Jax turned the Speedboat in toward the dock, spinning the wheel and cutting the engine so they drifted in to bump gently against the pier. “Now we look for a fluorescent yellow cylinder in an aluminum metal case,” he said, tossing her the bowline, “and hope to hell we’re not too late.”
72
Jax was tying the stem line to a cleat on the dock when he heard a man’s shout. Looking up, he spotted a big, blond-headed security guard loping down the lawn toward them. The guy was wearing tan slacks and boat shoes with no socks and a Hawaiian shirt that flapped open as he ran.
“Hey!” the guy shouted again, waving one beefy tanned arm as he jogged out onto the dock. “This is private property. You can’t tie up here.”
October straightened. “What do we do?” she said quietly.
“We look at the Hargrave,” said Jax, turning toward it.
They’d almost reached the yacht when the security guard caught up with them. He grabbed Jax’s left arm and jerked him around. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, man? This is a private dock. Get out of here.”
Jax reached behind his back and came up with his Cougar. He stuck the muzzle in the guard’s cheek hard enough to pucker the guy’s mouth and said, “Look. I’ve had a bad day. In fact, I’ve had a bad week. We’re going on this boat. We can either climb aboard with you, or we can climb over you, if you get my drift. The choice is yours.”
The man’s eyes widened, his splayed hands creeping into the air beside his head. “Who the fuck are you?”
Jax found the Glock in the holster at the small of the guy’s back and tossed it off the edge of the dock with a splash. “I’m the guy with the gun. Now move.” To October, he said, “Where’d you see the pathogen?”
“The stateroom.”
Jax prodded the security guard in the back with the Beretta. “Show us.”
“Which stateroom? There’s four.”
“Start with the master stateroom.”
They followed the guard to a cherry-paneled room with a king-sized bed, his and her walk-in closets, a 26- inch HD TV, and en suite his and her heads that gleamed with polished marble and gold-plated faucets. An aluminum case lay open on the bed. Empty.
“Sonofabitch,” said Jax. From the looks of the slot in the molded foam interior, the case had once cradled a cylinder just over a foot long and maybe six inches across.
He rested the Beretta’s muzzle against the security guard’s temple and pulled back the hammer with a click that echoed in the sudden stillness. “Who owns this boat?”
“Mr.-” The man’s voice broke. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Mr. Walker. James Nelson Walker.”
The name meant nothing to Jax. “Where is he now?”
“I don’t know!” The man’s voice rose in near hysteria. “He left maybe twenty minutes ago.”
“Jax,” said October softly.
He glanced at her. “What?” His gaze fell to the sheaf of blueprints she was unrolling. “What are those?”
“It says ‘Heating, Ventilation, and Air Conditioning System.’”
“Shit. It’s an HVAC plan. What building?”
“The Intercontinental.”
Jax swung back to the security guard. “Where’s that?” The man’s nose quivered. “Chopin Plaza. On the bay.
Right next to Bayfront Park.”
Jax shoved the guy into the nearest closet and turned the key. “Bring the plans,” Jax told October. “Let’s go.”
By now the sun was only a rosy memory on a darkening horizon. October took the Speedboat’s helm while Jax spread the HVAC plans out on the floorboards.
“Anything?” she asked as the Speedboat skimmed over the smooth black waters of the bay.
“Someone’s circled the section of the system that serves the grand ballroom,” he said, straightening. “I’d say that’s their target.” He snapped his penlight closed and punched in a call to Matt. “Ever hear of some fat cat named James Nelson Walker?”
“As a matter of fact, yes,” said Matt. “He’s the head of Walker Pharmaceuticals. I was just looking into him.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because he studied biochemistry at MIT when Kline was there. From what I can discover, he’s quite a closet bigot. He keeps it quiet for the sake of business.”
Jax squinted across the bay, to where the lights of the Manhattan-like skyscrapers twinkled out over the water. “Do me a favor, Matt: look on the Intercontinental website and see what function they’re holding in the grand ballroom tonight.”
After a minute, Matt said, “Oh, man.”
“What is it?”
“The hotel’s hosting the People of the Book Conference.”
“The what?”
“It’s a kind of religious peace conference. The idea is that all three of the big Western religions-Judaism, Christianity, and Islam-respect the same holy book-what Christians call the Old Testament-and share many of the same beliefs. So they’ve brought together rabbis, priests, and imams from all over the world to try to find a way to work for interracial and interreligious peace. Their grand banquet is tonight. In the ballroom.”
73
Turning the wheel hard, October slammed the side of the Speedboat into the U-shaped wooden walkway that curved out into the bay at Chopin Plaza and cut the engine.
“Hey,” shouted a dark, stocky bellboy, starting toward them. “You’re not allowed to tie up your boat there!”
“Catch.” Jax tossed him the bow line and grabbed October’s hand to haul her up onto the boardwalk. “It’s yours.”
They sprinted across the pavement and burst through the hotel’s massive glass entrance doors into a soaring space of tan marble turned to gold by the subtle gleam of light. A swashbuckling pirate in a black eye patch careened into them, said, “Excuse me,” and stepped back into an Arab in flowing bisht and a ghutra and igal. The Arab was real. The pirate wasn’t.
“What the hell?” said Jax, turning in a circle. The lobby teemed with curvaceous Little Bo Peeps and Naughty Nurses, Orthodox Jews with black slouch hats and curly ringlets, Klingons and Vulcans, caped vampires and hairy werewolves and Catholic priests in white collars and befuddled expressions.
October touched his arm and pointed to a discreet black sign with white letters that read, HIGHGATE HALLOWEEN CHARITY BALL, RM B12; PEOPLE OF THE BOOK BANQUET, GRAND BALLROOM. “Where’s the ballroom?” she shouted over the roar of voices and the splash of the fountain.
“We don’t want the ballroom,” he said, pushing though a coven of witches. “We want the floor above it. That’s where the HVAC unit is. According to the plans, the building’s entire system runs next to the service-elevator shaft. This way.”
They found the service elevator in a quiet hallway to their right. The indicator was stuck on the third floor, and it wasn’t moving.
“They’re probably holding it there,” said Jax, punching open the door to the nearby stairwell. “Come on.”
