides of nitrogen. Plastic explosive.'
`Yes…,
'Okay,' Graves said. `Where is that explosive now?'
Phelps looked around the room. `I don't see it anywhere,' he said.
`But the sniffer detected it.'
`Yes…'
`There must be a bomb,' Graves said. `And it must be in plain sight.'
`Five oh eight,' a cop said.
`We better get these tanks out,' Nordmann said. `We don't want them damaged by the bomb.'
`Right,' Graves said. `And let's get the sniffer in here. It'll help us find it.'
The sniffer had been taken to the other building. Phelps turned on the walkie-talkie and talked to Lewis. Lewis said he would bring it as soon as he could, but it would take time to climb nineteen flights. Phelps told him to hurry and added a string of expletives.
Meanwhile Nordmann supervised the removal of the tanks to the hallway. The cops carried them, four men to a cylinder, grunting under the weight. Graves searched the room - scanning the wall surfaces, the door, the window ledges for any irregularity, any discontinuity that would suggest the location of explosive. Plastic explosive, Compound C, could be shaped and moulded into a variety of forms. That was its advantage.
It could be anywhere.
Nordmann stuck his head into the room. `Maybe you should get out of here,' he said. `We can let the room blow if the tanks are far enough away. No sense in risking anything.'
`I'll stay until we find it,' Graves said. He walked to the window and looked out. He saw Lewis running across the street with the sniffer on his shoulder.
`Five ten,' Phelps said.
It would take Lewis at least two minutes to scramble up all those stairs. Graves stared out the window, wondering what was happening to Wright. Had they managed to cut his body out of the wrecked car yet?
Odd, he thought, how the game continues.
'Lewis is coming,' Phelps said.
`I saw.'
`How much explosive is supposed to be in this room?'
`Twenty pounds.'
`Christ.'
Graves continued to stare out the window. Where would Wright hide twenty pounds of explosive? What would be the supremely logical hiding place? Nothing less would satisfy Wright, he was sure of that.
He shifted his position at the window, careful to avoid the jagged splinters of glass around the sill. As he did so, he looked down at his shirt. There was printing on the shirt; some of the lettering from the tanks had come off on his arms and chest when he had leaned on them. '
" CHEMI," it said, and then faintly, " DO NOT."
He looked at his watch. 5:12.
`Where the hell is Lewis?'
Lewis appeared, running down the corridor redfaced and out of breath. `Sorry,' he said. `Came as fast as I could.' He turned on his sniffer and walked around the room, pointing the gunlike wand, staring at the dial on the shoulder unit.
Graves and Nordmann watched him.
Lewis began with the door, then turned to the walls. He checked carefully from baseboard to ceiling. In a slow, methodical way he went entirely around the room. Finally he stopped.
`You get a reading?'