“Good night,” he said.
“See you tomorrow.”
Gordon watched the cab disappear into the traffic on Franklin, then headed into the hotel. In fact, there were two reasons he didn’t want to stay at Jennifer Pearce’s house. First, he was beginning to fall for her. And the last place he wanted to end up was in bed with her if the timing wasn’t right. She was a beautiful woman, both physically and emotionally. And while she could be soft and tender at times, there was another side to the woman that he found equally impressive. She was highly intelligent and exceptionally focused. She had felt something was wrong when Kenga had died in St. Lucia and she had followed up on her suspicions. Flying across the country and approaching him at his mill must have taken incredible nerve. She was a strong woman with a clear sense of what she considered to be right and wrong, and she was a woman who acted on her convictions.
And she made him feel whole again. He didn’t know how, but just being near her somehow eased the pain of the loss he had suffered. He had accepted the fact that Billy was dead, but the sadness that enveloped him was foreign. He’d never been a melancholy person, and the depression he felt in the weeks after his brother’s death was new and unwelcome. But now it was lifting. And he saw Jennifer Pearce as the reason. She excited and intrigued him, and he wanted to know her better. But not until the time was right. It had to be when they were both ready.
There was another reason he had refused her offer. At nine o’clock, he was meeting the locksmith he’d visited that afternoon. The man had listened to Gordon’s story, then agreed to supply the liquid nitrogen for five hundred dollars. Gordon checked his watch: eight forty-five. He walked through the Rotunda and up the elegant staircase, located an open chair in the Palm Court, and waited under the domed skylight. The stained glass, some of it original Tiffany, reflected the last rays of the day, then darkened as the sun set and the soft moon slowly rose, low on the horizon. At precisely nine o’clock, the locksmith, Brent Waldman, entered the bar, spied him, and headed over to his table.
He set a cylindrical black container about sixteen inches high on the table and reclined in the chair opposite Gordon. “I checked out your story,” he said, ordering a beer when the waitress came by. “There was an explosion in a town house on Cooley Avenue back at the end of April, and the listing realtor recently showed the house to an out-of-town buyer matching your description.”
“You did your homework,” Gordon said, paying for the locksmith’s beer when it arrived.
“In our business, we learn how to open doors and safes. We don’t often impart that knowledge to thieves, Mr. Buchanan.”
“So you’re pretty sure I’m not a thief?”
“I didn’t say that. You’re taking liquid nitrogen to a deserted house and pouring it on a floor safe so you can open it and take things out that don’t belong to you. That qualifies you as a thief. But I believe you’re telling the truth about why you want whatever is in that safe. You see, I also checked with Arnie Boyle, the sheriff back home in Butte, to see if Billy Buchanan really did die a few months ago.” He took a sip off his beer. “Sorry about your brother, Mr. Buchanan.”
“Thanks,” Gordon said. He looked at the container on the table. “That the stuff?”
“Yup. And a pair of heavy-duty rubber gloves as well. Don’t touch the nitrogen without putting the gloves on first. It’ll freeze your skin in seconds.”
“Strong stuff.”
“You wouldn’t believe it. But it’ll take a few applications to freeze the bolts to the point where you can snap them. Pour a bit on and give it a few minutes, then give it another shot. Just keep trying the handle on the lid and it’ll eventually lift off. Careful when you put your hand in the safe, as the nitrogen may have leaked in and run down the inside of the metal. Keep the gloves on until you’re sure there’s no chance of touching any of the nitrogen.”
“How do I dispose of the leftover?”
“I’ve only given you enough to eliminate the locking mechanism on the safe. Use it all. Leave the container in the safe when you’re finished and cover it up. Chances are no one will ever notice it’s there.”Waldman finished his beer and stood up.
Gordon slipped his hand in his pocket and held out the five hundred dollars. “Payment for the nitrogen.”
Waldman shook his head. “No, thanks. I told you, I don’t like to help thieves. I just think what you’re doing is probably the right thing. I don’t want the money. Good luck.” They shook hands, and the man left without looking back.
Gordon finished his beer and left the hotel with the black package. One of the doormen hailed a cab and he gave the driver a house number a couple down from Rousseau’s on Cooley Avenue. It was dark now, the moon just a sliver over the James River. Gordon watched the city slip by, thinking about the quick history lesson his previous cabdriver, Bud, had given him. More Americans had died in and around Richmond during the Civil War than in all of the Vietnam War. Maybe more than World War II, he didn’t know. But the grassy slopes leading to the James River were once slick with Union and Confederate blood. Soldiers getting up in the morning, knowing that they were being sent to their death that afternoon. God, what a way to die. March at the battlements and take a musket ball or a hot shard of shrapnel from an exploding cannonball. They entered Carytown and turned onto Cooley Avenue. Gordon paid the driver and watched him drive off.
The street was dark, save for the light from a couple of streetlamps. He walked to Rousseau’s condo, stopped on the sidewalk for a minute, then moved quickly into the ruins. He waited until he was in the basement before turning on his flashlight, and even then shielded the beam with his free hand. He carefully picked his way across the piles of rubble and found the floor drain exactly as he had left it. The tightfitting piece of wood came out a little easier this time, revealing the top of the safe. He slipped on the rubber gloves and opened the vial enclosed in the black case, then focused the flashlight into the hole and carefully poured the liquid nitrogen into the cracks between the lid and the body of the safe. He moved the vial around the lid as he poured, trying to get the liquid spread evenly around the entire diameter. He waited a few minutes, then repeated the procedure. Another few minutes and another application. There was a tiny bit of nitrogen left after he had made the third complete revolution, and he kept going until the last drops were out of the vial and on the safe. He screwed the lid on the vial and returned it to the black case. Tiny wisps of smoke exited the crack, and he sat back to wait.
He kept trying the handle, and after about fifteen minutes it moved a bit. He slipped on the rubber gloves, got a good grip on the handle, and gave it a steady pull. It resisted for a few seconds, then the bolts snapped and the lid came away in his hands. He set it aside and shone the flashlight in the hole. There was a solitary object in the safe, and he reached in and gently lifted it out. It was plastic, about three inches long by an inch wide, and shaped a bit like a cigar. On one side, the packaging read
He slipped it into his pocket and replaced the lid on the safe after dumping the black case and the rubber gloves in the hole. He jammed the piece of wood in place and slid the drain cover into its slot. Then he picked his way back across the piles of junk and up the stairs. The street was totally deserted, the hour late. He walked a block or two until he hit Cary Street, where he found a cab waiting outside one of the bars. He got in the backseat and asked the driver to head for the Jefferson Hotel.
He retrieved the hard drive from his pocket and stared at it.
What was on the silicon chip inside this piece of plastic? Was it worth Albert Rousseau’s life? Was it the evidence he needed to bring Veritas to justice? Right now, he had no answers. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would know.
39
The last of the reports were filtering into the Department of Homeland Security on Sunday morning when J. D. Rothery closed his door and addressed the representatives of the other federal agencies. He consulted the latest figures, updated at 0600, twenty minutes earlier.
“Good news and bad news, gentlemen,” he said, setting the paper on his desk.“We have field reports back on
