Chapter Twenty Six
Downfall
Art and Simon emerged onto the roof with little trouble, and Art could see that Kimura had likely spent some of the time before ambushing them opening doors that would let out to the helipad.
And as Art stepped into the wind that slid across the roof like an endless, invisible Tsunami, he suddenly wondered if the helicopter he could see sitting a dozen yards away, its rotors turning, three men jumping from it and running his way, might not be there for her. If it was, he had just fought a losing battle.
He was both right and wrong.
A youngish man, blonde hair whipping in the tumult, came close to Art, and the first thing that was obvious was that he carried no weapon.
“Jefferson?!” the man yelled.
Art nodded, his arms held awkwardly against his body.
“Pritchard sent me!”
“Who are you?!” Art asked.
“That’s not important!”
“It is to him!” Art said.
The man looked to Simon, who huddled behind Art, something in his hands. “My name is Sean!”
Art turned to face Simon and crouched. “Simon, this is Sean. He’s a friend!”
A friend. Art was telling Simon that Sean was a friend. A friend could tell you who was a friend. Simon took the pen clipped to his cards and flipped to the proper spot. Beneath POOKS UNDRHILL he wrote SHON.
“What’s that mean?!” Sean asked.
“It means he trusts you!” Art answered.
Sean stood from his crouch, as did Art. “Where’s Kimura?!”
“Dead!”
“Where?!” Sean pressed.
“In the Skydeck! By the elevators! Why?!”
Sean waved the two men with him past. They disappeared into the building.
“What’s that about?!” Art asked.
“Listen, Jefferson… You’ve got to trust us!”
“I’m giving Simon to you, dammit! What more do you want?!”
“It wouldn’t have worked any other way!”
Art grimaced at Sean. “What are you talking about?!”
The two men returned, carrying Kimura’s lifeless body and her weapons. They took it to the helicopter and strapped it into a passenger seat in the back, sitting up, as if pretending to be alive.
“Jefferson, believe that he’ll be all right! No matter what you see!”
“What?!” Art asked, confused, something in Sean’s eyes making him understand just a little. If Kimura is found, they’ll know she didn’t get him. This way there might be a chance people would believe that she got him…and they wouldn’t need to look. That comforted Art, but only briefly. But when she doesn’t turn up, won’t people start…
“We’ve got to go!” Sean said.
Art nudged Simon so he would come around to his front, and when he did he felt the slender body press against his. He knew. He knew what was happening. At least some of it.
“Simon, I want you to go with Sean! He’s your friend! Right?!”
“Right,” Simon said, his voice barely audible in the turbulence.
Sean put his hand out, and Simon put his in it. They began to walk toward the helicopter. Art stepped forward, pulled by the departure, and said as loud as he could, “I love you, Simon!”
Simon paused, pulling on Sean’s hand, and his head swung back toward Art, the green eyes sweeping up until they met the big brown eyes for the briefest instant. But in that instant, Art knew that Simon understood.
A minute later, the helicopter lifted off into the horrid wind, the pilot fighting it until he had his bird heading out toward Lake Michigan.
The phone in the puzzle center did not make Pedanski jump this time. It was an expected call on a normal line.
“Pedanski.”
“You found the envelope I left for you?” Brad Folger inquired.
“I did.”
“Start faxing it now,” Folger instructed him. “To Senator Grant first, and work down the Intelligence Committee from him. Then the rest.”
“Okay. Are you—”
“I’m across the street right now,” Folger said.
“You’ll be all right.”
“I can’t be any worse,” Folger said, then hung up.
Five minutes later, fax machines in dozens of Senate and House offices began spitting identical pages. The first words were: By the time you read this, G. Nicholas Kudrow, Deputy Director, COMSEC-Z of the National Security Agency, will be the focus of a federal investigation into violations of wiretap statutes, extortion, tampering with evidence of a felony, and assorted other crimes.
Over water now, Sean began to get himself and Simon into harnesses, as did the other crew members. Keiko Kimura was left alone.
“Do you like to fly, Simon?” Sean asked.
Fly. Like the birds. Way up. “UP! UP!”
Sean nodded. “Yeah. You got it.”
The desk sergeant of the evening shift looked up when the well dressed man approached with a woman by his side. “Can I help you folks?”
Brad Folger nodded and took a breath. “Yes. Some time back there was an accident…”
The lights were barely lights anymore, Art thought, and he wondered if it was distance or blood loss that was making the strobe of the helicopter go faint. But in the next instant he had no trouble seeing what happened.
Far over the water, about where he thought the helicopter was fading, a brilliant flash lit the mist below, and then a trail of yellow orange spun wildly against the dark sky before trailing off into the fog, pulling a ribbon of fire with it.
Art ran against the wind to the edge of the helipad, and was about to scream to God above to not let it be true when what Sean had said just minutes before struck him and completed the picture. Trust us… Believe he’ll be all right. No matter what you see…
And he understood. Nothing could be expected of the dead. Nothing but silence. The dead were truly the only ones who could rest.
It was too far off and too windy to hear, but Art could imagine the remains of the helicopter slamming into the water, pieces coming apart. The Lake had swallowed larger things. Some it still kept.
“What was that?” Anne asked Lomax, staring through the patchy fog out over the lake. “It looked like fire.”
“I don’t know,” Lomax said, but then he didn’t really care, either. He had only one thing on his mind. Get to the Tower. Get to his number two.
First they had to get the elevators working again. Then Lomax had to get through a gauntlet of Chicago PD intent on keeping everyone below 103. Once they were persuaded to get a move on and clear the building up to the roof, he escorted Anne to the helipad where Art had been found huddled in the stairwell.
“Oh, God,” Anne said as she knelt next to him.
“Paramedics are on the way,” a cop said.
“Art! Art!” Lomax said loud and right in Art’s face.
“Babe. Do you hear me?” Anne prodded.
Art half opened his eyes. “I tried. I tried. But they got him. And the helicopter went…went…”
Anne put her hands on either side of his face as his eyes slid shut. “ART!”
At home, in his study, with a fire glowing warm across the room, G. Nicholas Kudrow sat at his desk after his wife went to bed and picked up the phone. It was late, but there were calls he had to make.
“Hello?” a somewhat gruff and groggy voice said.
Kudrow smiled before speaking. He was not conscious of doing so. “Senator Grant. Kudrow here. I need to speak to you about—”