Stone 588

by Gerald A. Browne

  Scoot committed to the rope, got it with both hands. He faced the pipe now, the rope over his shoulder and down his back. Quickly he scissored the rope between his legs. He raised his feet, placed a foot on each side of the pipe, the toes of his sneakers tucked in behind it, his ankles hugging it, monkeyish. That way he wasn't hanging by his hands with all his weight.

  He went down the rope and the pipe slowly, in somewhat of a rappeling fashion, hand under hand, knot by knot. When he reached the sixth-floor level, off to his left was the roof he wanted. Five feet away. He maintained his position on the rope while shifting his upper body, and thus most of his weight, to and fro. From a slight motion the momentum increased and soon he was swinging like the emerald bead on the end of Audrey's pendulum. As he swung left far enough he loosened his grip and slid down the rope and landed well on the roof.

  He looked up.

  Only three stories, but it had seemed a longer way. It wasn't going to be an easy climb back up, when it came to that. He put his vest on properly, signaled to the others with three shining blinks.

  They came as Scoot had: imitatingly, and with a slight advantage as they inched along the ledge because of the rope he'd strung across to the drainpipe. To have it under their chins was reassuring, although had one of them lost balance and grabbed hold of it, it wouldn't have saved anyone for long.

  Audrey was the first down, her eyes open a bit wider than normal, breathing almost entirely through her mouth. She peered up into the rain and was still on the ledge, still coming down the rope, until Springer was there beside her.

  It was nine forty-three when Strand got down.

  They were seventeen minutes early.

  They crouched reflexively as they proceeded across the roof to its north edge, where there was a raised facade of about two feet. Kneeling behind the facade they peeked over at their objective: Townsend's, the sheer south side of Townsend's. It was about forty feet opposite and down a floor from them, across the chasm created by the three-story building which adjoined.

  They had a good view of Townsend's roof and knew the snare it was with all its security devices. On the front and rear comers were the television cameras, deeply hooded so the lenses were protected from the rain. There was no way of knowing how the wide-angle lenses were set. Perhaps they included this second roof over, even though it was a story higher. Better to be careful, keep down.

  Scoot knotted another length of climbing rope and secured it to a stand-pipe.

  At five minutes to ten Springer and Audrey crawled along the facade to the front edge of the roof for a peek at Fifth Avenue. They remained there. At twenty seconds to ten they took another more anticipatory peek. The sweep hand of Springer's watch approached straight up and started around again.

  What had gone wrong?

  At that moment there was absolute darkness in the Con Edison chamber fifteen feet below the avenue in front of Townsend's. Drips subtly disturbed the surface of the water that had seeped to the bottom of the chamber. Concentric circular wakes were, on their lesser relative level, tiny tidal waves that sloshed turbulently.

  There were no beetles, no spiders, no cousins of roaches or strange mul-tipedic creatures in the chamber or in the ground around it. Rats often used the ducts for getting from block to block, but there were none now. It seemed that every such living thing in the vicinity had been warned by its most elemental senses.

  The blasting cord.

  Springer and Scott had wound it twice around each of the inch-and-a-half electric power cables. They'd woven it along both sides of every seven-way-seven junction. Not knowing which cable was the one, they'd included them all. To do that had required stringing the blasting cord back and forth across the chamber numerous times. It looked like so much clothesline.

  Taped to the top surface of the transformer was the battery-powered timing device. Simple as an ordinary alarm clock, set to go off at ten. Scoot had set it according to Springer's watch; however, in the past nine or so hours the timer had accumulatively become slow by forty-six seconds.

  Tick, tick, tick.

  Those forty-six were ticked away.

  Current flowed through the detonating wire.

  The explosion, though muffled, was tremendous: a powerful grumble, the indigestive pangs of an enormous belly. It shuddered the avenue and the buildings. Several store windows were reduced to shards. The Con Edison manhole cover, all five hundred pounds of it, shot straight up six stories and came down on its edge, gouging ten inches into the asphalt.

  Springer and Audrey watched, astounded. They had intended an explosion, but this was overkill. It might take not just hours but days for Con Ed to restore power.

  Near the comer of 56th a geyser of water spouted up forty feet from another manhole opening. The quaking had ruptured a twelve-inch high- pressure water pipe. The avenue was rapidly being flooded, water was deepening, flowing down the slight grade of Fifth.

  The lights went out for two blocks up and two blocks down. Even Trump Tower diagonally across from Townsend's was without power for several minutes, until its emergency generators could be switched on.

  Townsend's television cameras went blind.

  Townsend's alarm systems went dumb.

  Three blocks away, in the monitoring room at Reliance Security, numerous alarm indicator lights went red and television viewing screens turned to meaningless pointillism, not just those of the Townsend hookup but others as well. At once the men on duty got on the direct line to Midtown North precinct and were informed of the underground explosion. Most likely caused by a leaky gas main, the precinct said matter-of-factly. (There were 4,000 miles of gas-bearing pipe beneath the city, most of it old, much of it leaky.) Had the circumstances, explosion or whatever, been limited to a single building such as Townsend's, Reliance would have been on the run; however, an entire four-block section of Fifth Avenue was affected. The precinct was taking measures. For the time being. Reliance was advised, sit tight.

  Strand and Scoot were already down the rope and on the roof of the three-story building next door to Townsend's. Audrey and Springer went down. It was no less than the previous descent but it seemed easier, less perilous.

  They crossed over the roof to the wall of Townsend's, the sheer high wall on the south side of the building. It was painted a taupe shade over several layers of waterproofing. From a distance the wafl appeared smooth, but close up, and because it was now slicked with rain, the unevenness of the underlying bricks and mortar lines was apparent.

  Strand, from memory, paced off where they would go through the wall: a spot about twenty-five feet from the front of the building and about a foot up the wall. Only a foot up because the three stories of the building they were on were equal to about two and a half of Townsend's taller stories. Strand indicated how much of a hole would be necessary.

  Springer and Scoot went at it.

  With diamond-edged chisels they cut through the wall's waterproof coatings, removed those, and exposed the bricks: regular, fired, red bricks, eight by four by two and a half, about three eighths of an inch of gray-white mortar between them.

  Springer and Scoot used hand drills on the mortar. Compact, ratcheted drills with quarter-inch diamond-edged bits so sharp they could cut a finger if merely touched. The bits chewed easily into the mortar. This cementing substance dated back to when the building was constructed in 1906. It wasn't crumbly old, but neither was it hard.

  Almost effortlessly Springer and Scoot bored holes through the mortar: hole after hole, spaced no more than a quarter inch apart entirely around one brick and the one next to it and the two on the course below those. Then Springer went to work with a pry bar.

  A sledgehammer would have been more suitable, surely quicker, but they couldn't afford the noise of pounding on the wall. Now on Fifth Avenue just three stories below were police and firemen, Con Edison, New York Telephone, and Water Department people. And, of course, television crews of every channel from 2 to 11. Minor catastrophes, and this was ce
rtainly that, deserved to be news. The red, white, and blue flashings from so many racks on so many police patrol cars and fire engines caused the falling rain to look like iridescent strings of tiny bugle beads.

  Quietly, but with force. Springer rammed the pry bar in. The blade of it dug at the mortar. He concentrated on one particular brick, dug all around it with the bar. The first brick would be the most difficult. Springer kept prying and chewing at it. The brick gave slightly and then he felt it break free.

  Scoot got hold of it with his fingers and slid the first brick out.

  The second and third bricks were easier, and with those out Springer was able to bite into the mortar with the pry bar, apply some leverage, and snap the others out. He removed eighteen whole bricks and six halves to form a horizontally rectangular hole twenty-eight inches wide by eighteen inches high.

  That put them nearly halfway through the wall. There was still another identical thickness of solid brick and mortar to deal with. Most brick buildings of this vintage were constructed double-thick with a four-inch in-between space to allow for pipes and wiring.

  Strand and Audrey were just getting started with the drills on this inner wall when they heard an unmistakable roar and clack.

  A police helicopter.

  It had a pair of searchlights attached to the struts of its landing gear. Adjustable searchlights, powerful enough to beam efficiently from an altitude of eight hundred feet. It was now patrolling the blacked-out area, raking the rooftops with light. Not looking for anything in particular. Just making sure nothing inegular was there. It was surprising how the helicopter's searchlights cut down through the rain.

  Scoot and Strand flattened against the wall. So did Springer and Audrey. Their taupe-colored work trousers and shirts had been about the same shade as the wall—when they were dry. Now wet, they were darker, outstanding. The only recourse was to stand absolutely still.

  The helicopter hovered directly over Townsend's for almost a full minute. Observed the emergency from its vantage and gave the roofs and rears of both Winston's and Townsend's some extra attention with its searchlights. It then proceeded on its patrol, headed downtown. That was the saving thing, its direction. If it had been on an uptown course its searchlights would have thoroughly illuminated the south wall of Townsend's. Springer and Audrey, Scoot and Strand would have been as visible as featured performers on a stage. Instead, they and the south wall had remained in shadow for all but an instant. The helicopter would be back. Chances were it would come from a different direction.

  Strand and Audrey resumed with the drills, more urgently now. Even before they'd bored all the many necessary holes in the mortar. Scoot crowded in to go to work with the pry bar. He jammed the sharp end of it in insistently, pulverizing the mortar, causing it to break away in chunks. The mortar and the bricks seemed to realize the need for cooperation, testified to whose efforts they favored by coming loose more easily in less time.

  The hole in the second thickness of bricks was done.

  Now only lathing and plaster remained. The strips of rough pinewood ran horizontally, were spaced close together, providing the plaster with something to adhere to. The plaster was dry from age.

  Springer wasted no time with it. He reared back and kicked at it full force with the flat of his right boot. The lathing still had a bit of spring in it, but it snapped under the impact and the plaster crumbled. Nor did Springer waste time shining a flashlight in to see exactly what he was crawling into. It would be somewhere inside Townsend's, and that was all that mattered. In his haste he went in head first. That was a mistake. Where they'd broken in was about four feet up from the floor. Springer grazed the corner of a solid little table as he tumbled in and down among the plaster bits and splinters of lath that were strewn about.

  Strand was next in, but feet first.

  At once Scoot and Audrey began handing bricks through, thirty-six that were more or less whole and a dozen fairly large pieces. Couldn't have bricks scattered around out there where the helicopter might spot them. Audrey and Scoot also tossed in whatever hunks of mortar they could gather up. The finer sandlike particles had been carried by the rain to the depressed areas of the black roof.

  Such patches of white would be obvious from above. There was no way to eliminate them. Even with a broom it would have been impossible. The most that might be done was reduce the white somewhat by spreading it around. Audrey and Scoot tried, with their feet and then with their hands. It was just a lot of futile sloshing. The rain caused the mortar particles to accumulate again in the low spots. Audrey gave the problem at least the benefit of a positive thought: Those white patches wouldn't appear significant to anyone high up in a helicopter.

  She removed the taupe-colored upholstery fabric from the back compartment of her vest. When she refolded it to a size a bit larger than the hole, it was six layers thick, all that more opaque. She held it up to the wall, covering the hole with it, while Scoot taped it in place using three-inch-wide beige filament tape. Despite the wet surface the tape stuck firmly. To make sure they applied second and third lengths of tape across the top edge of the fabric and down the sides.

  Scoot signaled Audrey to follow him. He lifted the left lower comer of the fabric just enough for clearance and went in through the hole.

  Audrey stepped back for a final check on things.

  Helicopter!

  If she'd been listening for it intently, no doubt she would have heard it sooner. It was already close, approaching from downtown, its searchlights sweeping the rooftops.

  Audrey dove for the opening. No time to go in more appropriately feet first. She ducked her head, shoulders, and arms in under the comer flap of the fabric only an instant before the helicopter's searchlights struck the south wall of Townsend's.

  It hovered.

  Inside, in the dark, Springer and Audrey, Strand and Scoot stood as still as defendants awaiting a fateful decision.

  Had the policemen in the helicopter noticed the patches of white mortar on the black roof? Had they made out the fabric taped to the wall? Were they at that very moment radioing to those on the ground that something at Townsend's warranted investigation?

  The helicopter moved on.

  The whirring and clacking diminished.

  Springer switched on one of the six-volt lantern-type flashlights. He cupped its beam with his hand, allowing only dim light. Strand and Scoot moved a table across the room, tumed it on its end, and shoved the flat of it tight against the wall, covering the hole. Audrey closed the door to the hallway. Two more six-volt lantems were switched on, and now they were able to see where they were.

  It was a workroom. About ten by twelve. Practically unchanged from what Strand recalled. Along one wall was a high workbench and a pair of swivel-seated stools. The numerous tools for finishing jewelry were arranged on a shallow shelf above the bench. Off to one side was a steam generating unit used to clean away the grease that diamonds have such an affinity for, and situated nearby was a stationary polisher and buffer and its various disks.

  Trade magazines were stacked in a comer. On the walls here and there were framed full-page Townsend advertisements that had appeared in Vogue and Town and Country and Connoisseur. Surely less inspiring than the labial glistenings of the Penthouse centerfolds that the workers probably would have preferred.

  Strand removed his vest, hung it over the back of a chair. The others also took off their vests and placed them within reach. They zipped open all the pockets and compartments so they'd be able to more easily get at whatever they needed as they needed it. Strand studied the floor, measured by counting off the nine-inch squares of vinyl tile.

  They had discussed and determined exactly where they believed they should go down through it. Strand indicated the spot. Almost in the center of the room.

  Springer and Scoot pried up the squares of vinyl. They chiseled at a seam where the floorboards joined. The boards were oak, aged and hard, but the chisels gouged in and bit off curl after curl
of the wood until they'd made an opening large enough for Springer and Scoot to use short, narrow-bladed, diamond-toothed saws. With these they cut away an area of the floor about thirty inches square.

  That revealed the ventilation duct. Round like a stovepipe, made of galvanized metal, it ran between the joists. Evidently, it was the duct they wanted, but they were about a foot and a half off, had to rip up that much more vinyl and boards to get to the point where the duct served the vault directly below on the second floor.

  The squeeze of a bandlike coupling held the curved-down end of the duct in place. Springer loosened the coupling with a wrench and then, straddling the hole in the floor, bent over and got his hands around under the duct and gave it a sudden yank. The entire section of the duct came free so easily that Springer stumbled backward, off balance. Audrey caught him, kept him from falling. She held back a complaint that he'd stepped hard on her toes, just gritted, grimaced, and flexed her toes vigorously inside her squishy soaked sneaker.

  There now, where the duct had been disconnected, was the ventilation grate in the ceiling of the vault. Ten inches in diameter. It was made of quarter-inch steel set down in and welded to the thicker, impregnable six-inch cadmium-steel ceiling. The uneven ridge of the seam where it was welded was plainly visible.

  Strand handed the portable acetylene equipment to Scoot. It consisted of a pair of small capsule-shaped pressure tanks that weighed about seven pounds each. The paired tanks were connected to a mutual fitting. A built-in gauge indicated they were full. The contents of the tanks were premixed in the proper ratio of oxygen and acetylene.

  Scoot threaded the flexible hose onto the fitting, tightened it firmly. Springer took a wooden match from a small waterproof container, struck it, and held it to the tapered metal nozzle of the torch. Scoot turned the valve that allowed the gas and oxygen mixture to flow.

  With a potent plosive sound that was nearly a pow! the torch ignited. Scoot adjusted it, changed its flame from merely hot yellow to more forceful, hotter blue. Over his many years of swifting he had worked often with such torches. He directed the torch to the welded seam of the circular vent grating, kept the 3400 degrees Fahrenheit point of the flame just inside the circumference where the steel was surely no more than a quarter inch thick.