“Another Rothko?” Ben asked.
“Yeah. And with an important function besides just being a piece of art.”
She slipped her fingers under the burnished steel frame, feeling along the bottom. A latch clicked, and the big painting swung away from the wall, to which it had been firmly fixed rather than hung on wire. Behind the hinged Rothko was a large wall safe with a circular door about two feet in diameter. The steel face, dial, and handle gleamed.
“Trite,” Ben said.
“Not really. Not your ordinary wall safe. Four-inch-thick steel casing, six-inch face and door. Not just set in the wall but actually welded to the steel beams of the building itself. Requires not one but two combinations, the first forward, the second reverse. Fireproof and virtually blastproof, too.”
“What's he keep in there — the meaning of life?”
“Some money, I guess, like in the safe at the house,” she said, handing Ben the flashlight. She turned the dial and began to put in the first combination. “Important papers.”
He aimed the light at the safe door. “Okay, so what're we after exactly? The cash?”
“No. A file folder. Maybe a ring-binder notebook.”
“What's in it?”
“The essentials of an important research project. More or less an abstract of the developments to date, including copies of Morgan Lewis's regular reports to Eric. Lewis is the project head. And with any luck, Eric's personal project diary is in here, too. All of his practical and philosophical thoughts on the subject.”
Ben was surprised that she had answered. Was she finally prepared to let him in on at least some of her secrets?
“What subject?” he asked. “What's this particular research project all about?”
She did not respond but blotted her sweat-damp fingers on her blouse before easing the safe's dial backward toward the first number of the second combination.
“Concerning what?” he pressed.
“I have to concentrate, Benny,” she said. “If I overshoot one of these numbers, then I'll have to start all over and put the first set in again.”
He had gotten all he was going to get, the one little scrap about the file. But, not caring to stand idly by, having nothing else to do but pressure her, he said, “There must be hundreds of research files on scores of projects, so if he keeps just one of them here, it's got to involve the most important thing Geneplan's currently working on.”
Squinting, and with her tongue poked out between her teeth, she brought all of her attention to bear on the dial.
“Something big,” he said.
She said nothing.
He said, “Or it's research they're doing for the government, the military. Something extremely sensitive.”
Rachael put in the final number, twisted the handle, opened the small steel door, and said, “Oh, damn.”
The safe was empty.
“They got here before us,” she said.
“Who?” Ben demanded.
“They must've suspected that I knew.”
“Who suspected?”
“Otherwise, they wouldn't have been so quick to get rid of the file,” she said.
“Who?” Ben said.
“Surprise,” said a man behind them.
As Rachael gasped, Ben was already turning, seeking the intruder. The flashlight beam caught a tall, bald man in a tan leisure suit and a green-and-white-striped shirt. His head was so completely hairless that he must have shaved it. He had a square face, wide mouth, proud nose, Slavic cheekbones, and gray eyes the shade of dirty ice. He was standing on the other side of the desk. He resembled the late Otto Preminger, the film director. Sophisticated in spite of his leisure suit. Obviously intelligent. Potentially dangerous. He had confiscated the pistol that Rachael had put down with her purse when she had come into the office.
Worse, the guy was holding a Smith & Wesson Model 19 Combat Magnum. Ben was familiar with — and deeply respected — that revolver. Meticulously constructed, it had a four-inch barrel, was chambered for the.357 Magnum cartridge, weighed a moderate thirty-five ounces, and was so accurate and so powerful that it could even be used for deer hunting. Loaded with hollow-point expanding cartridges or with armor-piercing rounds, it was as deadly a handgun as any in the world, deadlier than most.
In the beam of the Eveready, the intruder's gray eyes glistened strangely.
“Lights on,” the bald man said, raising his voice slightly, and immediately the room's overhead lights blinked to life, evidently engaged by a voice-activated switch, a trick that suited Eric Leben's preference for ultramodern design.
Rachael said, “Vincent, put the gun away.”
“Not possible, I'm afraid,” the bald man said. Though his head was quite naked, the back of his big hand had plenty of hair, almost like a pelt, and it even bristled on his fingers between the knuckles.
“There's no need for violence,” Rachael said.
Vincent's smile was sour, imparting a cold viciousness to his broad face. “Indeed? No need for violence? I suppose that's why you brought a pistol,” he said, holding up the thirty-two that he had snatched off the desk.
Ben knew the S&W Combat Magnum had twice the recoil of a forty-five, which was why it featured large hand-filling stocks. In spite of the superb accuracy built into it, the weapon could be wildly inaccurate in the hands of an inexperienced shooter unprepared for the hard kick it delivered. If the bald man did not appreciate the tremendous power of the gun, if he were inexperienced, he would almost certainly fire the first couple of shots high into the wall, over their heads, which might give Ben time to reach him and take him out.
“We didn't really believe Eric would've been reckless enough to tell you about Wildcard,” Vincent said. “But apparently he did, the poor damn fool, or you wouldn't be here, rummaging in his office safe. No matter how badly he treated you, Rachael, he still had a weakness for you.”
“He was too proud,” she said. “Always was. He liked to brag about his accomplishments.”
“Ninety-five percent of Geneplan's staff is in the dark about the Wildcard Project,” Vincent said. “It's that sensitive. Believe me, no matter how much you may have hated him, he thought you were special, and he wouldn't have bragged about it to anyone else.”
“I didn't hate him,” she said. “I pity him. Especially now. Vincent, did you know he'd broken the cardinal rule?”
Vincent shook his head. “Not until… tonight. It was a mad thing to do.”
Intently watching the bald man, Ben reluctantly decided that the guy was experienced with the Combat Magnum and would not be startled by its recoil. is grip on it was not at all casual; his right hand was clenched tightly. His aim was not casual, either; his right arm was extended, stiff and straight, elbow locked, with the muzzle lined up between Rachael and Ben. He would only have to swing it a couple of inches in either direction to blow one or both of them away.
Unaware that Ben could be of more use in such a situation than he'd ever given her reason to believe, Rachael said, “Forget the damn gun, Vincent. We don't need guns. We're all in this together now.”
“No,” Vincent said. “No, as far as the rest of us are concerned, you're not in this. Never should've been. We simply don't trust you, Rachael. And this friend of yours…”
The dirty-gray eyes shifted focus from Rachael to Ben. His gaze was piercing, disconcerting. Although his eyes lingered on Ben only a second or two, there was an iciness in them that was transmitted to Ben, sending a chill along his spine.
Then, having failed to detect that he was dealing with someone far less innocent than appearances indicated, Vincent looked away from Ben, back at Rachael, and said, “He's a complete outsider. If we don't want you in this, then we certainly aren't about to make room for
To Ben, that statement sounded ominously like a death sentence, and at last he moved with a sinuosity and lightning speed worthy of a striking snake. Taking a big chance that the second command to the voice-activated
