“Find a way.” I pointed to Rusk. “This guy disabled the elevator, maybe he can help.”
“Pat, if you slip-” Lien-hua began.
“I won’t slip.”
Speed climb this. Don’t think. Just climb. You need to get up there and call Margaret.
I could do this: one foot and one hand on opposite walls, pressing out, using oppositional force, then working my way up one move at a time. I told Lien-hua, “I’ve done this in Yosemite.”
“With climbing shoes. With ropes. With anchors!”
The track on which the concrete platform had ridden down was on one side of the shaft, but because of the shaft’s width I wouldn’t be able to use that wall to climb. However, I could use it to get off the ground. Grabbing one of the bars, I hoisted myself up and scissored out my legs and arms to span the width of the shaft.
If you slip, if you run out of strength, if they don’t get the cover off the top, you’ll fall, and if you fall I pushed those thoughts aside. “There’s someone here, in one of these tunnels, Lien-hua. Cover these guys so they can get the hydraulics working again.”
“Pat, swear to me you won’t fall.”
You can do this. Don’t stand up too much. Outward pressure. Get solid, then move.
I locked my feet in place, rested my weight for a moment. “I’m gonna marry you someday, Lien-hua. There’s no way I’m going to fall and miss out on that.”
It wasn’t exactly a proposal. I could clear that up later.
All right. Go.
Holding the Maglite in my mouth to keep my hands free, I began to ascend the shaft.
The dish soap had worked.
Sean was carrying Amber down the stairs so they could drive her to the hospital.
To help the doctors know what else was in Amber’s system, Tessa grabbed the empty pill bottle as well as the depression meds, then hit the stairs.
“Get the door,” Sean called.
She flung it open and they stepped into the whipping fury of the storm.
96
I wasn’t even halfway up the shaft yet and my arms were already spent.
The width wasn’t right for my arm span, and each time I positioned my hands, it took tremendous energy to hold myself in place while I made another move.
Focus.
Hand, foot. Hand, foot. Stem your way.
Go!
A wire of pain stretched from my ankle up through my leg whenever I put pressure on it, but I did my best to ignore it. I had to.
Hands out. Move. Smear your feet.
There was no turning back, no down-climbing.
I scrambled upward.
What are you going to tell Margaret?
I didn’t have an answer. I climbed.
Without breaking my rhythm, I tilted my head back and aimed the flashlight’s beam upward.
Still nine or ten meters to go.
A third of the shaft.
The planes are in the air, but the missile will But why would the Iranians shoot down the missile?
Think, Pat. Think!
Bribes? Lifting sanctions? A few billion dollars in aid? Allowing them to develop their own nukes? None of that seemed like enough to convince Iran’s president to rescue a country he’d said was a fake regime that must be wiped off the map.
No, not the president…
My calves were burning, and I noticed my left leg twitching.
Hurry!
If not bribes, then what?
Five meters to the top, but I could see that the cement slab they’d told me about still rested on its stout metal arms, still covered the top of the shaft.
Come on, get that thing out of the way.
I climbed, thought of Iran, of politics, of weapons, of reasons…
The Supreme Leader of Iran. He has more pull than the president; he’s the one who appoints the highest ranking members of the armed forces-anything like this would go through him, not the president.
Three meters to the top Breathe, just breathe.
But rescue Jews? Why? How would they save face in the Muslim world if I heard the rough movement of machinery, and, tipping my flashlight up, I saw the great arms moving, lowering the concrete platform, tilting it toward the side of the shaft.
Yes!
But then, too late, I realized I’d miscalculated.
I was too close. The slab was going to hit me as it swung down.
One choice.
One chance.
Gritting my teeth, I eased up on the pressure from my legs and hands, letting myself slide down, my palms scraping along the rough concrete, leaving a trail of blood behind.
Two meters.
Three.
I jammed my feet out and levered out my hands to arrest my descent. The platform crossed where my head had been only a moment earlier, and I waited, legs shaking, barely able to hold my weight, until it was out of the way.
The top of the shaft was clear.
Fighting the pain in my shredded palms and struggling against my fatigued muscles, I stemmed up the rest of the way and grabbed the lip of the building’s floor, the blood on my hands making it slippery, hard to hold on For a moment that seemed to last forever I hung over the emptiness, trying to firm up my grip, to gather my strength, and while I did, I heard the roar of snowmobiles approaching the building.
Crying out from the effort, I heaved myself up, mantled out of the shaft, and collapsed onto the floor of the maintenance building.
Arms shaking from exhaustion and adrenaline, palms bloodied from the climb, I was barely able to speed-dial Margaret’s number.
“They won’t do it!” she exclaimed. “They-”
“Here’s what Nielson needs to do. Now!” I gave her my instructions.
Man, I hoped this worked.
Prayed it would.
It’ll work. It has to The snowmobiles stopped just outside the door.
Margaret ended the call so she could speak with Secretary of State Nielson, and I looked at my watch. We had only two, maybe three minutes before final descent.
Someone was turning the door handle.
Still lying on the freezing cement, I took aim with my Glock, tried to hold it steady in my torn, trembling hands as the door burst open and a cluster of flashlight beams blinded me.
“Stand down,” I yelled. “I’m an FBI-”
“Pat, it’s me!” Anton Torres shouted.
