He stepped off the ladder onto the car's sling bar.
As the door above swung open, Jack flicked off the cab roof bulb just in time and crouched behind the hoist cables, doing his best to conceal himself. He glanced up and saw someone silhouetted in the light from the HVAC area, shining a flashlight into the shaft.
Then the car started down. Jack closed his eyes and hung on. The ride was worse in the dark.
He groaned. "Hope you've got your running shoes on, Dud."
Jack had made three round trips and was starting the fourth when the cell phone vibrated against his leg. He whipped it out.
"Dud?"
"I've got the leftest car to myself, and I'm comin' to getcha, Jack."
"I'm already here."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, here. As in"—Jack rapped on the roof of the car—"here."
"All right! We'll make a hacker out of you yet."
"Don't hold your breath, my man. Just get me off this thing."
"Okay. Here's what we'll do. I'll stop her at six, then Instep her halfway to seven. You won't need your hook, just pull the safety lever and the outer doors will open. You just step off and wait for me to join you."
Jack followed the directions to the letter and less than a minute later, accompanied by the jarring strains of the emergency stop bell, he was stepping through the doors onto the seventh floor. His relief was tempered by the two carpenters on coffee break from the renovation work.
"Hey, Mac," said the heavier of the two, staring at him. "Where the hell did you just come from?"
"Why, the elevator," Jack said.
"No, you didn't." He stepped closer, his gaze flicking between Jack and the elevator doors. "I was standin' right there watching those doors, and I'm telling you there was no elevator there when you came out. You walkin' on fucking air or somethin'?"
Jack wanted to say, What's it to you? But he smiled and kept his tone light.
"Don't be silly. That elevator's acting very strange. The lights went off and the bell started ringing, so I got out."
The elevator dinged behind him and the doors opened. Milkdud stepped out.
"There," Jack said. "Does he look like he's walking on air?"
"No, he don't," the carpenter said. "But I can see the elevator in there."
"Well, the lights must have come back on." He turned to Milkdud. "Did the lights come back on?"
Dud didn't miss a beat. "Yeah, just after you got off. That thing's acting weird." He pressed the down button on the wall panel. "I'm going to take another one down."
"Good idea."
The center car arrived soon after, and they stepped into the empty cab.
"They saw me stepping out of an empty shaft," Jack said when the doors had closed behind them.
"That's always a risk." Dud handed him a tissue. "Here. Wipe off your hands. They're dusty."
"What's waiting for us below?" Jack said, wiping.
"They've got security guys at both doors, trying to look inconspicuous but giving everyone the once-over. But they're looking for a dusty guy, not the man in the gray flannel suit. We'll be okay."
And they were. They sailed past the guards and onto Forty-fifth Street.
"Thanks, Dud," Jack said when they reached Sixth Avenue. "I owe you, man. Big time. You ever need a favor…"
"Forget it," Dud said, smiling. "See one, do one, teach one: all part of the code. I just want to know if I made a convert."
"I don't think so."
"You sure? You mean to tell me after what you did this morning that you're not hooked?"
"I can honestly say I'm not."
"I don't believe that. Tell you what, I'm hacking some of the upper levels of the Chrysler building next week. It's just crammed with secrets."
"Tell you what," Jack said. "You find a giant roc egg up there, you let me know. I'll come running."
Dud grinned and gave him a thumbs-up. "Yeah, Q, man. If I get caught, I'll say Larry Cohen made me do it."
"Just be careful, Dud."
They shook hands and parted, Milkdud heading for his job at Coconuts and Jack heading home for a shower. Definitely a shower.
And then a call to Alicia. See one, do one, teach one, Dud had said. Well, Jack had seen one, and now he was going to do one. With Alicia. On her father's house.
4.
Kemel hung up on the incredulous Gordon Haffner, who still was having difficulty accepting the fact that his clients were going to pay Alicia Clayton ten million dollars for her father's house.
But it was true. Kemel had held his breath as he'd contacted Khalid Nazer, but Iswid Nahr had agreed to the price.
Kemel should have been elated—so close to success, so close to being able to run home to Riyadh and his son—but suspicion soured his mood.
Someone had been listening to his conversation with Thomas Clayton.
Oh, yes, they had alerted security and called the police, and maintenance men had been sent to check the ventilation system, but no one really believed him. Even after the grate had been removed and he had pointed out the disturbed dust within, they had only shrugged and said maybe there was some sort of animal in the ducts. No one would believe that here in Manhattan, with such an extensive array of sophisticated electronic bugging devices to the public, that someone would crawl through a ventilating system to eavesdrop on a conversation.
Kemel sighed. Perhaps they were right. It did seem farfetched.
But he could not shake the feeling that someone had been listening. When he had pressed his face to that grate, straining to see through the slits, he thought he had sensed someone in the darkness on the other side, looking back, watching him.
He racked his brain to remember what he and Thomas Clayton had said in that room, reconstructing the conversation word by word.
Nothing, he was sure. Almost sure.
One thing an eavesdropper would have come away with was that the house was worth more than ten million dollars to the buyers. If Alicia Clayton suddenly raised her asking price, Kemel's suspicions would be confirmed.
If she did not… if the deal went through, then he did not care if a whole army had been listening.
5.
Jack found a spot on Thirty-eighth where he could stand and watch the Clayton house unseen. He timed the "security force's" inspection rounds and noticed that they always operated as a pair, leaving the car twice an hour to make a perimeter inspection. No uniforms, just windbreakers and slacks.
Every so often one would walk off and return with a paper sack—coffee and donuts, most likely. And occasionally one would enter the house through the front door and return a few minutes later. They didn't need a Porta Potti; they had the house.
At ten to three, another car showed up. The first pulled out, letting the second into the precious parking space, and the next shift took over.
Satisfied that he had the security boys' schedule down, Jack called Abe for a consultation.
"So you want them down for the count, but they shouldn't be candidates for a nursing home."
"Right. A nice long nap is all."
"T-72 is what you want," Abe told him. "Colorless, odorless, no serious side effects, and best of all, it's made in America for the U.S. Army."
"Sounds great," Jack said. "I'll take some."
"And I would gladly sell you some if I had any. But I do not. It's not exactly a sporting good."
"I can't tell you how disappointed I am, Abe."
"Nu, I should stock everything in the world you will possibly need so that when you ask for it I can give it to you?"