by John Meaney
Another flat bang, like a hammer on solid steel, and I swerved again. The Beretta was in my left hand. Beside me, Blackstone was running with the walkie-talkie, while drawing his Smith and Wesson.
Against a rifle.
I jerked again, changing my run, as a rusted paintcan exploded.
We're dead.
My ear was hot. Just a splinter. Nothing. Blackstone split away from me, also running hard. We were small targets, but although we were getting closer, the rifleman would be firing down, which wasn't the ideal—
Another shot.
Run faster.
Harder than I'd ever run in training, I sprinted across the ground – now ash-like dirt – kicking up a cloud and then I caught my foot in something – just roll – and abandoned myself to the motion, letting myself go down as I heard another crack of sound – bullet – and rolled, dirt-sky-dirt flowing past my vision. Then I was up and sprinting again.
I reached the base of the bridge support, and half-squatted with my back against the stonework, breathing hard. My shirt was soaked with sweat. My entire body was coated with a warm, oil-like slick of sweat, normally a sign of pleasure, from working hard.
Another second, and Blackstone reached me, and pressed himself against the stones beside me. From above, we were pretty much out of the gunman's sightline. Thinking that, I reholstered the Beretta at the small of my back, turned to face the stonework, and found my first handhold, then the second. I took hold, crimped my fingers, and took a step up, jamming the side of my shoe into a gap between stone blocks.
Blackstone said, "You won't climb all the way up in—"
There was a screech from high overhead, up on one of the traffic decks. Horns sounded.
"That's probably him," Blackstone added. "Made a getaway."
"Fuck."
"Yes. I know."
I was still hanging in place, staring up at the rusted underside of the bridge. It wouldn't take long to spider my way up.
"—there, Wolf Cub?" squawked from Blackstone's walkie-talkie.
"Brummie," I said.
Shit. Shit.
I let go of my holds, and dropped to the dirt like Cheetah in a Tarzan movie, absorbing the shock with all four limbs. Then I stood and took the walkie-talkie from Blackstone.
I don't want this conversation.
But looking up at the rearing bridge support, I knew the climb was pointless. The bastard was gone. So I clicked the walkie-talkie switch.
"I'm here, Brummie."
"How are you doing, lad?"
I rubbed my face. "It's Moshe."
Static hissed like rainfall.
"What's that, lad?"
"Moshe's dead."
THIRTY-FIVE:
NEW YORK, November 1963
In less than twenty minutes, we were sitting in a department store coffee shop, one block from the Empire State. For once in my life, I wasn't drinking coffee. This was what Moshe used to call the lull before the shitstorm.
He wouldn't be saying anything about anything.
There was a discreet cordon of CIA men all around a five-block area. The thing was, I hadn't seen the face of the man who'd killed Moshe. Blackstone had caught a glimpse: white man – no surprise – either bald or with cropped hair. It wasn't much of a description, but it didn't sound like Reinhard. He might have slipped through the net, into the Empire State Building. Or perhaps he'd only needed to make a phone call. Perhaps we were seconds from death right now.
We were sitting with a dour-faced man called Teasel, a supervisor from the Empire State who was explaining why no tourists were riding up to the top today.
"Not for four hours," he said. "Costs a fortune, but what can ya say? The Mayor's office likes movies in New York. Good for business."
Blackstone's men were in the coffee shop and throughout the store. One appeared to have the lingerie section under close surveillance.
"And the death ray," said Teasel. "It's a huge one."
"Excuse me?" That brought my attention back to the moment. "Death-ray?"
"Sci-fi movie, don't you see? Big heavy bastard. I watched them carry it in. Couldn't tell you who the actors are, cause I didn't recognize no one."
"So they're shooting a scene" – Blackstone's presence seemed denser when he concentrated – "right now. On the observation deck."
"Yes, sir."
"This death-ray," I said. "A big thing?"
"Right. Silver, flashing lights, kinda thing. Real heavy. I'd've thought they'd make it outta balsa wood or some such, but what do I know?"
What did anybody know? We might be seconds from death or chasing a delusion. What I was certain of was this: Moshe was lying on the grass with half his head destroyed. Even now, ants might be crawling up that still-sticky river of blood, their antennae waving at the promise of fatty riches, at the feast awaiting them inside the brainpan, where electrochemical waves once washed in complicated patterns that had been a personality, a mind, a living human being called Moshe Boaz. A father.
"Keep it together." Brummie was looking at me. "Until later."
"What's going on?" asked Teasel.
"A friend of mine," I said, "was in a – traffic accident."
"Oh. Sorry."
"Thank you."
Blackstone nodded to Teasel, and then stood up.
"Gentlemen?"
"We're with you," said Brummie.
We walked in a group. Briggs, the blonde CIA officer, was relaying a report from the Queensborough Bridge. Three agents were there, examining the scene, monitoring the emergency services as they worked. I didn't ask about Moshe's body.
"There's bolts and brackets in place," said Briggs, "below the traffic deck. A placeholder for a tripod."
For the rifle that killed Moshe? Or intended for a laser that could aim straight at the centre of the Peace Globe? That would be an easy shot for a marksman. With a laser beam, you didn't even have to allow for windage: the bastard thing would travel in a geometric straight line.
"All right." Blackstone touched my upper arm. "And we have one possible friendly in the Empire State, correct? French, tall, lean and bony, bearded."
"Unless he's shaved it off." What else could I say about Jean-Paul? "He's a hard-looking bastard."
"Good," said Brummie.
On the sidewalk, I stopped dead.
"What is it?" Blackstone's voice, but I scarcely heard it.
As I craned my head further back, I could see the Art Deco tower rearing up. I was a puny insect – ants in Moshe's head, feeding on his brains – staring up at a giant's palace. The vertical vanes and the needle, the topmost spire of the Empire State, were invisible from my ground-level position.
I shook my head, saying nothing, allowing intuition to happen.
Back in the 1920s, the building's designers had visions of airships docking at the Empire State's summit, allowing rich passengers to board or disembark. But the winds up there turned out to be ever-turbulent, dangerously chaotic. By the time the building was complete, the global economy, too, had dived into chaos. It was all a matter of mathematical—
"It's wrong," I said.
"What is?"
"There's no line of sight from up there" – I pointed upwards – "to the Peace Globe. I'm almost sure of it."
Blackstone wheeled around slowly, through 360 degrees, much as Moshe had done back on Roosevelt Island.
"I think you're right. But we still need to go in."
"Yes."
"Then we go."
We all knew that radio triggers were involved, so that taking out the laser would not be enough – we had to take down all the people, every member of the Black Path cell. But surely if this 'death-ray' was real – a laser with unnecessary decoration – it would need a clear sightline to the target.
Blackstone went first through the revolving doors. We followed in turn, until were all inside the polished corridor. A small line of tourists was waiting before a cardboard clock whose sign pointed to four o'clock. It would a long wait,
perhaps an infinite one.
Run. You might be about to die.
As if running would help.
The uniformed staff looked familiar: some of Blackstone's men, replacing the regular civilians. They nodded, allowing us through, along with the building's official visitors, heading for any of the dozens, maybe hundreds of businesses that had their offices here.
We stopped before a bank of lifts, watching the half-clock-face dials as the needles turned, following the ascent and descent of each car. By chance, with simultaneous dings, two lifts arrived and opened at the same time. Brummie and Blackstone headed for the leftmost, along with the other men. I followed, then—
Something.
—entered the other lift instead, as if I'd simply decided on the car that was less crowded. There were four other people with me, civilians, not with us.
Why?
But I knew why: it was the subconscious telling me something.
I allowed the other men to press the buttons. Then I nodded to myself, as though one of them had selected the floor I needed. Meanwhile, I kept my back to them as much as I could, lowered and my head and closed my eyes. Then my nostrils flared.
Got it.
There was a faint scent of cordite in here with me.
Shit.
I could think of legitimate reasons for someone to have fired a gun recently, but in my world you plan for the worst scenario. The first man got off at 23, then two more got off at 50; and the scent was still in here with me. The final floor selection was the top, as high as this lift would go.
One man left.
I closed my eyes again, checking, because taking out an innocent man would be terrible. It was bad enough that Moshe had—
Turning, I opened my eyes wide.
"Scheisse!", he said.
And snapped forward a head-butt, too fast for me to block.
Fuck.
I managed to lowering my head fractionally. He was bigger than me – with buzzcut hair – and I presented the hard part of my skull so that the impact was a light slap for me, a hard blow for him. But he was still moving, fast and with momentum, and I knew he'd have endurance in addition to his strength, because I'd seen him play tennis in the sports hall.
Klaus Eisenmenger, you fucking bastard.
His big fist slammed into the side of my neck, knocking me off balance. Had he recognized me? Irrelevant. His strength was enormous as he threw me into the lift wall – hurts – and followed with a knee strike – block it – as I dropped my elbow, partially deflecting the power. Then a heavy impact took me in the bladder.
Pain exploded.
Primate rage filled me as I thought of Moshe with ants in his brain, his baby orphaned, Clive Rogers decapitated in the forest where Eisenmenger ruled his sabre-fencing club. I hooked a punch into his lower ribs, slammed a palm heel into his jaw. It pushed me back from him – he was unmoveable, so strong – giving me clearance, and I knew it was time to let the anger go, because if I stayed with the primate brain I would die, for Eisenmenger was the strongest of apes, an enraged gorilla. He hit me with a massive punch... but then my emotions fell away, and in that moment something changed.
The reptile was in control.
My entire self was a problem-solving apparatus, working impersonally as it ripped a circular kick into Eisenmenger's thigh, snapped his punches aside, slammed thumbs either side of his nose, and ripped outwards, taking his eyes.
He screamed.
I struck once more, twice, and he was down.
Continue.
So I followed the motion, dropping knees-first onto his ribs, then slammed down the coup de grâce.
The lift door opened. I hadn't even noticed it stopping. Someone leaned inside.
"Bloody hell," said Brummie.
Eisenmenger wouldn't be killing any more of my friends.
It was Brummie, along with Rob Fields, who carried the body away and dumped it in a store cupboard, while Blackstone watched. By the time they'd finished, my thoughts were approximately rational once more.
There was another bank of lifts, which could take us all the way to the observation deck. But first there were the Neuhof Production offices to secure, seven floors up. The four of us rode up together. When we got out, Briggs was in the corridor, waiting for us.
"Everything's in place." He jabbed a finger towards three doors in turn. "We're inside those. Evacuated them, quietly."
Three men in suits were walking towards us. The one in the centre was heavy, with fleshy jowls. I thought I recognized him, but not in a way that set my paranoia off, more like someone whose photograph I'd seen in newspapers. He was a civilian. One of the two men escorting him nodded to Briggs on the way to the lifts. We waited until they'd got inside and the doors had closed.
"Recognize him?" said Blackstone. "The guy who nodded?"
"Cop," answered Briggs. "We were colleagues, way back when."
"All right."
Up ahead, twelve men converged on the Neuhof office. One turned a door handle, and everyone swarmed in with weapons drawn. There was no kicking, no yelling, no shooting: just one faint mmmph, then silence.
"Very nice," said Brummie.
Rob Fields winked at me. "They'll do."
The secretary was frightened. She had blonde hair, and looked a little like Hilde, without the athleticism. Blackstone's men were searching everywhere. One of them pulled down a certificate from the wall and showed it to me.
"Does that look genuine?"
It was from a Hebrew school in Paris. The graduate's name was Albert Reynard.
"Looks perfect."
Perhaps Reynard was not a fictitious name. The easiest way to create a deep legend is to adopt the identity of a dead person. Reinhard could have picked the identity because of its resonance with his real name. Call it vanity.
"Wh—What's happening, please?"
"Tax fraud," Briggs told the secretary. "Stay there. Where's everyone else? On the observation deck?"
"Yes. Filming. It's close, and the location costs were..." She stopped. "I'm sorry."
"All right."
Brummie asked her more questions about the people filming. Hearing his accent, she got interested, forgetting a little of her fear, and told him about the security guards standing on each of the four corners of the outdoor balcony, where it runs round the entire deck. She didn't know how many people were up there in total, but it was at least two dozen.
"The four security guys," said Brummie. "They're armed?"
"Yes. You can tell."
Meanwhile, I was checking the appointments book. I found an entry for M. Lebrun at two o'clock. That would be Jean-Paul.
"Has this man, Lebrun, turned up?" I asked. "I know it's early."
"Um. No. Should he have?"
"Never mind."
I looked at Brummie.
"We'll go up from the floor below," he said. "If that's all right with you guys."
That would mean climbing outside the building, in dangerous winds, over a hundred storeys up.
"I'm glad you're here," said Blackstone.
Fifteen minutes later, I was riding up in a small lift, squashed in with an improbable number of CIA men. None of us could breathe. I was sweating again. Then the lift rocked to a halt, the door slid open, and we spilled out, past two prostrate bodies. Screams sounded as we fanned into the room. There were canapés set out. Guests and film crew were standing and talking. We expanded into their space, weapons ready.
"Everyone remain still." Blackstone's voice resonated with command. "Absolutely still."
Outside, on each corner of the balcony, lay another unconscious body. By each one stood a SAS man, looking serious.
"They're good," murmured Briggs.
"You don't know the half of it." I looked at the people with their hands up. "Can't tell the civilians from the psychos."
"We'll just hold them all."
But there was no sign of Reinhard. He might have dyed his hair red, from Fern's account, but I'
d still recognize him. So I went out onto the balcony, where Brummie pointed upwards.
"Someone's up there," he said. "Want us to take him out?"
"Perhaps I'll take a look myself."
I reached for a handhold, and Brummie gave me a boost up as climbed the outside of the observation deck, to where the roof narrowed once more. Hanging there, I could see further up, to the narrowing roof, the insectile vertical vanes, and the tall needle spire.
And the silver death-ray machine set on its tripod pointing down at an angle to the—
Oh, shit.
—one building I should have thought of, because if any New York tower is science fictional, it's the gleaming Chrysler Building with its polished silver apex and the stylized silver eagles on each corner. They provide fully reflective surfaces at just about any angle you care to name. Call it optic snooker, because good players bounce the cue ball off the cushion to take a shot.
"No," I muttered into the wind.
Climbing was harder now. But I moved faster than I thought I could, because the tripod was almost within reach, and all I had to do was—
"Hey. Jew-boy. I recognize you."
Beside the stylized death-ray machine with the real laser inside, there he was. Albrecht Reinhard, six feet above me. He flicked a switch, then turned back to look down at me.
He really did have a charisma. Even here, I could feel it.
"Fuck you," I said.
"Oh, dear." He toggled another switch on the laser. "Aren't you kikes supposed to be intellectuals?"
"Not vermin?"
"That, too. Did you know, there's a British TV crew broadcasting live from UN Plaza right this moment. So I guess it's a good time to bring our schedule forward."
No.
I hauled myself up another few inches.
"You're far too late, Jew-boy. This'll take seconds, is all. And the world will see what you filth have done to New York."
Movement.
"I don't think—So." Up to the next handhold, and pulling.
Above Reinhard, those insectile vanes caused the wind to buffet and twist. Talk about dangerous. But if the laser struck the Peace Globe, the winds would be those of Armageddon.
