The entire city seemed to be holding its breath, awaiting the event.
Tim observed the intensifying circus atmosphere with equal parts awe and concern-the security machinations, gleaned through the Stork’s wiretapping and Rayner’s rooting, were ever shifting. Tim’s plan nearly had to be scrapped several times, the first when KCOM’s legal department started making noises about retracting the live aspect of the interview, wanting to prerecord Lane at an unspecified time as a security precaution. Next Lane wanted to shift the meeting to a secret location, for his own safety and cachet, but Yueh was understandably uncomfortable with this, given Lane’s history and notorious hatred of the media. With the support of the brass, KCOM security finally threw down a veto, preferring to deal with variables contained in-plant rather than opening up a new locale. For this concession Lane extracted the promise that the interview would remain live, so his gospel couldn’t get misrepresented or chopped up in edit. KCOM marketing and Yueh herself were more than happy to comply-putting a live spin on Event TV had already served to up the PR ante. To exploit the hype further, an added fifteen-minute viewer-call-in segment at the end ensured that Lane could respond to the Angry Public.
The next dogfight predictably involved jurisdiction-LAPD, KCOM security, and Lane’s crackpot bodyguard team were locked in a protracted and bellicose set of negotiations over everything from employee-and public-safety concerns to personnel screening. LAPD predictably forbade nearly half of Lane’s crew from entering the building; the hired replacements, once selected by Lane, would be vetted extensively.
Tuesday night found Tim in the Chevy van’s passenger seat, parked on the narrow street on the north side of the KCOM building, staring at the still-lit window that would have provided a view of the service elevator and the numeric keypad had the run-down truck not remained, infuriatingly unbudged, blocking any useful vantage. The last courier usually arrived between 7:57 and 8:01 P.M.; Tim’s watch showed 6:45.
In his lap he held a stack of photographs, each containing a shot of a KCOM employee, identified by name on the back. Black-op flash cards.
Humming the theme to The Roy Rogers Show, the Stork continued to fuss over what appeared to be a parabolic microphone attached to a small calculator. He fiddled with some wiring, set it down, and pulled a can of red spray paint from the center console.
“What are you doing?” Tim asked for perhaps the fifth time.
The Stork slid out from the driver’s seat. He darted across the street in an approximation of a crouch that he probably thought inconspicuous, but that in reality made him look like a constipated hunchback. He disappeared behind the dilapidated truck and moments later emerged on the far side, bent down, spraying the curb fire-engine red.
He dashed back to the van, leapt in, and sat, recovering his breath. He removed a cell phone from his pocket-yesterday Dumone had brought them all matching Nextels so they’d be operating on the same network-and flipped it open. He dialed 411 and at the prompt asked for Fredo’s Towing.
He spoke in a deepened voice. “Yes, hello. This is KCOM security, over at Wilshire and Roxbury. I have a truck parked here in a red zone we need moved ASAP. Yeah, okay. Thanks.”
He closed the phone and leaned back in his seat, pleased with himself.
“Smart idea, but even if the truck’s moved, we’re not gonna be able to see through the courier’s back to read the code he’s punching in.”
The Stork raised the cone-shaped piece of equipment he’d been tinkering with earlier. “That’s why I brought Betty.”
“Betty?”
“Betty trains a laser on the windowpane. She can pick up every vibration in the glass.”
Tim shook his head, still not understanding.
“Every number on a keypad emits a slightly different frequency. These frequencies will cause a windowpane to vibrate almost undetectably. Betty reads these vibrations and translates them back to numbers for me.”
“How about other, stronger vibrations? Won’t they interfere?”
“It’s pretty quiet now,” the Stork said. “That’s why we’re doing this at eight o’clock. No gates rolling up, no loading going on at the dock.”
Tim gestured at the piece of equipment. “And you…you designed it?”
“Her. And I wrote the computer program she utilizes.” The Stork sniffed, and his glasses slid a notch down his nose. “Let’s just say they didn’t let me in the FBI for my bench press.”
The tow truck arrived twenty minutes later and hauled off the truck, leaving the Stork a clear angle to the window. The courier arrived earlier than expected-7:53-but the Stork had Betty propped against his door and locked on the glass before the courier entered the code on the keypad. By the time the service-elevator doors slammed shut behind the courier, Betty’s small screen had rendered the code: 78564.
The Stork stroked the top of the parabola and whispered something to it.
“I have to say, Stork, pretty impressive.”
The Stork put the van back in drive and eased out from the curb. “If my aim was to impress you, Mr. Rackley, I would have brought Donna.”
•Rayner pulled Tim inside as soon as he opened the front door. “Good, good. You’re back. Come-we got the tapes you asked for.”
When Tim entered the conference room, Mitchell’s head snapped up from his work. His hair looked slightly frayed; he needed a haircut. Hunched over a phone book, he was tinkering with the explosive device. It lay dissected on the yellow cover, its tiny components spread beside it like electronic innards. Breaching reports were scattered across the table, the pages sporting Mitchell’s chicken-scratch calculations for determining overpressure. Mumbling to himself, Mitchell pried open a coil with the tip of a screwdriver.
Robert and the Stork were still out on surveillance, but the others were present.
Ananberg, cat-languid and smug, arched an eyebrow at Tim by way of greeting. She pointed to a stack of tapes with her pencil. “There’s the rest. View ’em at your leisure.”
“Thank you.”
Dumone tossed Tim the remote. Tim aimed it at the TV, and the video unfroze-a Melissa Yueh interview with Arnold Schwarzenegger from last April, about the prospects of his running for mayor.
One of Tim’s cell phones vibrated-the Nokia, left pocket, not the Nextel supplied by Dumone. He checked Caller ID and turned it off-for Dray’s protection he didn’t want anyone to hear him talking to her.
But Ananberg took note of his expression, pressing a pencil against her lips. “Trouble on the home front?”
Tim ignored her, shifting the tape into slo-mo with another click of the remote. Arnie’s laugh, viewed at eight frames per second, made him look like a man seeking to devour something. He slapped his knee, turned his head, revealing a shaving nick and the tan plug of the earpiece. The lighting made his skin look glossy.
Mitchell watched the screen, trying to figure out what Tim was looking for, tapping his tweezers against the phone book.
Rayner smoothed his mustache with his thumb and forefinger. “Now that we’ve done all the legwork, why don’t you let us in on your plan? We don’t know anything at this point. How are we even supposed to know when it happens?”
“Oh, believe me,” Tim said, eyes still on the screen, “you’ll know when it happens.”
•Parked in the driveway, Tim stared at the house numbers nailed just beneath the porch light, beside the front door: 96775. Years ago he’d pencil-sketched their placement before nailing them to the wall, using a framing square turned at an angle to calculate the slant. The 9 had lost its bottom nail and had swung upside down; it was now a misaligned 6.
He replayed Dray’s last message on his cell phone.
“Well, since you’re too hard to get right now, I’m leaving this on your voice mail. Don’t think you can disappear and work things out at the same time. Since I don’t know where you live, I can’t stop by and try to talk some sense into you, but I’m only gonna wait so long. Come over and let’s talk. I’m working a full schedule again, so call first to make sure I’m around.”