by Tim Tigner
I wasn’t a big fan of coffins. Whether polished mahogany or painted steel, they were one of the very few things that gave me the willies.
The dimensions of the shaft itself gave me an idea.
Rock climbers cling to the irregularities in cliff faces, the indentations and protrusions. Whereas many are measured in millimeters, some occupy the other end of the spectrum. I was standing in one of those.
In climbers’ lingo, an elevator shaft is considered a chimney. In essence, it’s two rock faces a climber can wedge himself between. Chimneys make for comfortable climbs when the span is between two and four feet. Less becomes cramped, more is a stretch.
Determined to figure out just how much of a stretch, I walked to the back wall, held my arms over my head in stick-'em-up position, went rigid, and fell forward. Kind of like one of those trust-building exercises, except that my partner was the wall.
I’m six-foot-two and my arms are disproportionately long, so I can put my palms against a seven-and-a-half foot ceiling with my feet flat on the floor. According to Pythagoras, that meant I’d be hitting the opposite wall when my hands were four and a half feet from the floor.
I took the plunge without falling flat on my face, and thanked my geometry teacher.
From that hypotenuse, I worked my way into a tented position resembling yoga’s Downward Dog, then tested the grips of my feet and hands with a trial climb. It was easy enough for the first few feet, but it was clear that another fifty-seven would be terribly taxing.
Fortunately, I’d figured out another option. I hoped.
I felt my way back to the manual elevator’s weight stack. Standing before it, I slipped a sock over each hand. The skin on my palms was tough as alligator hide, but given the sliding nature of the climb I was about to attempt, and my lack of sweat-absorbing climber’s chalk, I figured the makeshift gloves were a good idea.
Once you overcome the mental hurdle at the core of climbing, the fear of knowing that you’re only a few scant seconds and a single slip-up from death, the key to success is friction. My approach shoes maximized part of the equation, but unfortunately the wall supplied the remaining chunk. It was poured, hardened concrete. Seamless for eight-foot spans. Much worse than brick. And of course, it was completely vertical, so I got no help there. The only way I could generate enough friction to support my two hundred pounds was through the steady exertion of significant force.
I wrapped both hands around the cable that connected the counterbalance with the car and tested its tension by pulling with one foot against the wall. The cable moved more than I would have liked. On the big elevator, it would be bowstring tight, since the tension is driven by the countervailing weights.
But the manual lift wasn’t very heavy.
I brought my other foot up so both my legs were parallel to the floor, putting me in the position I’d use for climbing. The cable gave even more.
That was not good.
But neither was the situation on the other side of the wall. There, Katya and I risked suffocation and the loss of our home.
I began climbing, hand over hand, foot over foot, up into a darkness so absolute it could have been outer space. The higher I got, the more the cable bowed. The more it bowed, the more awkward my climb became. The insurmountable problem was Newton’s third law of motion. The cable received as much force as the wall.
Before long, the iron strands were digging into my crotch. I was still well below the thirty vertical feet that would mark the midpoint of my climb and the apex of the cable’s arc. I considered repositioning the cable to my side and continuing onward, but that would be difficult and dangerous on several dimensions, including gripping the cable, applying sufficient force, and maintaining balance.
Frustrated but not defeated, I prepared to switch to plan B.
31
Off the Rails
Western Nevada
GIVEN THE NEED for speed inherent in avoiding detection, I decided to start my plan B with a Superman move rather than descend to begin the climb anew. Superman referencing the action rather than the actor, whose sanity I was currently questioning as I often did when up on the wall.
I’d recently seen a video of a kid who simultaneously solved three Rubik’s cubes while juggling them. Looks impossible. Sounds impossible. But it’s really just a question of practice.
I was clueless with Rubik’s cubes, but I could climb. I could pull off feats of strength and gymnastic stunts that looked no less likely than that juggling act. The big difference, of course, was the room for error. His was infinite. Mine infinitesimal.
But I wasn’t complaining.
In fact, I felt blessed.
I rehearsed the Superman move a few times in my mind while removing my makeshift gloves, then brought my thoughts to a near-meditative state. Satisfied that my muscles were programmed to react, I counted down. Three … two … on one I released the cable and threw my arms over my head while straightening out and springing back in an arcing motion. Although that inverted pounce lasted no longer than a single second, it felt like forever before my palms hit the opposite wall and my body locked rigid as a doorway arch.
At that point, I was exactly where I wanted to be—except upside down and with the cable between my legs. Again, I visualized the sequence of moves required to relocate. Whereas my last stunt had demanded perfect positioning during a coordinated muscular explosion, this one stipulated steady balance and unfaltering friction while flipping over like a half-cooked pancake.
After a few mental dry runs, I slowly released my left arm, followed by my left leg, and then rotated them up and over until I was facing the floor with both hands and feet in place and my backside tented toward the sky.
Relieved to have reestablished four points of contact, I let out a long, slow exhale. Then started inching skyward for the third time.
Unlike the cable climb, this was one of those gymnastic feats that you’d be very hard pressed to do without previous conditioning. It was just too specialized. The stress on the wrists and palms was tremendous, and the unrelenting strain was immensely fatiguing. But I’d been climbing rocks for years. My muscles, tendons, bones and joints were accustomed to supporting my body weight for long intervals at odd angles.
Again, it was the utter darkness that got to me. Since I was unable to see the tip of my nose or significantly change my body position, a coffinlike claustrophobia kicked in. I couldn’t power past the fear with logic either, because my true position was actually more precarious than my imagined one. If I slid, slipped or fumbled, I’d likely fall to my death.
I focused on measuring my progress instead. To do that, I swept my right hand to the side after every few feet of vertical movement, feeling for a center rail support. One of the crossbeams required to keep the rail rigid over a seventy-foot rise.
The first time I found one, I didn’t know if I was thirty feet up or forty. I wanted to rest, to use the two-inch beam like a shelf, but I couldn’t spare the time. If my absence was discovered, it could get ugly. For me and for Katya.
Odds were that I was above the main elevator at this point, but I still didn’t see any light spilling in from the keyhole above. That was concerning. I was counting on it to serve as a peephole. I supposed it could be covered like the one below, but that didn’t seem likely. There was no need for a hermetic seal up top.
The lack of light wasn’t my only concern. Despite my conditioning, my shoulders and knees were starting to fatigue. It was the unrelenting pressure.
When climbing cliffs, you’re constantly alternating muscles and grips. A hand, a toe, two feet, a fist. Having to push hard against both sides of the shaft without respite or reprieve, I found myself tenting my back up and then rounding it down to allow blood back into strangled tissue.
Pressing on with the stoic and stolid determination soldiers had used for centuries, I lost all track of time. Somehow that seemed related to the darkness, although my mind didn’t grasp an inherent connection.
My ears contributed a few feet later when they registered the faint hint of a muffled discussion. It faded almost instantly, like a car radio station going out of range. Were it not for the cigar, I’d have been second-guessing my own ears.
I twisted my neck and strained to see the faint stream of light that should be coming through the keyhole. There was none.
Despite that disappointment, my glands rewarded me with a delicious drop of adrenaline. This caused me to quicken my pace and I soon bumped into the bottom of the manual lift. I was prepared for that eventuality, so fortunately it didn’t dislodge me.
I shifted my grip from the wall to the elevator frame and worked myself around. A minute later, after feeling my way onto the doorsill, I put my eye to the small circular opening of the keyhole.
32
The Right Squeeze
Western Nevada
DANICA was keeping busy by studying the infrared images on the surveillance monitor while Bruce worked the computer. With so many guests initially unable or unwilling to pay, he was doing additional research. Attempting to determine who should be spared and who should be squeezed.
Wanting a break from the screen, she set down her coffee cup and turned his way. “We never discussed the details of reaching a hundred million, beyond the basic math. How do you expect it to play out with those who can’t afford to pay?”
Bruce wheeled back from the monitor, but instead of turning to her, he reached for his bag. A black Briggs & Riley backpack. After a few seconds of fumbling, he pulled out a black leather pouch and held it up.
Recognizing it, Danica rolled her eyes but smiled. What’s that saying about successful marriages? Something about learning to love your spouse for his faults.
Bruce extracted a long cigar and went to work with trimmer and torch. To his credit, her husband smoked only on rare occasion. Usually while releasing pent-up steam.
She watched him get the tip of his Dominican glowing just right and then contentedly put his feet up on the desk before answering her question. “We didn’t discuss the details because we’re counting on the magic of a diversified portfolio. I have no doubt that there’s a hundred million in that crowd. Where it comes from doesn’t matter.”
“So why one hundred million? Why not two hundred million? Why cap it at all? We could simply demand that everyone open up their bank accounts and take it all.”
Bruce savored a couple of long puffs before replying. “Two reasons. The first is time. We want to be out of here today. The odds we’ll be caught increase with every hour. Most of those guys can write a two-million-dollar check without changing their lifestyle. They routinely throw thousands at airlines to rent a few hours of extra leg and elbow room. They’re not going to suffer the psychological stress of being buried in a bunker for something they’ll never miss. On the other hand, if we threaten to take all their money away, to make them ordinary, well, then we’ll have a serious fight on our hands. A long and dangerous fight.”
“And the second reason?” Danica asked.
“The second is discipline. I picked a number that gives us all the money we’ll ever need. Our share as two of the four team members will be fifty million dollars. Would our lifestyle really change if it were a hundred million?”
“Not in any meaningful way.”
“So why risk prison? We keep it simple; we keep it safe.”
“And we let them figure out the details,” Danica said, appreciating her husband’s wisdom. “No need to get extreme.”
“Exactly.” Bruce set his cigar aside, balanced on the corner of the table, and returned his feet to the ground. “What’s going on below?”
Danica turned back to the screen. “Oz is still off camera—hiding, no doubt.”
“How can you tell which orange glow is his?”
“I’m just guessing. I know he’s one of the smaller ones, and I’m assuming he’s with Sabrina. She’s not in the main room. Neither of the women are. They are easy to identify.”
“I’m not surprised that Oz cracked. Between the racial profiling, the physical assault and an inability to pay, I might have blown a gasket myself.” Bruce canted his head. “What have you learned about their financial situation?”
“Not much. Neither Oz nor Sabrina has a social security number, so my ability to background check them is limited. His company is just a startup. No revenue yet, so they’re probably strapped.”
Bruce shook his head. “If they’re pinching pennies, what were they doing at Cinquante Bouches?”
“You know what the J.P. Morgan conference is like. It’s full of people putting on airs and praying for the big score.” Danica nodded toward the cigar. “Your ash is about to drop.”
She watched her husband maneuver an empty coffee mug under his stogie and give it a tap. As he picked it back up, Danica asked a question that had been rolling around the back of her mind. “Why doesn’t one of the rich guys just offer to cover the whole check?”
Bruce enjoyed a pensive puff before answering. “Rich people tend to get that way by treating their assets like children. They shelter, nurture and grow their money, then defend it like a lioness would her cubs. My guess is they’re all waiting for someone else to pay.”
“Plus they’re bankers,” Danica said with an appreciative nod. “Professional exploiters of other people’s money.”
“Exactly.”
As Danica pictured the captives down there in the dark, a new concern struck. “It’s utterly dark in the bunker when the power is off, right?”
Bruce nodded. “They might as well be blind.”
“And with the appliances and air-handling system off, there’s no background noise.”
“There’s fifty people in the room with beating hearts and breathing lungs, many of whom chatter nervously. Why are you asking?”
“I’m just wondering, given their heightened senses and the extreme circumstances, if they could hear us talking?”
Bruce went rigid, as though the thought produced a physical shock. “I suppose it’s possible.”
“Perhaps we better close the bookcase.”
Bruce rose. “Couldn’t hurt.”
Danica had played with the secret door earlier. It was an engineering marvel. The hidden hinges were so perfectly aligned that, despite the size and contents on its shelves, the bookcase moved with the ease of an ordinary door. There was no lock, no hidden button. Neither was required. Why would anyone ever attempt to yank a big built-in bookcase from the wall?
When Bruce was back in his seat, she hit him with her next big question. “So how does this end? What happens when everyone pays?”
“We do exactly what we’d have done without this little weekend excursion. We return to AcotocA, wind it down in the wake of our regulatory defeat, then quietly move on, the way startup people do every day.”
“Except instead of heading for Arizona or Florida, we’re moving to a Caribbean island,” Danica said, immediately taking to the plan.
“I’m thinking Saint Kitts.”
“But what about the people down below?”
The feet went back up on the desk. “That’s the true beauty of the plan. Because we’ve made our ask modest and the procedure painless—a bit of fright aside—our big dog guests can quickly return to their lives. In no time they’ll be wrapped back up in the daily affairs of mastering financial markets and running corporations. The bunker experience will be reduced to a story they’ll tell time and again over dinners like the one we disrupted. It will become a source of pride. Given the adventure and implicit heroism, some might secretly consider it the highlight of their lives.”
Danica wasn’t quite so optimistic, but she admired her husband’s positive perspective. “So what exactly happens once they’ve paid in full?”
“We clean everything up. Wipe everything down. Load the car
. Then summon Seb, Webb and Trey to the manual lift. In that order.”
“Why Trey?”
“Camouflage. We don’t actually bring him up. We raise him halfway then leave. By the time he and the others figure out that they’re free to go, we’ll be long gone.”
“If everything goes according to plan.”
Bruce leaned back and blew a ring of smoke. “We’re up here with all the power. They’re down there with all the fear. I don’t see how it could go any other way.”
33
Bounce
Western Nevada
I SAW NOTHING through the elevator keyhole. Nothing at all. In fact, the only way I could tell that I had my eye in the right place was by feel.
This was not what I expected. It was certainly not good news.
Having left the elevator drop key at the bottom of the shaft, I had nothing with which to probe the socket. No way to verify if it was simply covered on the other side. No way to look before I leapt.
Clinging to the inside of the elevator’s double doors like a barnacle on a boat, I felt for the latch that kept them closed. The same construction I’d unlocked below with my makeshift key. I found it after a few sweeps and lifted slowly with a steady force. Once it disengaged, I used my fingertips to put a crack between the doors.
I pressed my eye against it—and saw nothing.
I widened the crack—and saw next to nothing. Were it not for the absolute darkness, I’d never have detected the few photons that found their way through a minuscule ceiling gap.
Something was covering the elevator. Concealing it, most likely. I widened the gap enough to fit my hand through. The surface I contacted was hard and smooth. Given the temperature I determined it was wood. The bookcase that Kai mentioned, no doubt.
