phone book, in a building that no one entered or left.
Luke stood on a corner down from the building. He slowly read a Times he’d salvaged from the trash, glancing now and then at his watch.
So now what? Saunter in and see what happened to him? He could be walking into a trap. If Frankie Wu noticed the charge manifest was missing from the galley, or if they’d made Aubrey talk, they’d know Luke learned this address. They’d be waiting for him.
Maybe Aubrey was here. Inside. In trouble.
But he needed help. He needed a way to break into that encrypted file. If Quicksilver wanted this fifty million from the terrorists, he’d strike a deal with them. Trade them the file for Aubrey. Of course there was nothing to prevent them from just taking the drive from him and killing him and Aubrey.
Luke made his decision. The lion’s den had to be braved. Luke folded the paper and walked toward the building. At the front door, Luke could see a doorman through the heavy glass. He was an imposing sort, barrel- chested, thick hands peeking from the cuffs of the navy wool uniform. Everything about him was hard and he looked like he could deck Luke into a hospital bed with one punch. Was he one of the men at the airport? Luke didn’t recognize him.
Luke tapped at the glass. Thicker than normal glass, he noticed.
‘Good day, sir,’ the doorman said. He stood beyond the locked door, hands behind his back, but he didn’t open it. ‘Who are you here to see?’
Not just a doorman. A guard.
‘Mr Drummond.’ He remembered the name from the email to Eric about the flight from Chicago, and mentioned by Henry. ‘I’m Luke Dantry. He’s expecting me.’
The doorman stepped inside after holding the door for Luke. The entryway was cool, tiled, with a massive desk, with a large raised counter around it, the kind that concealed monitors. No building directory – no tenants. The lobby was small, with two doors behind the desk. Both were heavy steel. No decor.
The air felt very still. The soft hum in the walls seemed to be made by machinery, not people moving and talking in offices beyond. Luke had the oddest sense of entering a bunker, a hideaway, like an old comic book hero’s lair. The doorman kept a polite gaze on Luke as he keyed in a message onto a keyboard. Apparently phones weren’t good enough. Or he didn’t want Luke to hear the message he was communicating.
Luke glanced up at the camera perched in the corner. Let it read his face.
‘Mr Drummond will see you.’ The doorman moved his hand to another part of the desk. The locks on the front door engaged with a soft click.
He was locked in.
‘Follow me, please,’ the doorman said.
Apparently the front door was not to be left unattended. A fortress in Manhattan. An elevator door slid open and the doorman gestured Luke inside.
They rose in stately silence. It was the quietest elevator that Luke had ever ridden. The car stopped, suddenly, with a soft shrill whistle. The doorman pulled out a huge gun from under his jacket and pressed it against Luke’s skull.
‘You have weapons on you. Spare us both the indignity of a search.’
‘A gun in the back of my pants. But it’s unloaded.’ He tried a provocation. ‘Your buddy Frankie Wu took my ammo clip.’
The doorman stripped the gun from his back. ‘At least Frankie did something right before he flew back to Chicago.’
Luke glanced up at the elevator ceiling. ‘Metal detector?’
‘Nothing so primitive.’ The doorman entered in a key on a pad and the elevator resumed its ascent. The doorman lowered the gun away from Luke’s face and Luke remembered to breathe again.
‘This building is, um, unusual. Prime real estate but unoccupied.’
‘Mr Drummond can explain it to you. If he chooses.’
A soft ping as they reached the top floor. The doors slid open onto a hallway. It had a spare, wooden floor and an elegant Persian rug running down its stretch. A doorway stood at the end.
They stepped into the hallway and the far door opened.
‘He had a weapon, sir. The scans show him now as clear,’ the doorman said.
At the end of the hall stood a man in a dark turtleneck and jeans, salt-and-pepper hair, broad shoulders. Not tall but heavily muscled. He had a pugnacious face that looked like it had been battered over the years. His eyes were slightly pinched; it made Luke think of a reader who spent a great deal of time peering through books he found disagreeable. ‘A weapon. I blush with pride. Hello, Luke.’ He didn’t smile.
‘Hi, Mr Drummond,’ Luke said. He wondered if Drummond knew Eric was dead? He must know. This man looks like he knows everything. ‘May we talk?’
‘I have dreamed of the day.’ Drummond raised an eyebrow. He seemed to survey Luke’s face, as though it were a map he’d seen once before but that had been redrawn over time.
The doorman turned and left.
Drummond watched him. A slight smile crept onto his face.
Luke decided to play his card. ‘Is Aubrey Perrault here?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know where she is?’
‘Yes, I do, and she’s safe.’
‘I doubt that. Your people shot at us last night.’
‘Rubber bullets. They hurt but they don’t kill unless you don’t know what you’re doing.’
He remembered the bullets spraying up the grass at their feet. They could have shot him and Aubrey in the legs, but they didn’t.
‘You gave everyone a fright running into traffic. You could have gotten yourself killed, Luke.’
‘You look at me like you think you know me.’
‘I know who you were, Luke. I’m more interested,’ Drummond said, ‘in who you’re going to be.’
37
The apartment had the most disturbing walls Luke had ever seen. Giant photos covered them like wallpaper. One image per wall, each a massive enlargement. One picture was a young girl, huddling in the bombed ruins of a stone cabin. Her face looked like a surprised ghost. Another photo showed people in a Middle Eastern bazaar, expressions contorted in naked fear as they looked over their shoulders at an unbidden and dawning threat. A gunman, a car bomb? Who knew? The terror and the resignation on their faces was a timeless stamp. Another photo of a man Luke recognized, a former senator, clearly staggered by loss, leaning against a porch railing.
‘That senator. His son died. I remember it in the papers. Shot to death by a terrorist in Japan while studying abroad,’ Luke said. ‘You have odd decor.’
‘I am an odd man,’ Drummond said. ‘After all, I am welcoming you into my office and you had a hand in my friend’s death.’
‘You kidnapped my friend last night.’
‘Your friend is perfectly safe. My friend is dead.’
‘I had nothing to do with Allen Clifford’s death. I was kidnapped, forced to drive at gunpoint. Then chained up in a cabin your company paid for.’
Drummond raised an eyebrow. ‘We financed a cabin. You being taken there was not our doing. But you killed Allen Clifford…’
‘I didn’t kill Allen Clifford. I know who did.’
‘Who?’
‘Eric Lindoe. Operating under orders from a British woman named Jane, who kidnapped Eric’s girlfriend. Kidnapping me and killing your friend was Jane’s ransom demand for Aubrey’s safety.’
‘Convenient to blame him since he’s not here to defend himself.’
