By the time they passed the base of the crane, at the fiftieth floor, the photographer was a mere few feet away. It was halfway between the sixty-second and sixty-third floors that Storm was able to reach out and grab the man’s ankle with his right hand. The man kicked furiously, but Storm just squeezed harder. Slowly, carefully, Storm started dragging the man toward the sixty-second floor.
“We can do this one of two ways,” Storm said between huge gasps of air. “The hard way or the easy way. What’s it going to be?”
“Let go,” the photographer said. Only it wasn’t a man’s voice.
It was a woman’s.
“I can’t do that,” Storm said. “You and I need to have a conversation about those pictures you were taking. You’re going to tell me who you are and why you’re photographing that crime scene or I swear to you, I will throw you off this building.”
The woman’s response was to kick some more. Storm was easing his way down toward the beam, inch by inch, dragging the woman with him. The descent wasn’t easy, especially not doing it one-handed while the other hand had to keep taming a flailing limb. But Storm was making progress. Finally, he reached the beam below him and anchored himself to it by wrapping his legs around it. He had leverage now. This would be over with quickly.
He tugged. The woman was resisting with every bit of strength she had left, but she was tired after her long climb. She was almost in his grasp. Just a little longer. She was trying to scramble toward the outside of the column — the more dangerous side. It was a desperate attempt to get farther away from Storm and perhaps shake loose from his clutches.
Then she slipped. She had been bucking so violently against Storm’s hold — and her forearms had grown so tired from all the effort — that her fingers failed on her, losing the handhold they had on the column.
She fell, letting loose a high-pitched scream. Storm still had his grip on her ankle and felt his shoulder ripping away from its socket as the full weight of her plummeting body suddenly became his to bear. The only thing that saved him from having her momentum carry both of them down to oblivion was the column itself. He was on the inside part, while she was on the outside.
They stayed there for a second — her dangling upside down, sixty-two stories up, him hanging on with all his strength. Her ski mask had fallen off, and Storm felt himself gasp as he saw her long, black hair cascading downward and recognized the cheekbones that that had been hiding underneath.
It was Ling Xi Bang.
Despite himself — despite all the times he had steeled himself against engaging his emotions during a mission — he still felt the sting of betrayal. Yes, he had been using her in Paris, trying to get close to her to pry secrets out of her, just as she had been using him. But hadn’t at least some of what they exchanged been real? The waltzing? The storytelling? The moonlight stroll?
But no. It had all been a lie. It actually disgusted him, to know he had lain with someone who could unleash Volkov on innocent civilians.
“How could you hire a man like Volkov?” Storm shouted.
“No. It wasn’t me, I swear.”
“Then why were you taking pictures?”
“I’m trying to figure out what’s going on with these dead bankers, just like you,” she said. “The difference is, we don’t have as cozy a relationship with the Brits, so I can’t just call up Scotland Yard and get invited to the crime scene.”
“You’re lying,” Storm said.
“No. Please. Think about it: Why would I take pictures if all we wanted was to have these men dead? Because I’m investigating, too.”
The pant leg Storm was hanging on to was made of a slippery fabric. His hand was slowly sliding toward her boot. He wasn’t going to be able to keep her suspended that way much longer. Shouldn’t he just let her fall? She was an enemy operative, after all.
But maybe there were parts of her story that made sense. And maybe, Storm admitted to himself, he wasn’t ready for his time with Xi Bang to end with one night in Paris.
Meanwhile, she was trying to arc her body around so she could get a grip on the building and save herself. But there was only so much a human body could bend backward, even one as lithe as Xi Bang’s.
“Nonsense,” Storm said. “We’re on to you, Agent Xi Bang — or whatever your name is. You’re engineering some kind of plot to undermine U.S. currency by—”
“It’s not us. For the love of God, stop and think about it. Why would we want to destroy your economy? We’re your biggest investor. No one owns more American debt than China. If your currency crumbles, all that debt loses its value. We’d go bankrupt right along with you.”
He was holding her by the boot now, and nothing more. And the boot wasn’t staying put. She was working her foot to try and keep it on, but it was slowly sliding off despite her best effort.
“We’re every bit as concerned about these bankers as you are,” she continued. “And I can prove it to you.”
“How?”
“Come to Iowa with me.”
“Iowa? What’s in Iowa?” Storm asked.
“There’s a man in Ames I want you to meet. You can keep me in handcuffs the whole trip if you want, I don’t care. Talking to this guy will prove to you that I’m on your side. Now, please, help me up.”
Storm decided that a Chinese agent wouldn’t be able to invent a story involving Ames, Iowa, while hanging upside down from a skyscraper. “Okay,” he said, reaching out with the hand on the other side of the column, the one that wasn’t holding the boot. “Take my hand.”
The boot was nearly off now. Xi Bang tried to reach up and grab Storm’s free hand, curling her body into a C-shape. Her fingers were inches away from him being able to grab her and haul her to safety.
Then the boot came off.
Xi Bang screamed. She was free-falling spread-eagle, faceup, like a terrified snow angel.
Storm didn’t hesitate. The grappling hook. It was still on his left arm. His right hand flew to the activation button, and he aimed it at Xi Bang’s midsection.
The line shot out at ninety-six feet per second squared, three times faster than gravity. Storm watched in fascination as the end of the line formed into a disk, seemingly out of thin air. Then, just as the Frenchman had said it would, it attached itself to Xi Bang’s catsuit, and through the miracle of whatever science Jones’s people had produced, it held firm.
Storm grunted as the line tightened, slamming him against the column. Xi Bang swung gently fourteen stories down and landed — albeit perpendicularly — against the side of the building. Then she slowly began walking herself upward. Storm could feel the sleeve’s straps digging into his side, but they held.
Soon, she had reached the place where Storm was clinging to the column, shimmied around, and collapsed into him, panting from exertion and terror. He enveloped her, feeling their hearts pounding against each other.
“Now,” he said, “what were you saying about handcuffs?”
CHAPTER 12
WASHINGTON, D.C.
his was a town that was all about doing favors. Nearly a quarter century hanging around the halls of power had taught Donny Whitmer at least that much. Big favors. Small favors. You did them if you could, because you never knew when you might need to call one in.
Like, say, when you were thirteen points down in a primary against a Tea Party candidate who apparently had every Christian in the state of Alabama ready to pull the lever for him, and you just didn’t have time to make the two thousand phone calls that would be necessary to raise the five million bucks you needed to ruin the bastard.