Takeover

I know.”

“Hey.” Kessler, the bank executive, stared at the TV screen. “I think something is happening.”

12

11:20 A.M.

Paul watched the tall robber pace in front of them, moving slowly down the line. At least he kept the M4 carbine pointed at the floor. He stopped again, near Paul.

“You.”

The robber spoke to the black man next to him, in the green uniform. Paul felt a wave of relief and hated himself for it.

“What do you do here?”

The older man gave his name as Thompkins and said he worked in Support Services. “I vacuum and empty wastebaskets. I’m a janitor, I guess.”

“Mmm.” Lucas nodded. He still wore his hat; its emblem featured a red eagle. “I suppose I should identify with you, one lower-class workingman/oppressed minority to another. But that’s not what I’m thinking, Mr. Thompkins. I’m thinking that you may be the most valuable man in this building, because janitors go everywhere. They have to, to empty all those garbage cans. They have access to places they lock vice presidents out of, you know what I mean?”

“I’m thinking there’s nothing so ‘working’ about what you’re doing.” The old man’s gaze stayed as straight as his back. “Nothing at all.”

Everyone else tensed, Paul included. His legs trembled from the hours of inactivity. If he had to take them down, could he get to his feet fast enough? Should he even try? What about Theresa?

The line of Lucas’s jaw wavered as he clenched his teeth, then relaxed. “That’s a good point. I’ve given up on honest work, I admit that. But it’s going to be worth it. With great risks come great rewards. How long you been here?”

“Twenty-five years.”

“My, my. That’s impressive. You know this building pretty well, then? Don’t hesitate, Mr. Thompkins, if it means you’re thinking about lying to me. That wouldn’t be a good idea.”

A single bead of sweat slid down the janitor’s left temple. “I know it pretty well.”

“Good. Did you hear what that negotiator told me on the phone? About the robots?”

“Yes.”

“Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“No one can just walk into the storage rooms downstairs and pick up the money?”

“No.” His answer came promptly, with assurance. Paul believed him. Perhaps Lucas did, too, since he switched his attention to the next hostage and asked for his name.

The kid’s pale skin stood out in sharp contrast to his black hair. “Brad.”

“What do you do here, Brad?”

“I’m in the public-relations department.”

“The Federal Reserve needs PR?”

“Sure.” The young man gave a sickly grin. “Everybody hates the government.”

Lucas rewarded the joke with a sardonic twist of his lips, so that his target’s shoulders seemed to relax an inch or two, only to tense again at the next question. “What exactly do you do for the PR department, Brad? ’

The young man mumbled.

“What?”

“I’m a tour guide.”

Now Lucas’s grin looked genuine, and Paul watched the points on Brad’s collar quiver as he trembled.

“So you must know this building pretty well, huh? Maybe even better than the janitor.”

“No.” Brad’s air of nonchalance wouldn’t have fooled a three-year-old. “I take them to our museum and then the vault-the old vault. It’s empty now. A historical conversation piece.”

“No money or robots?”

“No. The old vault was part of the original 1923 construc-tion-anyway, I’m never in the work areas. We can’t have hordes of middle-schoolers disrupting the staff.”

“Still, you know the layout. What else is in this building? And, just as with Mr. Thompkins here, lying to me would not be a good idea.” Lucas stroked the M4 to make his point.

The young man swallowed hard. “There’s offices, for the analysts and the examiners. There’s the security team. There’s the bank officers’ rooms on the ninth floor. We have a little vending area-”

“Bank officers. Do they have vaults up there?”

Brad snorted, envy overcoming fear, if only for a moment. “Hardly. More like Oriental rugs and Ming vases.”

“Really?”

His head bobbed in his desperation to please. “The vice president for general counsel even has an original Picasso.”

“Uh-huh. Where does this hallway go, this one behind y’all here?”

“The employee lobby-it opens onto Superior. There’s also the elevator to the parking garage and the one to the loading dock, where that shipment is coming in at two.”

Lucas came closer to the boy. “You’re all pushing me toward this two o’clock shipment, aren’t you? Why is that?”

“I’m not pushing anything.”

“You just want to go home, is that what you’re saying?”

“Yes.” Fear etched crow’s-feet into his face as Brad screwed his eyes shut, trying to blot out the image of the M4’s barrel, a yard from his nose. “Yes.”

Paul kept gazing at Lucas, trying to remember every detail, just in case the guy got away. In case Paul lived to see him get away.

“If it makes you feel better, Brad, I may change my mind about that shipment. Hell, at this point what’s another few hours?” Without warning he walked away from Brad, disappearing behind the reception desk to return with a box of Kleenex.

“Here.” He handed it to the receptionist, seated next to Paul, who hadn’t stopped crying since the first shot rang out. “Clean yourself up. Missy, isn’t it?”

“Thank you,” she breathed.

“That’s okay. You hang in there, because I need someone to answer the phones.”

She wiped her eyes, which did not stop filling up. “Please let me go. You have to let me go.”

Lucas had begun to walk away, but her speaking up seemed to surprise him. “Why is that?”

“My little girl. She’s three years old, and she needs her mommy. She’s so precious-”

The sobs that accompanied this appeal would have softened the heart of Genghis Khan, but Lucas showed no signs of sympathy or even interest. Instead he moved over to the woman who had brought her baby along, one of the two women who’d been hiding behind the teller cages. Mark Ludlow’s wife, now his widow, though Paul figured she did not know of her recent change in status. “What’s his name?”

The woman’s eyes were huge and sea blue under untidy lengths of dishwater-blond hair. She clutched the child to her, his head resting against her shoulder. He seemed to be dozing, the skin around his nose slightly reddened, but he kept his grip on a tiny stuffed dog wearing a Browns football helmet. Mother and son appeared well fed and neatly attired. “His name is Ethan.”

“That’s nice. You name him after his daddy?”

“N-n-no. I just liked it.”

“Uh-huh. So why ain’t Ethan in school- What’s your name?”