At first, the pain had been fairly astounding. It was probably a good thing he’d been unable to scream. But the shock to Ethan’s nervous system was far worse. He’d quickly drifted into a semi-catatonic state, most likely his body’s way of defending itself. It wasn’t every day the body’s right arm decided to do something as foolish as take a ballpoint pen, pull the ink stem out of it, then jab the tube into the throat area. If Ethan’s body were the United Nations, then his right arm had become an unstable terrorist state, one that had lashed out—without warning—against a neighboring country. The right arm could say all it wanted about the stabbing being in the throat’s best interests—It was sealed up, Secretary General; I had to destroy that throat in order to save it—but to the remainder of the body, this was an incomprehensible act of aggression. The body imposed sanctions. The body condemned such violence. The body decided to shut down.
For a while.
Now Ethan was on the concrete slab of a landing, regaining his senses, pondering his next move.
Calling for help: pretty much out.
Climbing back up the stairs and opening the door to the thirty-sixth floor: Um, yeah, right. He’d had enough of the chemical agent for breakfast, thank you very much. Ethan’s luck, he’d figure out a way to disarm the thing, then realize at the last second he was wrong, and then have to spend the next ten seconds scrambling for a spork so he could scoop out his eyes to stop the poison from reaching his brain. No thanks.
He wasn’t even sure what that chemical was. It didn’t taste like ricin.
So that left down. Thirty-six flights of down.
Are you down? Ethan was down.
Down to the lobby, down to a security guard, where he’d have to put it down on paper. Unless a game of charades would be faster. Though it would be tricky to convey the events of the past thirty minutes with a few simple hand gestures.
How do you say “chemical nerve agent” in American Sign Language, anyway?
Worry about communicating later, Ethan told himself. Focus on climbing down this fire tower. One concrete half flight at a time. With a pen tube bobbing up and down in a hole in his throat, like a throat cancer patient leading an orchestra.
Down, down, down.
This, among other reasons, was why Ethan hated working on Saturdays.
Molly led Jamie down the hallway, past the conference room, then down another short hallway and through the main lobby.
A desk of deep oak dominated the room, along with a brass-plated logo of Murphy, Knox & Associates affixed to the wall. Jamie never walked through the lobby. Never had any reason to, really. The side entrances led him straight to the hallway closest to his office.
“Did you say Amy’s down here?”
Molly said nothing. Kept right on walking.
That didn’t surprise Jamie. Molly had always been an odd duck. Her social awkwardness put him at ease, actually. Whenever they were gathered in a meeting, Jamie could count on Molly to make some kind of weird nervous mistake, or refuse to make eye contact with any other employee, save David. This was good, because it made Jamie look like less of a geek. It was probably why they got along so well. Two fellow inmates on the corporate island of misfit toys.
“Look, Molly,” Jamie said. “All we need is a double-A battery, and we’re pretty much saved. No matter what Amy has in mind.”
Jamie had no idea why Amy would be down this end of the hall. It didn’t make sense. This part of the floor was populated by empty offices and cubicles, a remnant of Murphy, Knox’s gogo years. Or that was the way David had explained it. The company had been buzzing during the dot. com boom, only to succumb to postmillennial downsizing. Now, the only people who ever used this side of the office were the occasional auditors who passed through from time to time, and building inspectors, who insisted on updating it with the latest in OSHA requirements, even though nobody used it.
Without warning, Molly stopped. Turned to the left. Opened a door. Ushered Jamie inside. Closed the door behind them.
Then she did the strangest thing.
Molly looked into his eyes, with a soft, almost doting expression. It wasn’t a sexual look—no C’mere big boy and I’ll show you a good time. It was more, Come here, my sweet friend, and let me give you a hug.
It reminded him of a night a few months ago. A night after a long drunken evening …
“Um, Molly?” Jamie asked. “Why are we in here?”
Molly didn’t reply. She held out her hand. It was small and pale, with thin, elegant fingers. Her breath smelled good. Pepperminty.
Before Jamie knew what he was doing, he reached out and took her hand, as if to give her a handshake.
He felt her fingers slide against his skin. Molly’s fingers danced over his, searching. Then she latched on, and—
Jamie fell to his knees, crying in pain.
His thumb and middle finger were on fire.
What was she doing?
OH GOD.
More pressure now, more agony, nowhere to hide.
STOP OH GOD PLEASE STOP.
Jamie may even have thought he said this out loud.
Keene fixed himself another cup of tea.
He heard McCoy in the other room: “Will you look at this!”
McCoy, again with his Philadelphia people.
They should be focusing on Dubai.
Keene and McCoy shared operational space, and more often than not, operations. But this Philadelphia thing was all McCoy. As a “human resources man”—his words, not Keene’s—he liked to dabble in new talent, build his little network within the larger networks. Having “his” people in various places all over the organization increased McCoy’s power exponentially.
This was how Keene paired up with McCoy in the first place. A series of e-mails, sent back and forth between San Diego and Edinburgh, hinting around the edges. You never come out and say what you do. You sense it in each other.
A few months later, a chance meet-up in Houston had worked to their mutual benefit. Similar adventures in Chicago, and then later, New York City, had been successes as well. So when it came time for a series of operations that needed special attention, it was McCoy who had suggested Keene to his bosses, and from that, thousands of dollars’ worth of equipment had found its way into a Portobello flat.
The primary operation, as Keene saw it, was this Dubai deal. It was still in its infancy, but needed coddling.
Philadelphia was little more than a distraction, but McCoy was engrossed with it.
“C’mere and look at this. Check out what our girl is doing.”
“Aye.”
If Keene didn’t, McCoy would only continue to pester him.
Might as well engage him.
Would do him good to pay attention, probably. If McCoy were to be believed, they could be working with Girlfriend in the near future.
The pain was so blinding, Jamie found himself detached from his surroundings. He was aware that Molly was moving behind him, sending fresh waves of agony up his arm and into the hot pain centers of his brain. Jamie’s hand and arm felt like a thick mass of rubber, alive with agony, able to be bent any way his torturer wished.
His torturer—his friend Molly.
His office spouse.
Suddenly, he was being lifted up. Jamie was startled to discover that his legs could support some of his weight.
Molly had positioned herself behind him. He could feel her body heat, her chest pressed up against his back. The long sleeves of her blouse brushed against his bare forearms. They’d never touched before, except for the occasional handshake or shoulder pat. If he wasn’t in so much agony, he might have been aroused by the touch of her unfamiliar body.