I knelt, grabbed his gun, and spun to see what Fischer was doing. What I saw was the elevator door closing. So I put the gun on the butcher table, fumbled the key ring off Collins' belt clip, and put it between my teeth. Then I picked up the gun again and looked around. At that moment I was really scared, for the first time that night. I felt trapped down there, and remembered Thomas' bodyguard with that damned Uzi. Thomas was probably armed, too. Then I saw a door at the back of the room, ran to it and opened it. There was a narrow staircase leading downward, and I remembered what Molly Cadigan had said about utility tunnels connecting the different buildings. I started down, and a pneumatic closer closed the door behind me.
The tunnel was about ten feet wide, dim and chilly, with ducts and big pipes overhead wrapped with insulation. Here and there was a single fluorescent tube for light. It took precious seconds to find what I assumed was the right key. I put it between my teeth, got my hands free, and took off at an easy trot. About a hundred feet farther, I came to a steel door in the side wall, like a ship's door, and opened it. Inside was a lightless room with a lot of old sheet-iron junk. I trotted on, glad to be wearing crepe-soled shoes; they were virtually soundless on the concrete.
Pretty soon I passed a junction with a narrower tunnel, then steep steel stairs like a ship's ladder, leading up. Presumably to some other part of the building I'd just left. I passed it by. A ways farther was a wide door, apparently to another tunnel, but it was locked, and I padded on. There were more doors like the first; I ignored them. Farther on, the tunnel I was in ended at a cross tunnel. It was even wider, and there was another steel stairway leading up. Hesitating, I considered. I might still be under the building with Thomas in it—it was a big one—so instead of going up, I turned right.
This tunnel was blocked, farther on, by a broad, heavy sliding door. I paused and listened, but couldn't hear a hint of pursuit. I reminded myself I'd been down there for no more than two minutes, and maybe Thomas and his bodyguard had left the dining room when I did. Maybe Fischer was having to chase them down. I grabbed the handle of the door and pulled. With an effort it opened, fairly quietly, moving on wheels on an overhead track. After taking a moment to close it behind me, I ran on. A short way ahead, the tunnel turned about 45 degrees and, a little way past the turn, entered a sort of workroom like a large alcove, about 20 feet wide and 40 long. Along the far side was a bench with pipefitter's vises. Overhead were racks with a few pipes on them.
Just now, though, the room seemed to be a dormitory. It was pretty much taken up with old canvas folding cots, most of them occupied by unblanketed men and women in gray coveralls, patched and dirty. They were curled against the chill, but seemed to be sleeping heavily. A single man, also in dirty coveralls, was standing by a small and battered metal desk beneath a single fluorescent. What looked like a logbook lay open on it. I guessed he was a straw boss or something like that. He wore an orange ball cap that I took to be a badge of rank. His eyes, calm and direct, stopped me in my tracks.
"Sir," he said quietly, "this is SRC space. It's off limits to all others except security and the morals police. You'll have to leave."
I nodded, said, "Right!", and strode on through the room and out of it, prepared to sprint if the guy yelled. He didn't. The continuation of the tunnel was narrower here, not more than six feet wide, and darker, all the fluorescents dead but one. It occurred to me with a pang that the wall I could make out about 200 feet ahead might be a dead end.
It wasn't. When I got there, I found another cross tunnel, also narrow. This seemed to be neglected territory. The dust was heavy, and in the branch to my right I could hear and smell a steam leak. The only fluorescent was flickering weakly.
Suddenly I heard voices behind me, farther off than the "SRC space." I had pursuers, and they'd passed through the sliding door. I took the left branch.
And 80 feet farther came to a narrow steel door in one wall, with a simple handle. I stepped inside and found myself in an unlit vertical tube about three feet in diameter, with rungs up one side. I grabbed one, then pulled the door shut behind me, which left me in pitch darkness. Groping, I climbed two rungs at a time until my reaching hand came to an overhead. With a push I raised it—a manhole cover. I shoved it out of my way and it fell with a loud clank. Then I hoisted myself out onto a raised concrete dock at one end of a big parking lot; the lid had fallen off it to the pavement. The end I was in was walled on three sides by buildings. A ways ahead, the buildings ended and the lot widened. There were hardly any cars at this hour. Maybe 400 feet ahead, streetlights showed the row of tall palms where the fence would be. It had begun to drizzle. The dominant smell was ripe Dumpster instead of jasmine.
I'd jumped from the dock and begun trotting toward the palms, when a strong flashlight beam swept the pavement ahead of me. Security men on a roof, I realized. They'd heard the manhole cover fall. Another light joined it, swept the pavement to my right. Then someone saw me and called out. A light beam found me. I ignored it.
A voice yelled from the direction of the manhole, and I ran faster. Ahead I could see the fence—chain link topped with razor wire. The palm trees were on the inside. Breathing hard, I reached the nearest of them and began to shinny up the trunk. It was harder than I'd expected. Behind me, someone yelled "Shoot!" and someone else yelled "No, goddamn it, it'll bring the police!" When my feet were well above the fence, I jumped, pushing off as best I could, clearing the razor wire and landing heels first on the sidewalk, to crash heavily onto my back.
It knocked the wind out of me. Stunned and gasping, I rolled onto my hands and knees and looked up. They were not more than 150 feet away, running toward me. Then headlights caught me, and a minivan pulled to the curb. I lurched to my feet, ready to run again, when a voice called from the van—Tuuli's voice! "Martti! Quick! Get in." A door was open, and she had me by a sleeve, pulling. I half climbed, half fell in. Before Tuuli could close the door, the van pulled away, burning rubber.
18
COMMAND PERFORMANCE
The driver was Carlos. He asked if I was all right, and I told him I was. He didn't ask any more questions. Instead he phoned our security division headquarters, in north Burbank. Told them to send an extra crew to corporate headquarters in West Hollywood. The Gnosties were unlikely to try anything further tonight, but if they did, that's where they'd hit.
As he drove, I sat by Tuuli in the backseat, turning the interrogation over in my mind. I didn't even ask how they'd known where I was. Carlos stopped at a Denny's on Sunset, where we took a booth and ordered coffee and pie. At that hour, it was a good place to wait while the added security had time to reach headquarters.
We were almost the only customers there. It was a good place to talk, if we kept it quiet.
"So," Carlos said, "I suppose you've got questions."
"Yeah. How did you guys come to be there?" I looked at Tuuli. "You especially."
It turned out she actually had gone to Arizona. About the time the flight left Williams though, she'd had a premonition that I'd need her, that I'd be in extreme danger. Frank Diacono was waiting for her at Flagstaff. She told him her premonition, then tried to phone me. I'd already left my room, and left my beeper there. I don't usually carry it off duty. So she called the office, and the night watch forwarded her call to Carlos. They'd agreed to meet at building reception.