The cookie grab ended. Jamie took the opportunity to snag three Chessmen. He stacked them on a square white paper napkin. The cookie on top: a pawn.
“First of all,” David said, “I want to thank everyone for coming up here on a Saturday morning. A hot Saturday morning in the middle of August. The time of year when nobody in their right mind stays in Philadelphia.”
Stuart chuckled. No one else did. Stuart was a brownnosing ass.
But David was right. Outside, the haze blanketed downtown Philadelphia, making it difficult to see any detail outside of a two-block radius.
David paused to snap a Milano in half with his teeth. He chewed slowly. Brushed crumbs from his place at the table. The man enjoyed taking his time almost as much as he enjoyed Pepperidge Farm cookies.
“I know this kind of meeting runs counter to protocol. But we’ve come up against a new challenge. I’ve been tasked with accepting that challenge, and this is why I’ve brought you all in this morning.”
Already, David was being his good ol’ obscure self. Protocol? Challenge? Did anyone really talk like that? Did anyone understand what the guy was talking about half the time?
Jamie eyed the Tropicana. He was thirsty. The Chessmen wouldn’t help that, and they’d probably only jack him up for a sugar crash this afternoon. He had promised Andrea he’d be home as early as possible and take over Chase duty.
“As of right now,” David said, “we’re on official lockdown.”
“What?”
“Oh, man.”
“I came in for this?”
“What’s going on, David?”
“Damn it.”
Jamie looked around the room. Lockdown? What the hell was “lockdown”?
“Beyond that,” David continued, “I’ve taken some additional measures. The elevators have been given a bypass code and will skip this floor for the next eight hours. No exceptions. Calling down to the front desk won’t work, either.”
Jamie didn’t hear the part about the front desk. He was fixated on the “next eight hours” bit. Eight hours? Trapped in here, with the Clique? He thought he’d be out of here by noon. Andrea was going to kill him.
“The phones,” David said, “have been disconnected—and not just in the computer room. You can’t plug anything back in, and have the phones back up or anything. The lines for this floor have been severed in the subbasement, right where it connects to the Verizon router. Which you can’t get to, because of the elevators.”
Stuart laughed. “So much for a smoke break.”
“No offense, David,” said Nichole, “but if I need a smoke, I’m marching down thirty-six flights of fire stairs, lockdown or no lockdown.”
“No you aren’t.”
Nichole raised an eyebrow. “You going to come between a woman and her Marlboros?”
David tented his fingers under his bony chin. He was smiling. “The fire towers won’t be any good to you.”
“Why?” Jamie heard himself ask. Not that he smoked.
“Because the doors have been rigged with sarin bombs.”
Six wadfuls of toilet paper and a vigorous hand-washing later, and a solemn vow to never ever so much as glance at a French martini—or an Egg McMuffin—ever again, Ethan left the bathroom on the thirty-seventh floor and headed for the north fire tower.
Checked his plastic-and-metal Nike sports watch. He was late. What else, right?
Better to be late than to squirm uncomfortably in that over-chilled corner office and have to rush out in the middle of a David Murphy brainstorm.(tm)
Sorry, boss. Got to do the hot squat. Ask Felton for details. She’ll tell you all about the effects of the French martini on the lower digestive tract.
In all the time Ethan had used the men’s room on the thirty-seventh floor, he’d never stopped to wonder about the companies up here. There was more than one, certainly—there was a directory at the end of the hall.
He didn’t stop to wonder now, either.
The air in the fire tower was mercifully warm. Ethan was tempted to take a seat on the cool concrete and savor the varying climes. Breath warm; sweat out the French martini. Meanwhile, let the soothing cool work its way up from the steps, into his buttocks, and beyond, healing the O-ring damage he’d sustained up on thirty-seven.
But the later his appearance on the thirty-sixth floor, the worse off he’d be.
Up, Ethan, up.
Go, Ethan, go.
Down the stairs. Hand on the doorknob. Get it over with.
The cardboard he’d used to prop open the door was still in place.
There were smiles at first, then confused frowns. Was this supposed to be an icebreaker? Jamie thought. Or was this David’s strange way of saying there was going to be a Saturday-morning fire drill?
“Stop it, David,” Amy said. “This isn’t funny.”
“Sarin, David?” Nichole asked. “Isn’t that a little harsh?”
Stuart tried to jump on the bandwagon. “Seriously. Couldn’t you have made do with a little burst of anthrax or something? Let the trespasser know you mean business, but live to tell the tale?”
“Biological agents like anthrax take too long,” David said. “And it’s not as easy to weaponize as you think.”
“Right,” Stuart said. “I always have trouble with that.”
“Plus, you could take a full blast, right in the face, and still figure you were okay for a while. Then you could make your way down the stairs and out to Market Street. I figured the immediate impact of sarin—burning eyes, nausea, constricted breathing, muscle weakness, the whole nine—would be the only thing that could keep you guys on this floor. I didn’t use an extravagant amount, but certainly enough to prevent you from reaching the bottom floor. Your throat would close before you made it down three or four flights.”
Amy’s nose wrinkled. “David.”
“Am I being offensive?”
“Hostile work environment,” Stuart said in a mock falsetto.
“Okay, we get it, it’s lockdown, we’re not going anywhere, ha ha ha,” Amy said. “So what’s the operational plan?”
“Whoa,” Nichole said. “Before we start talking about plans … David, you do know who’s here, right?” She motioned at Jamie.
Me? Jamie thought. Oh, you’ve got to love the Clique. God forbid I sit in on a meeting with any substance. Freaky as it was.
David tented his index fingers under his nose again. Raised his eyebrows slightly, then opened his mouth …
And there was a scream.
Not from David. From somewhere else. Beyond the walls of the conference room. Elsewhere on the floor.
Molly said, “God, Ethan …”
Ethan had glanced up at the weird thing above the door just before it happened. Thing was bone-white, cushy, the size of a fanny pack, and had a keypad and bright green digital display with the word READY. He turned around to look at the wall behind him—maybe there were more? His hand was still on the doorknob. As he turned, the door opened another inch.
He heard a clicking sound. A blast of mist hit him square in the face. His eyes burned immediately. It freaked him out.
So Ethan didn’t care how it might sound. He screamed.
He screamed like hell.
David and Molly exchanged glances, and David said, “We’re going to have to check that out.”
“Wait,” Amy said. “Was that Ethan?”
Jamie stood up. He looked outside, in the haze of the summer morning, scanning for planes. He couldn’t help it. He’d worked in a building in Lower Manhattan on 9/11, right at Broadway and Bleecker. His office window had faced the Twin Towers; he’d been taking a leak when the first plane hit. Jamie had walked back to his office and saw, with a start, that the upper floors of the North Tower were on fire. Someone screamed.