‘Keep looking. I’ll check the bedroom.’
It was a faint hope that the purple folder of résumés would still be there. Stutz was the last man to leave anything significant lying around but perhaps there might be something tangential that shed a light on his connection with Zuabi, some clue as to how their interests could have converged. He was pondering all this when he heard the lift approaching. It came to a stop.
He switched off the light and stepped back into shadow just as the door opened.
It was Stutz.
64
‘What the fuck you doing here?’ His voice was quiet but full of rage: a disconcerting combination.
Beth sprang back into cheerleader mode. ‘It’s a surprise, honey — I thought that maybe tonight, you know, it’s been a while.’
From the shadow in which he hid, Tom could see it all. Beth stepped towards Stutz and placed a hand gently on his chest. He grabbed her wrist and pulled it away.
‘You know I don’t do surprises.’ He still had his hand round her wrist.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she cooed.
Ignoring the grip she leaned towards him, giving him the full force of her magnetism. He pushed her hand away. ‘Get in the bedroom.’
He didn’t look the sort who would take his time or spend too long on foreplay, more the ‘wham bam, thank you, ma’am’ type, and that probably without the last bit. So time was short.
There was only the glow from the night sky of the city and a greasy yellow moon. Tom took out his phone and used the light on that. He embarked on a shelf-by-shelf search of the books, a comprehensive library of American history and political biography. In one space there were a couple of photographs, a young Stutz in his Marine dress blues and in a combat desert jacket from the first Gulf War. He moved on to more books, all neatly stacked. He returned to the coffee-table. There were sounds coming from the bedroom, all Beth, working hard for her country.
The coffee-table had three large books on it: a glossy catalogue of weapons of the Civil War, an album of Residences of the United States Foreign Service and a thick, embossed tome of photographs of London. The last had something sticking out of it — the corner of a piece of paper. It was a compliments slip with the British coat of arms printed across the top: ‘From the Office of the Cabinet Secretary’. On it was a hand-written message.
A memento of your visit. With all good wishes, Alec.
Alec? Cabinet secretary? Stutz’s London connections ran deep. He lowered the book to put it back, then noticed a file that had been lying underneath.
It was similar to the one Beth had described: purple with a small castle-like logo in the top left-hand corner and beneath it the word FORTRESS. He flipped it open and came face to face with his own photograph.
It was a copy of his military record.
The bedroom door opened. He put the file back under the book and darted for the kitchen, which was nearer the lift.
But that couldn’t be his exit. He couldn’t risk the noise. And she had told him the only way to the emergency stairs was through the bedroom. Stutz crossed the landing to the lounge where Tom had just been. There was the small ‘snap’ of a box being shut, a lighter flicking on and off, and the smell of a cigar, then two feet coming towards the kitchen.
Tom stepped behind the door. Stutz was in a dressing-gown, the fat Cuban clenched in his teeth and an ashtray in his hand. He put down the ashtray, took a glass out of a cabinet and filled it with iced water from the refrigerator. Then he took a small tube for pills from his pocket — it was empty. He cursed, put down the water, placed the cigar in the ashtray and left the room. He would be back any second. Tom was trapped.
He had already clocked a hinged panel in the wall, about a metre square: the rubbish chute. Madness, obviously. But leaning beside it was some cardboard packaging, a large piece, about two metres by one. He bent it into a large U, opened the chute, stuffed in the cardboard and got in after it as if it was the finger of a giant glove. It was a desperate measure, but staying in the kitchen wasn’t an option. The lid sprang closed behind him and he was in total darkness, sliding earthwards in near freefall, buffeted and hammered by the sides of the chute. The card protected his legs head and face from the worst of the friction, but the clothing round his shoulders and hips was soon shredded. He prayed that the Dumpster below was full, that there would be something to cushion his fall.
Everything went black.
The Dumpster was not full. But there was just enough rotting refuse to prevent him breaking a leg. The smell of it all around him brought him back to consciousness. His whole body ached, but nothing was sprained. He still had to extricate himself from under the mouth of the chute and climb out of the enormous, fetid container. He heaved himself out and caught his breath, taking lungfuls of the comparatively fresh air in the underground parking lot, before dropping behind the Dumpster to evade the cameras.
He hadn’t bargained on leaving the penthouse alone. From his limited vantage-point he spent some time recceing the cameras and the layout of the space. There was no pedestrian exit. The gate — operated by the card he didn’t have — was shut, but it didn’t look particularly strong. It could almost certainly be rammed. Beth’s pick-up was right in front of him. It wasn’t locked but, of course, she had the key. He opened the driver’s door and, still in a crouching position, tore off the plastic cowling round the steering column and examined the ignition assembly. No chance. That was the problem with modern cars: too thief-proof. He looked round at the others.
Then his eye fell on the E-Type Jaguar. His father had had one, in British racing green, fast but serially unreliable — though easy to hot-wire if the battery wasn’t flat.
He rooted around in the rubbish till he found what he was looking for: a mesh vegetable bag. Perfect. He put it over his head. Then he hunted some more until he found a coat-hanger, which he bent into a hook. This would have to be done fast. He dashed round to the driver’s door, inserted it between the window and the canvas hood and fished for the lock, which clicked open satisfyingly.
He was in. Now there was just the small matter of getting it started. He yanked the wires out from under the dash, and several came away in his hand. He worked his way through them one by one. Testing each against another. The starter whirred, slowly at first. Nothing. He found the choke, pulled it out, pumped the throttle a couple of times. Then the wires again. There was a splutter and a cough and the old big six barked into life: a shattering sound in the cramped confines of the parking lot. He moved the choke in but not too far: he couldn’t risk it stalling. Now there was just the matter of getting through the gate. With enough of a run at it, he could hit it at about thirty. It ought to do it. He put on the waist-only seatbelt. He revved the engine, found first, let the clutch bite and shot forward, then reversed to get as far from the gate as he could. Then he shoved it back into first and floored it, his arms now extended and locked to push him back against the seat.
There was an explosion of grinding metal and glass. Despite his locked arms, his head hit the windscreen, which exploded over him, and for a few seconds he was gone. When he looked up, he was still on the wrong side of the gate, but had forced it open a few inches. He extricated himself from the driver’s seat, stepped over the crumpled bonnet and tried to squeeze himself through the narrow space the Jag had prised open. To whoever was watching through the cameras, it would look like a not at all grand theft auto.
The gates weren’t giving but Tom pushed and squeezed, eventually twisting himself through the narrow gap.