“Is this… a toy?” Storm said, feeling the gleam forming in his eye.
The caretaker tilted his head, as if Storm had re-donned his donkey dung shirt. By now, the helicopter was coming in for a landing, flattening the grass in a nearby field with its downdraft.
“Never mind,” Storm said, peeling away the brown paper to reveal a box. Printed on the side in bold, block letters was the name “ACME.”
“It is a toy,” Storm exclaimed. The ACME thing was a running joke between him and Jones, both fans of classic Road Runner cartoons. Storm went into the box and pulled out what appeared to be a sleeve like the one quarterback Robert Griffin III had popularized in the NFL.
“What… what is it?” Storm asked, sliding the sleeve on his arm. At the end near his shoulder, it had two straps that Storm strapped around his torso, keeping the sleeve in place. Over the forearm, there was a nearly flat housing with a small aperture near the wrist.
“It’s a kind of grappling hook,” the old man said. “The line is as thin as dental floss but stronger than steel. The latest in nanotechnology. The line accelerates at ninety-six feet per second squared—”
“That’s three times faster than gravity,” Storm interjected.
“—and the hook forms as the line pays out. Except it’s not really a hook. It’s more like a disk. It is only eight centimeters wide, but it will stick to virtually any material or structure, even a flat wall, and be able to hold five hundred pounds.”
“Yet it couldn’t weigh more than about two pounds itself,” Storm said, hearing himself sounding a little too gee-whizzish.
“Again: nanotechnology.”
“So not Blois,” Storm said to himself.
“Just make sure you read the instructions,” the caretaker said
“Why would I do that?”
“I was told you would ask that,” he said, chuckling. “The answer is: because Jones said so.”
Storm went inside and quickly changed into the new clothes, silently thanking Jones for arranging a more Derrick Storm–like outfit, one that actually matched. It also included one of his favorite kind of fashion accessories, the kind that took bullets. The 9mm Beretta wasn’t necessarily Storm’s gun of choice, but it would beat a good talking-to if he bumped across someone with a bad attitude. He slipped the grappling hook sleeve onto his arm, over his shirt but under his jacket, leaving the small aperture just barely peeking out from the jacket’s cuff.
He left without further comment, jogging to the waiting helicopter, a Griffin HAR2 that had the markings of the Royal Air Force. Storm clambered into the main hold. There was a seat with a helmet sitting on it that he assumed was for him. He donned the helmet and strapped himself in.
“You’re late,” Storm said into the helmet’s intercom.
“Sorry, sir,” the pi lot replied.
“What, did you get caught in queuing on the M-1?” Storm joked. “Or was it that the destination made your navigation sort of… Blois.”
The pilot did not reply.
Storm tried again: “Or maybe the helicopter is having a… Blois day.”
The pilot punched a few buttons on the control panel.
“Oh, come on, nothing for that? You have such a… Blois sense of humor.”
Still no words from the pilot.
“Get it? Because you’re going to a city called Blois and…”
“You think a joke improves when you have to explain it?” the pilot asked.
“Right. To London, then.”
Storm felt the surge of the chopper lifting upward then watched out the small side window as the fields of northern France passed underneath. He turned his attention to the grappling hook, tossing the instructions onto the floor of the chopper. By the time they reached the iconic shores of Normandy, he felt comfortable with the device’s operation.
Somewhere over the English Channel, he dozed off.
LONDON, England
It was mid-morning by the time Storm landed near the crime scene. He felt refreshed from the nap and was keen to be able to do his own investigating, not just rely on reports from others. He didn’t necessarily think he was smarter than any of the agents who had combed through the other scenes. But he did know Volkov. Maybe there would be something the other agents had overlooked or the significance of which they didn’t understand.
The building where the killing had occurred was filled with fashionable condominium lofts in a reclaimed industrial building along the south bank of the Thames, two turns of the river away from Parliament, not far from King’s Stairs Gardens.
This was a part of London that had undergone much change since World War II, and its rejuvenation had continued into the twenty-first century, albeit haltingly. Next to the loft, rising forlornly from the earth, there were empty steel girders of what would someday—if the financing could ever again come together—be an office tower to approach the Shard as one of London’s tallest buildings. The superstructure had been completed, but construction had since been halted, a reminder that En gland had not been immune to the economic malaise that had gripped Europe. Storm wondered idly how many millions of dollars of steel had been used in making what was essentially a towering skeleton.
Storm entered the condo building and rode to its top floor, the eighth, which was swarming with officials of all stripes. At the front door, he was handed a pair of latex gloves by a uniformed man, who logged Storm’s entry. He walked through the foyer, into a sitting room, then toward where all the action seemed to be taking place: the office, in the northwest corner of the loft.
At least in the Western world, crime scenes always looked the same. There were people in varying kinds of uniform running around, working on their small piece of the action, doing their duty. And then, somewhere, not in uniform, there was the person in charge.
Storm finally found that person in the office. He was tall, bespectacled, and gentle-looking, with long, chestnut-brown hair tied back in a ponytail. He looked less like a Scotland Yard detective and more like someone you might find in a computer science Ph.D. program. The man was staring at something on a clipboard, looking up as Storm approached.
“Hi, I’m…”
“Derrick Storm,” the man said. “And I’m Nick Walton, Scotland Yard. I’ve been told to cooperate fully with you. Would you like some tea?”
Okay, so maybe there were small differences in crime scenes. “No, thank you,” Storm said. “What do we have here?”
Storm gestured toward the corpse still duct-taped to a desk chair. The man had slumped forward slightly against his restraints, his head lolling to the left. The angle gave Storm more of a view than he needed of the missing portion of the back of the man’s skull. The man’s right hand, which hung at his side, looked like raw meat. Volkov’s work, for sure.
“Victim’s name is Nigel Wormsley,” Walton said. “He was an executive vice president at Queen Royal Bank. I’m told that might be of interest to you.”
Storm just nodded.
“Took two bullets right between the eyes from close range,” Walton continued. “The shots were close enough that the entrance wounds merged into one hole. But from looking at the edges of the one on the left, it appears to be forty-five-caliber. That’s my best guess. As you know, we’re not as accustomed to gun violence as you Yanks, so I don’t get as much practice on that sort of thing.”
Storm let the cheap shot—if, in fact, it was intended as a cheap shot and not merely a statement of fact—pass without comment.
“If you want to have a look, you have to sort of get underneath him and look up,” Walton said. “Obviously, it’s not as hard to see the exit wound. And I’m sure you noticed that his hand is a bloody mess. Whoever did this is some brutal bastard.”
“Any other victims?” Storm asked, braced for the answer.
“No, just Mr. Wormsley,” Walton said. “He has a house in the country where his wife and son stay. This has been described to me as his city crash pad.”
Storm looked around at the office, w
ith its sleek, modern furnishings. Either Wormsley or his decorator had expensive tastes. The office had large, nearly floor-to-ceiling windows that offered an expansive view of the city.
“Nice crash pad,” Storm said.
“Mr. Wormsley was a very wealthy man, as you might imagine,” Walton said. “I’m told his bonus alone last year was in the millions of pounds. Not bad, eh?”
“Do you know what kind of work he did at Queen Royal?”
“I don’t know. Banker stuff. Does it matter?”
“It might,” Storm said. “Do you happen to know if he was involved in currency trading?”
Walton’s right eyebrow arched. “Yes, as a matter of fact. He was executive vice president in charge of currency exchange.”
Good old Dad. His hunch had been correct. Of course. It was now no coincidence: four bankers, all involved in currency trading, all tortured for some reason. What that reason was remained unclear.
Storm studied the desk without touching anything. It was a large, open surface, mostly devoid of tchotchkes or mementos. There was a good bit of blood, now congealing or congealed, pooled on top. That must have been where Volkov yanked out the man’s fingernails. There were a few picture frames and a paperweight on the floor nearby, as if someone had swept them off the desk.
“Anything taken?” Storm asked.
“We won’t know until the wife gets here to have a look around. She should be here anytime, and we were hoping to get Mr. Wormsley out of here before she does her walk-through, so if you need to examine him, you might want to do it now.”
Storm did not make a move toward the body. There was nothing it could tell him, unless it suddenly started talking.
Storm looked at the walls, spying an original Modigliani that was staring back at him with that distinctive face—sad and warped. It had to be valued in the millions of dollars. Volkov clearly hadn’t known the painting’s value. It wasn’t like him to pass up an opportunity to enhance his payday. Or maybe he just knew it would slow his getaway unnecessarily.
“So that’s about all I know for now, at least until the labs come back and tell me more,” Walton said. “Is there anything you can tell me?”
Storm decided that there was nothing more for him at the scene, and that therefore he might give Scotland Yard a little parting gift. His gaze drifted out to the London skyline as he spoke.
“Your killer is a Russian national named Gregor Volkov. The ripped-out fingernails are sort of his signature. He is about five-foot-four, powerfully built. He wears an eye patch and has burn scars on his face. My people can provide you a recent picture, but it probably won’t do you much good. He more than likely entered the country under a different name and is almost certainly now gone. He is not the type to linger.”
“I see, and why does Mr. Volkov wish ill on…”
Storm was no longer listening. His eyes stopped on a solitary figure, dressed in black, gripping the side of a column in the unfinished skyscraper next door. It couldn’t be a construction worker or anyone with an authorized reason to be there. The site was inoperative. Whoever it was, he was long and lean and, from the looks of things, not afraid of heights. Storm couldn’t see the man’s feature’s because his face was obscured by a camera with a big chunk of a long lens attached to it.
Walton was still talking when Storm interrupted: “Was Mr. Wormsley famous in some way?”
Storm had already looked away, so the photographer wouldn’t know he had been spotted.
“No, just rich. Not famous.”
“Is there any reason why the paparazzi would be interested in this case?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Look quickly next door, at roughly our height. There’s a man with a camera taking pictures. Don’t look too long. I don’t want him knowing we’re aware of him.”
Walton did as instructed, then said, “That’s not paparazzi, mate.”
“How do you know?”
“After Princess Kate’s bits showed up in print, we finally cracked down on that sort of thing. Part of the crackdown was making sure the paparazzi didn’t tread on private property. The fellow over there is clearly on private property—the angle the pictures are being shot at would make it clear he was close to the same level as us, and it would be impossible to achieve that in a public place around here. If he tried to sell them, he’d be looking at a big fine. So would any media outlet that bought them. He wouldn’t be one of the paparazzi. That said, I don’t know who he is or what he’s doing.”
Storm was already on the move. “Well,” he said. “Then perhaps I should find out.”
Storm rode the elevator back down and crossed quickly out into the street. This could be a fool’s errand, he knew. For whatever Walton said, it could just be a paparazzo, looking to shoot pictures of a sensational crime scene. Or it could be some kind of weird thrill-seeker who mixed a fascination for gruesome killings with a thing for heights.
Or it could be that the Chinese Ministry of State Security had sent someone to make sure Volkov had done his job right.
Whatever it was, Storm was going to figure it out by having a polite conversation with the man. Or a not-so-polite conversation. That part really depended on how forthcoming the photographer felt like being.
Storm reached the construction site and surveyed the outside. It was surrounded on all sides by a razor-wire fence. It was not insurmountable, but it was just imposing enough to give Storm pause.
How had the photographer gotten in? Storm did a quick lap around the building and found what he was looking for on the far side. Someone who was apparently handy with bolt cutters had clipped away a narrow section of razor wire. Storm took advantage of the gap, vaulting himself over the fence in that spot.
From there, the path was easy to follow. The ground was soft, and the only fresh footprints led directly to the building. A glass skin covered the first three floors—as far as they had gotten before the money ran out—and Storm tracked the footprints through some front doors.
The inside of the building was completely unfinished—just the steel columns leading up toward the sky. In the middle of the structure there was a lift that led to the crane that was still in place, fifty or so stories up, where someday it would perhaps finish the top floors of the building.
Storm went to the lift and pressed a large green button. Nothing happened. He pressed the red button above it. Still nothing. The lift car was just sitting there, idle, inoperable, same as everything else in the building. Obviously, the power had been cut off.
Storm looked up at the photographer. He counted beams. The man was ten floors up, still firing away from behind his telephoto lens. He must have climbed there.
Storm knew he would have to do the same. The only good news was that the photographer was more or less trapped. That there were no quick ways up meant there were also no quick ways down—at least not any ways that wouldn’t have a sudden, painful end. Plus, Storm had the persuasive powers of the Beretta to aid his cause.
Storm walked to the nearest column and started working his way upward. The climbing was not especially difficult, at least not for a man of Storm’s strength and fitness level. The columns had enough notches that they were easy to scale. Storm gained quickly on the photographer, who was so engrossed in documenting the crime scene that he didn’t notice he was about to have company.
As Storm made his silent ascent, he stayed directly below the photographer so the man wouldn’t see him. Storm allowed himself occasional glimpses upward. The photographer was dressed in all black, from his boots to his one-piece suit to his ski mask. A classic cat burglar. He was not as tall as Storm thought. His thinness just made him appear so.
Storm was now one floor below, still out of the photographer’s line of sight. He paused to consider his next move. He did not want to approach from directly below the man. The man would be able to kick him in the head, which Storm needed like, well, like he needed a kick in the head.
With that in mind, Storm deci
ded he’d have to walk to the next column, about thirty feet away. He could climb that one, get on the same level as the photographer, and pull out his gun. Then he’d have the guy exactly where he wanted him.
Storm looked at the distance, trying to get his mind in the right set. Storm wasn’t particularly acrophobic, but he was as aware as any other human being that a fall from ten stories up would probably hurt a little. Really, it was just a trick of psychology. After all, if you placed the beam on the ground and told him—or anyone else with a reasonable sense of balance—to walk those thirty feet, he’d be able to stroll along, even sprint it, without a second thought. Put the same beam ten stories up and it was heart-in-throat, shuffle-inch-by-inch time.
So the trick was to convince himself that the beam was really on the ground. Yes. It was on the ground. What did people always say? Just don’t look down. Great advice. It ranked right up there with telling a man who was being chased by a grizzly bear to run a little faster.
Nevertheless, it was all Storm had. He left the safety of the column and, without looking down, began calmly walking.
Ten feet. No problem. Fifteen feet. The wind gusted a little. He didn’t let it rattle him. Twenty feet. A bird flew by—below him. He willed himself not to be bothered by it. His sole focus was that next girder.
He was perhaps twenty-five feet in—five feet to safety—when disaster struck. His foot hit something. He couldn’t see what, but it felt like a thin piece of metal. Automatically, Storm looked down. It was a T square. Some worker or engineer or someone had left it there, except now it had been kicked free and was hurtling earthward. Storm watched it fall and hit the concrete floor ten stories down with a tremendous clattering.
The photographer’s head snapped immediately in the direction of the sound, which naturally drew his eye downward—and directly at Storm.
Storm drew the Beretta. “Freeze,” he ordered.
Without a word, the photographer slung the camera around his neck and started climbing the column. Storm had a shot at the man, but not an especially good one. There were beams in the way. Plus, what if he actually hit the guy? You couldn’t interrogate a dead man.
Storm Front: A Derrick Storm Thriller Page 9
