“No,” Manning tells him, “you’re young, that’s all. And I think you’ve just gained a little wisdom.”
The Friday-afternoon traffic is heavy, with many city people getting out of town to avoid the weekend crowds. Many others pour into town to take part in the festivities. Everyone, though, seems headed for the new stadium, eager to circle the just-finished structure and glimpse its avant-garde architecture, its grand entryway, its flowering boulevards. A battalion of specially recruited white-gloved traffic cops practices guiding the torrent of cars with civility and humor, a dress rehearsal for tomorrow’s big opening.
David has been peering at the distant stadium through the side window when Manning takes a turn that will lead them away, toward the planetarium. Manning asks him, “Why did you decide to talk to your uncle about this?”
“Like I said: I’m stupid.”
“No, David, not at all. I know that your uncle means a lot to you, and I know he’s had a big influence on your upbringing. I heard that you came out to him during college and that he didn’t react well. Still, it was a brave move on your part—it showed a lot of integrity. My guess is that you confided in him again today in order to give him a second chance to put this issue at rest between you.”
With a lame laugh, David tells Manning, “You’re more analytical about it than I was—I just wanted to level with him. Trouble is, he was in no mood for honesty, and as you heard only too well, he got the situation backwards.”
Manning turns to face David with a smile. “It doesn’t help that we’ve started dressing like the Bobbsey Twins.”
“You’ve noticed,” says David, embarrassed. They are dressed like twins today—khaki slacks, white shirts, striped silk ties, navy blazers. “I wasn’t even conscious that I was doing it till Hector pointed it out. Sorry.”
“Stop apologizing. You look great. And I’m flattered.”
“I’ve arranged to have a talk with Hector later tonight. I’ll make sure he understands what happened. Maybe, when he calms down, he’ll make an apology in the newsroom. I’ll try to work it out.”
Manning sighs. “Any effort in that direction would be greatly appreciated.” The planetarium is now visible beyond the next turn of the road. “Meanwhile,” says Manning, “we’ve got some reporting to do. Unfortunately, I didn’t expect traffic to be this heavy, and we can’t be in two places at once.”
“Can you postpone your appointment at the MidAmerica laser site?”
“No,” says Manning, “it’s nearly five already, and Uttley had to pull strings to book the five-thirty inspection. I can’t fiddle with it now. But here’s another idea: I’ll meet Zarnik here at the planetarium while you turn around in the car and go to the MidAmerica Building for me.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Pulling into the parking lot at the planetarium, Manning asks, “Do you have your press pass and cell phone?” David nods. Manning tells him, “Drive to the east parking entrance of the building—it’s not very well marked because it leads to the private parking ramp for the Central States Club. They’re expecting my car at the gate, and the guard will direct you. Use your pass if you have to, explain that I sent you, and hope they play along. When you’ve made it up to the laser platform at the top of the tower, call me.”
“Sure,” says David. “I think I can handle that.”
Manning stops at the curb in front of the steps to the planetarium, and they both get out of the car. They grab their jackets from the backseat, making sure each has the right one. Manning takes his computer case, then David gets in behind the wheel. Before closing the door, he reaches to shake Manning’s hand. “Good luck in there, Mark. And thanks for everything. In spite of the glitches, these have been the best two weeks of my life.”
Manning musses David’s hair. “Call me from the tower.”
Just inside the main door of the planetarium, Manning is surprised to find Pavo Zarnik waiting for him, chewing one of his fingernails. When Zarnik sees Manning, he glances at his watch and says, with no trace of an accent, “Thank God, you’re about two minutes early. Come on, hurry.” And he leads Manning toward the back stairs that lead up to his laboratory.
Over the clatter of their feet on the metal stairs, Manning asks, “Why the big rush, Professor? What could be so time-sensitive about the technical notes you’ve prepared for me?”
At the top of the stairs, Zarnik stops, facing Manning. With a featureless expression, he says flatly, “There are no notes. Did you really expect any?”
Manning senses that at last this charade may unravel. He does not answer Zarnik’s question, but merely jerks his head in the direction of the door to the laboratory. “I’m at your disposal, Professor.”
Zarnik nods, leading the reporter down the hall. He walks with quick, sure strides, not the skittering shuffle that has previously characterized his gait. Arriving at the door with the red plastic sign, he unlocks it with a key that hangs with the whistle around his neck. He pushes the door open for Manning, who steps inside. The lights are already on, but the banks of computers are dark and silent. Zarnik closes the door behind them.
Manning stands in the clearing near the center of the room. Zarnik says nothing, but crosses to his desk, checks a page of the calendar, checks his watch, checks for something in a drawer, chews a hangnail. Manning asks, “Is there something you wanted to tell me?”
“Not yet,” says Zarnik. “Things will soon begin to explain themselves. Come here, please.” And he walks beyond the desk, behind a row of metal cabinets.
Manning follows. There are a few square yards of clear floor space behind the bank of electronic hardware, where a pair of sturdy wooden chairs flank a small table. There’s nothing on the table till Manning sets his computer there—it seems that the furniture has been hastily arranged.
Zarnik gestures that Manning should sit, telling him, “You’ll be able to hear everything from here. Have your notebook ready, and for God’s sake, be quiet.”
At several minutes past five, all is quiet in Nathan Cain’s outer offices. There are often projects that keep people working late in the publisher’s suite, but with the approach of the long holiday weekend, everyone has managed to be out the door on time—except Lucille Haring, who sits at her desk staring at the clock.
She tidies some clutter on her desk, then rearranges files in a drawer, stalling. Having not yet logged off her computer, she poises her fingers over the keyboard, hesitates, then stands up. She paces once, smartly, toward the window, turns, and marches back to her desk. Biting her lip, she drums her fingers on the plastic shell of the computer monitor; the clacking of her nails resounds in the quiet office.
But that noise is overpowered by the clank of heavy brass hardware—Lucille Haring jumps—as the timbered door to Nathan Cain’s inner office opens. Cain steps through, closing the door behind him and locking it with a key that Lucille Haring has never seen him use. He also carries a briefcase, which is not his habit.
“Good evening, Colonel,” she says, stepping forward. “I was wondering whether you’d left yet. I thought you might be in residence here this weekend.”
He grunts vacantly. “No. The holiday and all. With all the hoopla, I’ve decided to go north for a few days.”
“Ah,” she says, nodding, “that’s probably a good idea, sir. We could all use a bit of R and R. But it looks as if you’re taking some work along with you.”
He glances down at the briefcase, then up at her. “No, Miss Haring.” He steps closer and lowers his voice. “I’ve been a little nervous about our security of late. This is material I’d rather have with me while I’m gone. Just a precaution.”
“Oh, really?” She steps to her computer terminal and calls something up on the screen. “I assure you, Colonel, there’s been no evidence of a breach—your offices are tight as a drum.”
“Well,” he bounces the key in his palm, “they are now.” He pockets the key. “Enjoy the Fourth, Miss Haring. And don’t forget to turn out
the lights.”
As he walks down the corridor toward the outer door, Lucille Haring calls after him, “Thank you, Colonel. Have a happy Independence Day.”
When the door closes after him, she pauses, listening to the pervasive silence of the office. Then she sits down at her desk, back straight as a board, and begins typing codes into the computer. Now and then, the machine asks for more, which she feeds it. Finally, she relaxes in her chair and waits. Then she smiles.
The message on the screen says, “Welcome, Mr. Cain.”
Manning checks his watch—it’s nearly five-fifteen. He’s had a few minutes to settle into his hiding space, wondering what, if anything, is about to transpire. He’s discovered a crack between two of the cabinets through which he can see Zarnik’s desk, the door, and not much else. Sitting in the shadow of the cabinets, there’s sufficient light for him to take notes, but since the rest of the room is relatively bright, he’s confident that he won’t be seen peeking.
There’s a rap at the door. Zarnik turns in his chair at the desk and asks, “Yes, who is it?” Manning notices that the accent has resurfaced.
A woman’s voice says from the corridor, “It’s me, Professor. Miss Jenner. Your guest from the mayor’s office is here.” Manning’s brows arch with interest.
Rising, Zarnik tells her, “Coming, Miss Jenner. Thank you.” He skitters across the room, completely in character, then turns the lock and opens the door. Miss Jenner, who’s a perky little thing, stands outside with the visitor. As Manning has already deduced, it is Victor Uttley. His lanky frame stretches more than a foot above the woman’s. He wears dark sunglasses, a fifties vintage pair of classic Ray-Bans, conspicuously inappropriate inside the building—a lame attempt at disguise, no doubt.
Zarnik extends his hand. “Mr. Uttley, I presume?”
“It’s an honor, Professor,” Uttley responds dryly, shaking Zarnik’s hand.
Zarnik tells the woman, “Thank you, Miss Jenner. You may run along now. And please—do enjoy your holiday.”
She titters, excusing herself with a clumsy gesture that resembles a curtsy, and disappears down the hall.
Zarnik waves Uttley into the lab, closing the door behind them. Dropping the accent, he says, “Well, Victor, it’s been a while. It seems that both of our careers have finally taken off, though in divergent and unexpected directions.”
“Spare me the rhetoric, Arlen.” Uttley looks around the room. “Impressive. Do you have any idea how to work this stuff?”
“Not a clue.”
Uttley lights one of his imported cigarettes. “Next question, the more important one: Do you have it?”
The actor who has pretended to be Zarnik asks, “What?” With feigned naiveté, he adds, “The payoff money? The loot?”
“Now now, Arlen,” Uttley scolds him, “you know better than that. Let’s just call it the price of silence, or better yet, a token of past friendship.”
“Yeah, right. Ten thousand bucks is a heap of friendship.”
Manning rolls his eyes, stifling a laugh. Ten here, ten there—it adds up.
The actor named Arlen leads Uttley to the desk. He opens the top drawer, takes out a standard letter-size envelope, about an inch thick, and hands it to Uttley, who hefts it, looking disappointed. The actor asks him, “What’s the matter, Victor? Were you expecting an attaché case? It’s a hundred bills, a hundred each. Count them—ten thousand even.”
Uttley peeks inside, then closes the flap of the envelope, satisfied. The cigarette bobs in his mouth as he asks, “Where’d you get it? Who supplied it?”
“That, I’m afraid, is none of your business. You’ve gotten what you wanted—now go away and keep your mouth shut.”
“I’ll be quiet,” Uttley assures him, then he adds, “for now.”
“Victor, so help me …”
Manning’s got the idea. They’re going to bicker for a while. He wishes Uttley would leave so that he could question Zarnik—or Arlen or whoever he is—at length. The man is obviously ready to confide in Manning, but for some reason, he wants Uttley kept in the dark.
What time is it? Almost twenty-five past five. Then Manning remembers with a start that he instructed David Bosch to phone him when he arrives at the top of the MidAmerica Building. The cell phone in Manning’s breast pocket could ring at any moment. If Manning switches off the phone, he could miss David’s call and blow a promising story. If he leaves it switched on, he could blow his cover behind the cabinet. He wants Uttley to leave. Now.
David spots the garage ramp on the east side of the MidAmerica Building. Manning was right—it could easily be missed, marked only with a discreet plaque that says Central States Club. He pulls up to the gate and lowers his window, prepared to talk his way past the guard. But the guard has seen the car coming, checked his clipboard, and now leans to tell David, “Good evening, Mr. Manning. We’ve been expecting you. Please park at the top level of the ramp. The host at the elevator will direct you.”
That was easy. David thanks him, raises his window, and drives the big black car up four or five levels. When he can go no farther, he sees the private elevator lobby. Gold lettering on the glass door reads Central States Club. An attendant stands there at a podium. There’s a red carpet leading from the spartan concrete environs of the garage to the lavishly decorated interior.
David gets out of the car and puts on his blazer, checking pockets for press pass, phone, and notebook. He locks the car and walks the red carpet, removing the pass from his jacket, ready to do some explaining to the attendant. The man at the podium has watched his arrival, and when David steps up to talk to him, he says, “Welcome, Mr. Manning. They phoned up to say you were here. I understand the mayor’s office has arranged for you to visit the tower platform.”
“That’s right.” David is enjoying this—he’ll fill in for Manning anytime.
“Simply take this elevator to the top floor, eighty-nine. You’ll arrive in the lobby of the club, with the bar entrance straight ahead. Before you get to the bar, though, along the right-hand wall, you’ll find an unmarked door to a stairwell. Since it’s still too early for the club’s dinner crowd, there will be no one on duty in the lobby, so the door has been left unlocked for you. Take the stairs three flights up to the tower platform. If there are still workers up there, they will know to expect you, but they may have left already. I’m sure I needn’t caution you, but it’s open air up there, so do be careful.”
“Thank you,” David tells the man. “You’ve been very helpful.” Then he gets into the elevator, presses the top button, and begins his rapid nonstop ascent. During the course of the trip, which seems to take well over a minute, he swallows several times to clear his ears. When the doors slide open, he finds himself in the club lobby, just as it was described. The bar is ahead, backlit by a spectacular view. There is an inconspicuous door along the right wall, partially hidden by a potted plant. There is no one else around, so he crosses the deep carpeting to the door and tries it—sure enough, it’s not locked.
On the other side of the door, the walls are bare cement block, with metal stairs leading up. David climbs several turns of the stairway, and on the sixth landing, the stairs end at a door. He opens it, finding himself in a short hall, no more than six feet long, which leads to another door. Hearing the howl of wind beyond the second door, he concludes that the double-doored hall was designed as a buffer—it might otherwise be impossible to close the outside door against the wind.
Even with the inside door closed securely behind him, David has a struggle with the outer one, but he manages to step through and get it closed. Then, turning, he finds himself standing atop one of the city’s tallest buildings. Earth itself seems to spread out before him, radiant in the late-afternoon sun, teeming with anonymous millions who scurry to launch their weekend. He views the lower half of Lake Michigan as though on a map. Indiana, he knows, is below it, Michigan across it, Wisconsin just up the shore from where he stands. And nothing can be heard but the
sound of the wind.
While Manning holds the cellular phone in his hand, deciding whether to switch it off, it rings.
“… trying to make ends meet …” Uttley lops his harangue midsentence, choking on the words. “What the hell?”
The phone rings again. Manning steps out from behind the cabinet, answering, “Yes?” Uttley removes his sunglasses to gape at Manning with bulging, unbelieving eyes. The tension of his stance suggests he’s ready to bolt from the room. But Manning is careful to keep his own body language relaxed and unthreatening. He says into the phone, “Hello, David. No hassles? Great.”
Uttley turns to face the other actor, seething. “Traitor!” He throws his cigarette on the floor and stamps it out as a child might, verging on a tantrum.
“For heaven’s sake, Victor. Can the melodrama.” The actor named Arlen plops himself into the chair at the desk. “You’re an extortionist. Do you really think you deserve the loyalty of friends—particularly friends you’ve blackmailed?”
Manning plugs a finger in his ear so he can hear the phone better. “You caught me at an awkward moment here, David. Listen, you try to locate the equipment, look it over, and I’ll call you back in a few minutes.” He folds the phone shut, slips it into his jacket, and tells the others, “Sorry for the interruption, gentlemen. Nice to see you again, Victor.” He extends his hand, but Uttley stands there ramrod stiff, fuming. Then Manning turns, extending his hand to the other man. “I don’t believe we’ve met, actually.”
Zarnik’s impostor rises from his chair, reluctantly steps toward Manning, and shakes his hand. “My name is Arlen Farber. I’m an actor, and I’ve been hired to play a role. It sounded like a fun gig, and the money’s really good. But something’s up, Mr. Manning—something sinister, I’m afraid. So I decided it was time to, uh … blow the proverbial whistle.” With a humorless expression, he gives his chrome police whistle a feeble toot.
Manning has his notebook ready. “Who’s paying you, Arlen?”
Eye Contact Page 28
