The plans that Fothergill had supplied gave me exactly the level of detail I needed. They showed three obvious places for gaining access to the ventilation system. The main plant room in the lower basement, and subsidiary control points on the thirty-fourth and sixty-eighth floors. Checking those would be quick and easy. The dilemma would come if I didn’t find anything at any of them. Because it looked like you could get into the risers at nine separate locations on each floor. Which was a thousand or so places. And there was only one of me. Those weren’t the greatest of odds.
The main pedestrian entrance to the Sears Tower is on Jackson Boulevard, but I ignored that and headed for the loading dock at the opposite side of the building, on Adams Street. The truck door was rolled all the way down, and the personnel door was closed. Both were locked. Access for vehicles was controlled by an intercom mounted on a tall, skinny pillar. I checked, and saw it included only a call button and a video camera. Ignoring the voice in my head that said I should have fetched more cappuccino, I examined the touch pad on the nearby door frame. It was for proximity cards only. There was no keypad, so no chance of using a fire number. Which left three choices. Try my luck with the receptionist, around at the front. Wait for a vehicle to arrive, and use it for cover. Or talk my way past anyone I could get to open this door.
The door was made of hollow metal, and it made a decent amount of sound when I banged it with the flat of my hand. I did that repeatedly, but no one came. I’d just about decided it was time for a new approach when I heard a voice behind me. I turned around slowly and calmly, like I was entitled to be there, and saw two men approaching. One was in his twenties, and was wearing a security guard’s uniform. He was walking backward, keeping an eye on the other guy who could have been anywhere from fifty to eighty. His filthy clothes and unkempt, straggly hair made it impossible to be sure. He was following the younger man, and grasping at his jacket as he struggled to keep up.
“Come on, Pops,” the guard said. “Nearly there. Come on. Keep moving.”
He was leading the tramp along the drive toward the vehicle entrance. Then, when he was only about halfway down, he veered off to the side. He seemed to be heading into a corner formed by two brick walls, next to where the three of the building’s Dumpsters were kept. I guessed he had something hidden there, but I couldn’t see what. Maybe food, I thought, saved from one of the restaurants. Or clothes, that careless visitors had left behind.
“Come on, you worthless piece of crap,” the guard said.
The old guy kept on moving, and the expression on his face didn’t change. He still looked like an excited kid in a toy shop, not quite daring to believe he was going to be given a long-dreamed-of treat.
“Move, you sack of shit,” the guard said. “Did I tell you to stop, you useless asshole?”
All of a sudden a completely different theory entered my head. I looked up the side of the building. I counted six security cameras. They were all pointing in different directions, covering the area outside the loading bay. But if you looked closely, you could see there was one blind spot. One place where nothing you did would be recorded. It was the spot near the Dumpsters. The spot that the guard had almost reached.
“I’m going to show you what happens to scumbag assholes who prefer not to work,” he said, grabbing the tramp by his lapels and spinning him around. “You hobos make me want to puke.”
“Excuse me,” I said, stepping out of the shadows. “Are you related to this gentleman in some way?”
“What?” he said. “Who are you?”
“I’m his assertiveness counselor. I keep an eye open, and anytime I see him in an adversarial situation, I help to explore alternative strategies for bringing about a more positive outcome. From his perspective, anyway. So unless you’re his long-lost nephew or some other family member, you’re going to need to take your hands off him.”
“Me? Related to him? Screw you, man.”
“Sometimes I offer advice. Sometimes I give practical demonstrations. Today I’m thinking that advice just isn’t going to be enough.”
“I’ll give you advice, man, if you don’t mind your business.”
“Speaking of business, I’m also his financial adviser. I help out whenever money needs to be transferred. Take this current situation as an example. The cash that’s in your pocket? It needs to move into his.”
“The hell are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about you apologizing to this unfortunate gentleman, and giving him all your money.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“Because if you don’t, I’m going to break your legs, then take it anyway.”
“Oh yeah? Go for it, man.”
“One other question, first. Do you work here, in this building?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Do you have a card to open that door?”
The guy didn’t speak, but his face gave me the answer I wanted.
“OK, then,” I said. “The terms have changed. The Early Bird Discount is no longer valid. Now it’s a case of money and apology to him, ID card to me.”
He didn’t respond.
“Normally I’d give you three to comply, but as I don’t have time to teach you to count, I’m just going to have to—”
I punched him in the face. Hard. The back of his head hit the brick wall, his legs turned to jelly, and he went down in an undignified, uncoordinated heap. I reached down and took the proximity card from his shirt pocket, then rolled him over and fished out his wallet. His Social Security card was the only thing I needed, so I handed the rest to the tramp. He was standing in front of me, rooted to the spot, looking mildly bemused.
“Are you OK?” I said.
He nodded balefully.
“Take what you need,” I said. “It’s yours now. Just don’t get caught with his credit cards, OK? Or you’ll end up in jail.”
He nodded again. Then he turned and wandered away, shoving the wallet deep into his layers of underwear.
It would have made sense to snap the guard’s neck, but since he was a civilian I decided on a more lenient option. I could see three pens sticking out of the shirt pocket on the other side of his chest, so I helped myself to the center one and started to write on the back of his hand:
I have your SS number. 737-65-4344. I know where you live. Report your ID missing, and you’ll be hearing from me again.
TWENTY
During our training, not all the exercises turned out to be a success.
For some people, that was hard to take. But it wasn’t always their fault. It wasn’t necessarily down to not trying hard enough, or not having the necessary skills, or even not having the rub of the green on a given day. It was down to some of the tasks we were given being literally impossible. They were designed that way. Not out of cruelty. Not to torment anyone who had a perfectionist streak running through them. But because in the field, not everything you try will come out right. So you need to know how to deal with that. And learn how to boil things down afterward, to make sure you gain from the experience.
Sometimes, though, things went wrong because people did make mistakes. And in our line of work, the most common one has to do with calling for backup. Specifically, when to do it. Because there are two ways to get it wrong.
You can do it too early.