The Wrong Man

by Jason Dean

  The tower came back quickly. ‘November Romeo Charlie One, this is Tower. We read. Over.’

  ‘Tower, this is November Romeo Charlie One holding at rooftop helipad. Ready for departure. Over.’ The sound of rotor blades starting up could be heard in the background and Bishop opened his eyes to let sound and vision merge together.

  ‘November Romeo Charlie One, that’s a roger. You are clear for takeoff. Have a safe flight, Mr R. Over.’

  ‘Tower, this is November Romeo Charlie One. Roger that. Departing. Same, same, tomorrow, Gary. Out.’

  ‘Maybe sooner even than that, Gary,’ Bishop said in a fairly decent imitation, although it lacked the grating quality. Aleron glanced at him and raised an eyebrow.

  He watched as the chopper rose, hovering a couple of feet off the ground before making a precise, hundred and eighty degree axial turn in readiness for departure.

  Mandrake reached over and switched off the radio. ‘Single-engine,’ he said. ‘Looks like a Colibri. Nice machine.’

  Luke swivelled round in his seat. ‘And yours is what?’

  ‘A Colibri.’ Mandrake gave him a thin smile. ‘The professional’s choice.’

  ‘Same, same,’ Bishop said, watching as the chopper shrank to nothing onscreen. Then he turned to Mandrake and said, ‘Hey, you wouldn’t have any smokes lying around, would you?’

  At 21.13, Mandrake held them stationary at just under a thousand feet above the East River. The lights of New York City were laid out before them like a picture postcard. Bishop took a final drag of his fourth cigarette, opened the door a crack and flicked the butt out. He kept it open for a few moments until the last dregs of smoke were gone, and then latched it shut again.

  He coughed deeply a couple of times and tested his voice. He certainly sounded like a smoker now. He nodded once to Mandrake, who switched on the radio with his free hand. Bishop said into the mike on his headset, ‘Air Traffic Control, this is Helicopter November Romeo Charlie One. Do you read? Over.’

  The response was almost immediate. ‘This is Tower. We read, November Romeo Charlie One. Over.’ It was still Gary, although Bishop could hear a question mark in his tone.

  He turned and saw Aleron shift in his seat and glance at Luke. Bishop continued, ‘Tower, this is November Romeo Charlie One. Am holding at the northern end of the East River. Request permission to return to RoyseCorp helipad. Over.’

  ‘November Romeo Charlie One. Something wrong, Mr R? Over.’

  ‘Tower, this is November Romeo Charlie One. More than you could know, Gary. Over.’ Bishop arched his eyebrows at Mandrake and waited.

  ‘November Romeo Charlie One, continue holding, please. Over.’

  Bishop checked the time. 21.17. He breathed out slowly and looked at the Manhattan skyline. If this didn’t work, they’d need to consider the fallback option. Mandrake wouldn’t be happy about it, but Bishop wasn’t about to go back empty-handed now. Not with Jenna’s life in the balance.

  Mandrake clasped his free hand over the mike and said, ‘The police turning up at Metroblade so fast.’

  ‘What about it?’ Bishop said.

  ‘That Marshal. She told me Art sent an email alert to the police, saying you were on your way to see him. Forgot to mention it before.’

  Bishop smiled. He’d guessed as much. ‘And no reference to Jenna?’

  Mandrake shook his head. ‘They showed me the email. No mention of her.’

  ‘Good.’ He went back to studying the skyline for a while before checking his watch again. 21.19.

  ‘November Romeo Charlie one, this is Tower.’

  Bishop said, ‘Go ahead, Tower. Over.’

  ‘November Romeo Charlie One, you are clear to proceed. Over.’

  Mandrake grinned as Bishop said, ‘Tower, this is November Romeo Charlie One. Roger that. I owe you, Gary. Over.’

  ‘No problem, Mr R. Be safe. Out.’

  Bishop took off the headset and leaned back in the seat. He felt a large hand pat him on the shoulder. ‘Go,’ he said.

  Mandrake went.

  SEVENTY-THREE

  When they reached RoyseCorp Tower, Mandrake held them steady at fifteen feet above the angled, ramp-like structure. The floodlights were still on too, which was a bonus Bishop hadn’t counted on. Probably on a timer.

  Bishop turned to Aleron in the rear and made a horizontal twirl with his forefinger. They switched places, then Bishop swapped again with Luke and slid the rear passenger door open. A strong current of September night wind swept through the chopper and Bishop took a deep breath of the city air. He took a quick look over the side, then reached under the front passenger seat and pulled out a thirty-foot length of knotted climbing rope.

  Next to him, Luke splayed his hands into leather gloves and yelled, ‘I’m not liking any part of this, Bishop. The height part, mainly.’

  Bishop finished tying one end of the rope securely to the steel snap ring attached to the ceiling of the cabin. ‘It’s only a ten foot drop,’ he said, testing his weight against it. ‘You’re almost that tall standing up.’ He threw the rope out the door and watched it coil on the roof of the entrance structure. ‘Just follow me,’ he said, and waited until Luke reluctantly nodded back.

  Bishop put his own gloves on and made sure his knapsack was tight on his back. Then he grasped the rope with both hands and turned so he was facing Luke. Stepping onto the fixed skid, he gave a thumbs-up and lowered himself out into the sky.

  With his legs entwined round the swaying rope, Bishop descended using just his arms and in less than ten seconds his feet touched concrete, just a few feet from the overhang. He knelt down, held the rope in place with one hand and gestured for Luke to follow. The taller man stepped out onto the skid. A few moments of hesitation and then he was making his way down the rope at a pretty good speed.

  When he landed next to him, Bishop said, ‘Not so bad.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ Luke said, out of breath. He looked terrified. ‘Nobody can make me do that again.’

  Bishop smiled and waved up at Aleron, who began pulling the rope back in. Once it was up, Mandrake rose a few more feet, but kept the copter directly above them.

  Luke puffed his cheeks out and took off his knapsack, laid it on the ground and pulled his laptop out. He also pulled out a slim metallic box the size of a cigarette pack and connected it to the computer with a long USB wire. He handed the box to Bishop and said, ‘Wireless transmitter. Doesn’t need to be touching the camera, as long as it’s within a couple of feet of it.’

  Bishop nodded, then crawled to the far left of the overhang and peered over. He was about ten feet above the roof. Further along, he could see the featureless black steel entrance door in the centre of the wall and the entry keypad on its right. Directly above the door, a few inches under the overhang, was the oval camera in its fixed position, looking straight ahead. Bishop moved across until he was directly over it and placed the wireless transmitter an inch from the edge.

  Luke was busy working on his laptop when Bishop returned. Bishop looked at the screen and saw the roof footage he’d been downloading ever since Royse had left. ‘We’ve only got about fifteen minutes’ worth,’ Luke said. ‘I’m giving it a loop command now, so if my little box of goodness is doing its thing . . .’ The picture vanished, to be replaced by lines of code. Luke’s fingers tapped out their concerto across the keyboard and Bishop saw a smile slowly play itself out on his lips. ‘We’re in,’ he said, finally.

  Bishop still saw only code. ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘Check it out, non-believer,’ Luke said. He opened his internet browser and accessed his bookmarked web page. It showed the same empty rooftop as before. ‘That’s what’s being transmitted to the building’s security right now,’ he said, and stood up and walked over to the overhang. Kneeling down beside his magic box, he swung his hand back and forth in front of the camera. ‘Well?’ he shouted back.

  Bishop watched the screen and saw the same bare rooftop. No hands. Bishop nodded at
Luke and looked up at the chopper. Aleron was looking down at them from the open door. Bishop pointed to the helipad and made landing motions with his arms. Luke came over and they both watched as Mandrake momentarily hovered over the circle before landing directly on the H.

  While Mandrake began powering down, Luke brought out a second metallic object from his knapsack, similar in size to the transmitter. It was finished in matt grey with a series of ports at one end and one side covered in adhesive pads. He used another long cable to connect it to his laptop.

  Bishop took his own knapsack off and pulled out a length of thin knotted rope with a different-sized loop tied at each end, a black steel rock hammer, and some two-inch long universal mountaineering pitons. He moved to the edge, in line with the keypad, and lowered the end of the rope with the larger loop until it hovered a foot off the ground. Then he put the knapsack on part of it to keep it in place while he brought the other end as far back as it would go. About ten feet from the overhang. Where the rope ended, he took out a marker pen and drew a dot on the concrete.

  Luke had finished setting up, and watched as Bishop came back for the tools then returned to his mark and hammered one of the pitons halfway into the concrete. Next he picked up the rope and placed the miniature loop over the exposed pin. After pulling at the rope with all his strength he turned back to Luke, who held out the box to him.

  ‘Wireless data transceiver,’ he said. ‘Same rules. As long as you position it a few inches away from the keypad, we’re good to go. Give me fifteen, twenty minutes and I’ll get us in.’

  Bishop placed the box in his top shirt pocket and looked at his watch. 21.34. ‘You told us ten before,’ he said.

  ‘Maybe I exaggerated. So sue me.’

  Shaking his head, Bishop picked up his knapsack and pulled out two small items which he put in another pocket. Looked like it was down to him to narrow the timescale.

  With the rope in both hands, he carefully lowered himself over the side until his feet were within a few inches of the rooftop surface. Then he inserted his left foot into the stirrup and gradually relaxed his arm muscles. His body hovered just clear of the ground.

  The door to his left was a black steel monolith set into the stone. No handle, no lock to pick and no hinges. Which meant it must open inwards once the right code was inputted. The keypad was at chest level and Bishop had to bend his left leg a little to bring his face in line with it. The keys were laid out in the standard three columns of one through nine with the fourth row made up of a star, a zero and a hash. No letters, thank God, but also no other signs to indicate whether it was armed or disarmed. Bishop looked up and saw Luke with his head over the side, watching him.

  He pulled the transceiver from his shirt pocket, ripped the seals off the adhesive pads and stuck it to the wall beside the keypad. Then he reached into his pants pocket and pulled out the tube of aluminium fingerprint powder and the fibreglass brush he’d asked Aleron to get for him earlier. He opened the tube, tapped a large quantity of powder into his gloved palm and blew it directly onto the keypad until the fine particles covered the surface. Then he used the brush to gently dust away the excess. He was left with just five keys with silver powder markings on them. 1, 5, 7, 8 and #.

  ‘There we go,’ he said.

  Then the stirrup came loose and he hit the ground with both feet.

  SEVENTY-FOUR

  ‘What the hell?’ Luke said.

  Bishop raised his hand to forestall further talk and checked his watch. 21.37.12. No flashing lights or sirens yet, but he knew there would be sixty seconds from now without the right code.

  All right, he thought. Either you make it through this first hurdle or it’s over before it’s begun. No pressure.

  He stared at the keypad. He knew the keys Royse had pressed, but not the order. Or which of them needed keying more than once. Wilson had said you usually get three shots before being kicked out. And less than sixty seconds in which to do it. So you better make them count.

  1, 5, 7, 8. So if Royse subscribed to Wilson’s theory, they would likely make a date. Luke had dug out a few more biographical details that afternoon, but not nearly enough to satisfy Bishop. And none of the dates he’d seen contained the four numbers in front of him.

  And then he remembered one date did match. When he read that piece about the AIDS benefit Brennan attended in April of 1987, Jenna said the company had been formed three months earlier on January 15. That made 1/15/87. With a hash after the final number, maybe. Or before the first number. Or to separate the month, day and year.

  Bishop licked his lips, then pressed 1, #, 1, 5, #, 8, 7.

  No result.

  He tried adding a hash at the start, followed by the same number sequence and another hash at the end.

  Still nothing. He checked his watch again. 21.37.47. One more try and twenty-five seconds left.

  Bishop closed his eyes and willed himself to come up with something. Anything. There was always an answer. Always. You just needed to think. Two seconds later, he opened his eyes and leaned in closer to the keypad. And frowned when he noticed a small amount of residue on two of the other keys: the zero and the nine. He should have taken more notice the first time. Stupid. He pulled the tube out again and emptied the contents into his palm, then blew the remaining powder against the lower half of the keypad.

  He didn’t need the brush this time. The nine key had even less residue now, but the zero was almost entirely covered in silver particles.

  21.37.58. Less than fifteen seconds.

  Time enough for one last try. The placement of the zero was obvious, but where to put the hash marks? Bishop thought of Royse’s precise, clipped manner when he’d conversed with the tower. And the zero that had to go before the month of January. Like most military men, he liked things neat and in their place, so Bishop had to assume his first instinct had been the correct one: that in the absence of a slash symbol a hash mark had to suffice.

  This time, Bishop pressed 0 first. Then 1, #, 1, 5, #, 8, 7. Then he waited for the click of a lock opening.

  Still nothing.

  Bishop checked his watch again: 21.38.11. Time was up. He watched it change to 21.38.12.

  Then he heard a metallic click to his left. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

  The door had opened.

  SEVENTY-FIVE

  ‘Wanna tell me what that was all about?’ Luke said from behind Bishop.

  They were halfway down a sparsely lit concrete stairwell that came to a stop two levels below in front of another door. Bishop said, ‘The rope was slippery. It just came loose is all.’

  ‘Don’t tell me that. Not after I just rappelled out of a helicopter.’

  ‘Forget it. We’re here now.’ But even as Bishop said it, he reminded himself not to get too cocksure just yet. That he’d gotten them this far by a hair’s breadth. The vault wouldn’t be anywhere near as easy. Plus they had to find the damn thing first.

  He reached the bottom of the stairs and studied the solid steel door in front of him. This one had a handle, but no keypad or visible lock.

  He grabbed the handle, pulled the door open, but didn’t step inside.

  He couldn’t make out much in the darkness and the lightspill coming from behind wasn’t much help. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his Maglite, playing the beam around the interior. He saw plenty of glass and a few pieces of furniture here and there. No obvious traps or alarms. Switching the light off, he lay down on his stomach and tried to see any sign of a laser grid close to the floor. Nothing. He got to his feet and turned to Luke, who was standing close behind him.

  Chewing his lip, Luke looked at Bishop and said, ‘We gotta go in, right?’

  Bishop nodded. The guy could be a jerk but Bishop couldn’t fault his logic. After all, what other choice was there?

  He stepped into the room.

  And immediately realized there were motion sensors in here. But not for reasons of security. The room was sl
owly getting lighter and Bishop guessed it was some kind of automated light enhancer. It began at subdued and over the next sixty seconds grew in intensity to become a near perfect approximation of natural daylight. Bishop looked around and saw the lights were hidden in recesses in the walls and ceiling. Very tasteful. Probably cost a fortune like everything else in here.

  ‘Huh. If this is what you call a Howard Hughes complex,’ Luke said at his side, ‘I wanna be just like him when I grow up.’

  ‘You got a few years to go yet,’ Bishop said.

  ‘Bite me.’

  Royse’s penthouse looked like a first-class lounge. There was thick, dark grey carpet everywhere and most of the décor was a gleaming white. Shutters covered the windows on the east and west sides and foundation pillars fell at regular intervals, while tinted glass partitions separated the space directly in front of them into three distinct sections. There was a reception area, with six black leather easy chairs surrounding two glass coffee tables. Next was a conference area with a long oval marble-effect table, overlooked by a huge projection screen. Then a spacious kitchen area with facilities for the preparation of snacks or refreshments. Bishop wondered if anyone other than Royse had actually sat in any of these chairs recently. Knowing Royse’s aversion to human contact, probably not.

  Further back, a tinted glass wall with sliding doors travelled the width of the building. Through it, Bishop could see a wide passageway.

  ‘Let’s see where we are, exactly,’ he said and reached into Luke’s backpack.

  ‘What, we haven’t died and gone to executive heaven?’ Luke said over his shoulder. ‘How the hell does he keep this place clean?’

  ‘Probably flies in his own cleaners once a week,’ Bishop said, pulling out the floor plan and unfolding it. He found their current location on the sheet and looked up. ‘Okay, most of his playrooms are in that section past the glass, along with the one we think could be the vault.’