Another box file was inside; he opened it, taking out a small but powerful LED torch on an elastic strap, a screwdriver with interchangeable heads, a pair of wrist straps, the suction cup, a heat-gun - a clone of the device attached to Matt’s ROV - and a small squeezable plastic bottle. Lining them up on the floor, he began to remove his clothes.
Through the earpiece he heard Matt humming ‘The Stripper’ - Rad’s computer was displaying the live signals from the cameras as well as the faked ones going to the guards’ monitors. ‘Tell Matt to pack that in,’ he muttered. The tune stopped.
He dropped his clothing to the floor . . . revealing a skin-tight polyurethane bodysuit. The super-slick garment had been designed for swimmers, reducing drag as they passed through the water to such an extent that they had been banned from professional competitions. But slickness - and tightness, the suit as constricting as a Victorian corset - were exactly what Eddie needed. Round his waist was a belt, also pulled tight.
He stuffed his clothes into the locker, then carefully shut the door and donned the wrist straps, clipping the heat-gun, the screwdriver and the suction cup to them. He then put the torch’s strap round his head and reached up to push the case and the silicone container on top of the lockers, followed by the plastic bottle.
Now the hard part began. Eddie jumped to grab the top of the lockers, feet against the doors. He was not wearing his usual boots, but close-fitting black climbing shoes, with rubber soles for maximum grip. As quietly as possible, he pulled himself up.
The space between the dusty surface and the suspended ceiling was barely more than a foot, but Eddie knew it would soon feel positively expansive. As the plans Lola procured had promised, there was a ventilation grille a few feet away. Pushing his belongings ahead of him, he crawled to it.
A minute’s work with the screwdriver, and the vent cover was freed at one end. He turned his attention to the other, only unfastening the screws halfway so that he could tilt the grille down on its makeshift hinge.
Shuffling to the end of the newly created ramp, he fastened the case to the back of his belt with another strap, then took the small bottle and squirted its contents over the front of his bodysuit. It was a lubricant; he had actually bought it from a sex shop. Looking into the darkness of the duct, however, he doubted he would get much pleasure from it.
‘Okay, I’m going in,’ he said, holding the suction cup. ‘Tell me if the guards move.’
‘I will, Eddie,’ said Karima. ‘Good luck.’
‘Thanks.’ He switched on the torch, pressed the suction cup against the metal floor and pulled himself inside.
It was worse than he had imagined. The short section of duct at the apartment had been clean; this was filthy, a grimy layer of God-knew-what having been drawn in by the ventilation system several floors above. But he continued, advancing with each hiss of the cup. The case and plastic container ground complainingly over the grille as he hauled them along behind him like a train.
Even with the benefit of the bodysuit, the duct was horribly cramped. He tipped his head to shine the light down the shaft. He had to cover over fifty feet before reaching the vault - where his first obstacle waited.
Karima’s voice crackled in his ear, the metal duct making radio reception even worse. ‘You okay, Eddie?’
‘Yeah,’ he grunted. He was sweating, the situation not helped by the tight synthetic suit.
‘Good. The guards are still at the desk.’
‘Okay.’ His movements had already become a routine. Release the suction cup, stretch and plant it against the metal six inches further ahead, apply suction, pull himself forward, repeat. The extra weight he was dragging made it more draining. His own body, pressed against the duct on all sides, was almost blocking the flow of air. The vent was getting stuffy, stifling - and it would soon become a lot hotter.
He fixed his attention entirely on advancing, trying not to think about the metal pressing in on him. Another six inches, and another. He looked ahead. The torchlight caught something in the distance.
He squinted, blinking away more sweat. The first obstacle: the metal baffle plates welded into the duct about thirty-five feet away. He would have to use the cutter to remove them.
Six more inches. Another six. His shoulders ached, but he had to endure the pain - the duct was too narrow for him to shift his weight. His back itched furiously, sweat building up inside the bodysuit.
Keep moving. Pull. Pull. Another foot covered—
The duct floor flexed under his weight. A flat metallic
‘Eddie!’ Karima’s voice was anxious. ‘What was that?’
‘Are the guards moving?’ he whispered.
‘Yes! One of them just stood up!’
‘Eddie?’ called Jablonsky. The noise sounded like something being dropped. He looked at the monitors. Eddie was still in the booth, apparently not having heard anything. The noise wasn’t him, then. So what was it?
‘Maybe a locker popped open,’ Vernio suggested. It had happened before.
‘I’ll take a look.’ Jablonsky set off down the aisle.
Rad switched the laptop’s video grid to show the untampered feeds from all the cameras so he could track the guard. ‘Eddie!’ Karima said. ‘He’s moving, he’s coming towards—’
The boat suddenly lurched as waves slapped the hull. A shaft of dazzling light shone through the open porthole. ‘You on the boat!’ boomed an amplified voice from outside. ‘This is the NYPD Harbor Unit. Come out on the deck, right now!’
13
Eddie heard a faint clacking somewhere below: the guard’s footsteps.
Getting closer.
What had happened to Karima? She had cut off mid-sentence. ‘Karima!’ he hissed. ‘Can you hear me? Karima!’
The beam of light shifted as the NYPD boat closed in. ‘I say again,’ the cop barked through his bullhorn, ‘this is the police! Show yourselves!’
Rad looked at Karima. ‘What do we do? If they board us—’
‘Forget that!’ cried Matt. The spool of fibre-optic line was unwinding in fits and starts. ‘Their boat’s snagged the line! If it breaks, we’ll lose the link - and the cameras’ll come back on!’ He spun the drum to pay out more line. The fibre-optic thread was strong and flexible - but ultimately it was nothing more than glass, and would snap if overstressed. ‘Try to stall ’em until I can get this loose!’
Karima and Rad shared nervous looks, then Karima opened the hatch, taking off her headset before slowly climbing to the deck. A dazzling light shone in her face. Through the glare she made out a larger blue and white boat alongside their vessel. ‘Come on out where we can see you, miss,’ ordered the cop.
‘Is there a problem?’ she called as Rad emerged behind her. Glancing back through the hatch, she saw Matt still desperately turning the spool.
‘Yeah, you could say that. Weighing anchor in the middle of the East River ain’t a smart move.’ On the police boat’s deck, two officers moved to board the smaller craft. The light played over the two Jordanians. ‘Now, would I be right in thinking that you’re not American citizens?’
The footsteps got closer. Eddie forced himself to remain statue-still, trying to suppress even his breathing.
The first cop jumped aboard, making the boat sway. He regarded Karima and Rad with evident suspicion, then looked across at the dark crystal tower of the Secretariat Building. Even without speaking, his thought processes were clear: Arabs . . . sky-scraper . . .
