Storm was already on the move. “Well,” he said. “Then perhaps I should find out.”
Storm rode the elevator back down and crossed quickly out into the street. This could be a fool’s errand, he knew. For whatever Walton said, it could just be a paparazzo, looking to shoot pictures of a sensational crime scene. Or it could be some kind of weird thrill-seeker who mixed a fascination for gruesome killings with a thing for heights.
Or it could be that the Chinese Ministry of State Security had sent someone to make sure Volkov had done his job right.
Whatever it was, Storm was going to figure it out by having a polite conversation with the man. Or a not-so-polite conversation. That part really depended on how forthcoming the photographer felt like being.
Storm reached the construction site and surveyed the outside. It was surrounded on all sides by a razor-wire fence. It was not insurmountable, but it was just imposing enough to give Storm pause.
How had the photographer gotten in? Storm did a quick lap around the building and found what he was looking for on the far side. Someone who was apparently handy with bolt cutters had clipped away a narrow section of razor wire. Storm took advantage of the gap, vaulting himself over the fence in that spot.
From there, the path was easy to follow. The ground was soft, and the only fresh footprints led directly to the building. A glass skin covered the first three floors — as far as they had gotten before the money ran out — and Storm tracked the footprints through some front doors.
The inside of the building was completely unfinished — just the steel columns leading up toward the sky. In the middle of the structure there was a lift that led to the crane that was still in place, fifty or so stories up, where someday it would perhaps finish the top floors of the building.
Storm went to the lift and pressed a large green button. Nothing happened. He pressed the red button above it. Still nothing. The lift car was just sitting there, idle, inoperable, same as everything else in the building. Obviously, the power had been cut off.
Storm looked up at the photographer. He counted beams. The man was ten floors up, still firing away from behind his telephoto lens. He must have climbed there.
Storm knew he would have to do the same. The only good news was that the photographer was more or less trapped. That there were no quick ways up meant there were also no quick ways down — at least not any ways that wouldn’t have a sudden, painful end. Plus, Storm had the persuasive powers of the Beretta to aid his cause.
Storm walked to the nearest column and started working his way upward. The climbing was not especially difficult, at least not for a man of Storm’s strength and fitness level. The columns had enough notches that they were easy to scale. Storm gained quickly on the photographer, who was so engrossed in documenting the crime scene that he didn’t notice he was about to have company.
As Storm made his silent ascent, he stayed directly below the photographer so the man wouldn’t see him. Storm allowed himself occasional glimpses upward. The photographer was dressed in all black, from his boots to his one-piece suit to his ski mask. A classic cat burglar. He was not as tall as Storm thought. His thinness just made him appear so.
Storm was now one floor below, still out of the photographer’s line of sight. He paused to consider his next move. He did not want to approach from directly below the man. The man would be able to kick him in the head, which Storm needed like, well, like he needed a kick in the head.
With that in mind, Storm decided he’d have to walk to the next column, about thirty feet away. He could climb that one, get on the same level as the photographer, and pull out his gun. Then he’d have the guy exactly where he wanted him.
Storm looked at the distance, trying to get his mind in the right set. Storm wasn’t particularly acrophobic, but he was as aware as any other human being that a fall from ten stories up would probably hurt a little. Really, it was just a trick of psychology. After all, if you placed the beam on the ground and told him — or anyone else with a reasonable sense of balance — to walk those thirty feet, he’d be able to stroll along, even sprint it, without a second thought. Put the same beam ten stories up and it was heart-in-throat, shuffle-inch-by-inch time.
So the trick was to convince himself that the beam was really on the ground. Yes. It was on the ground. What did people always say? Just don’t look down. Great advice. It ranked right up there with telling a man who was being chased by a grizzly bear to run a little faster.
Nevertheless, it was all Storm had. He left the safety of the column and, without looking down, began calmly walking.
Ten feet. No problem. Fifteen feet. The wind gusted a little. He didn’t let it rattle him. Twenty feet. A bird flew by — below him. He willed himself not to be bothered by it. His sole focus was that next girder.
He was perhaps twenty-five feet in — five feet to safety — when disaster struck. His foot hit something. He couldn’t see what, but it felt like a thin piece of metal. Automatically, Storm looked down. It was a T square. Some worker or engineer or someone had left it there, except now it had been kicked free and was hurtling earthward. Storm watched it fall and hit the concrete floor ten stories down with a tremendous clattering.
The photographer’s head snapped immediately in the direction of the sound, which naturally drew his eye downward — and directly at Storm.
Storm drew the Beretta. “Freeze,” he ordered.
Without a word, the photographer slung the camera around his neck and started climbing the column. Storm had a shot at the man, but not an especially good one. There were beams in the way. Plus, what if he actually hit the guy? You couldn’t interrogate a dead man.
Then there was Storm’s worry about the gun’s recoil knocking him off balance. A 9mm didn’t have a lot of kick, but it would give him a little push, and Storm wasn’t braced on anything.
As it was, Storm felt his balance starting to go. Looking down at the T square then up at the photographer had disoriented him. The awareness that he was 120 feet in the air, perched on a foot-wide piece of metal, crashed into him.
He lurched to one side, then the other. His stomach did a somersault. He was going to fall. He threw his arms out to try and steady himself, as with a tightrope walker’s rod.
It didn’t work.
Storm felt himself going over.
In a last-ditch effort at saving himself, he flung himself toward the next column. He caught it with both hands, then pulled himself to it, hugging it as if it were the waiting arms of his mother. He allowed himself a moment to feel safe, then he cursed loudly when he heard something heavy striking the concrete far below.
The Beretta. He had dropped it.
There was no going back for it now. The photographer had gained a full story on him, and was apparently intent on going higher. Why was the man heading up? What was there to gain from that?
There was no point in trying to ponder that strategy. Storm dashed back across the beam — to hell with being ten stories up — and reached out for the column directly below the photographer.
Then Storm started his own climb to the sky.
Storm was gaining on him. There was no question about that. The photographer was no slouch as a climber. And he was in nearly as good shape as Storm. But Storm was stronger and faster.
It was just that the progress was slow. By the time they reached the twenty-fifth floor, Storm had cut the photographer’s lead in half, down to one level. By the fortieth floor, he was half a level away. Storm could feel the lactic acid building in his muscles and the rawness from where the steel was eating into his fingers, but he was thankful for the pain. It gave him something to concentrate on other than the dizzying heights they were reaching. All of London was growing small beneath them.