by Logan Ryles
Wolfgang handed her the stethoscope, and she fit the earpieces in before pressing the cup over the face of the safe and twisting the bolt lever. She closed her eyes and bit the tip of her tongue. Wolfgang caught himself holding his own breath as he watched her slide the cup of the stethoscope over the face of the safe while manipulating the bolt lever.
Megan sighed. “It’s fitted with a relocking system,” she said, peeling the stethoscope off and tossing it to the floor.
“What does that mean?” Wolfgang asked.
“It means that if we defeat the primary bolt by force, secondary bolts will click into place and prevent us from opening it. We need the combination. Hand me the computer.”
Wolfgang dug back into the bottom of the bag, bypassing the complex levers, screws, and the drill that would’ve been used to force the safe open. He found a handheld computer at the bottom of the pile, a little larger than a cell phone, with a black wire dangling from the bottom. Megan accepted it and peered under the edge of the keypad. There was a port, which the cable connected to with a soft click. Megan powered the unit on and tapped on it.
“Does the computer guess the combination?” Wolfgang asked.
Megan shook her head with a semi-irritated grunt. “The computer is for unlocking the safe in the event the battery in the primary keypad dies. That’s the legal application, anyway. You can also use it to read diagnostics on weak or worn parts, which can give you an idea which keys are pressed most often. Charlie Eye, you with me?”
“Right here, Charlie One,” Lyle said.
Megan read off the safe’s model number, printed on the bottom right-hand corner of the door. Wolfgang heard the rattle of Lyle’s keyboard on the other end of the coms, then a grunt.
“It’s a good unit. The combination will be between eight and ten digits long, followed by pound. It’s also got a lockout feature. If you input the wrong combination six times within a twenty-four-hour rolling period, the safe will lock down for twelve hours.”
“Fantastic,” Megan said. She poked at the handheld computer for a moment, then waited while a loading icon spun on the screen.
“Top inputs are one, nine, six, four, three, and two,” she said. “In that order.”
“Copy that,” Lyle said. “Hold one . . .”
Megan unplugged the computer and brushed hair off her sweaty forehead. She stared at the lock and gently chewed a wad of gum.
Wolfgang scooped the useless safe-cracking tools to one side with his shoe, then stepped a little closer to watch the computer. “What’s Lyle doing?” he whispered.
Lyle said over the earpiece, “Calculating possible combinations using known favored digits and personal information about Pollins. And don’t use my name on coms.”
Wolfgang felt his face flush. “Right. Sorry.”
The minutes dragged on, and Wolfgang wondered how long it would be before the over-zealous security guard downstairs remembered the Canadian with the Chinese food and wondered why he hadn’t checked out yet. Not long, probably, and then there would be trouble.
“Okay,” Lyle said. “It could be her home phone number. All the frequent numbers match.”
Lyle read off a ten-digit number, and Megan punched it in, followed by the pound sign. A red light flashed on the keypad, and the bolt handle wouldn’t turn. Megan brushed hair out of her face again.
“No good,” she said.
“Okay, try her birthday. Eight digits.” Lyle read out the number, and Megan tried it. The red light flashed again, and this time something electronic buzzed inside the safe.
“No good.”
Wolfgang stepped back and watched as Megan attempted a third combination. Again, the red light. Now she chewed harder on the gum, leaning forward and scanning the keypad with her flashlight for any sign of fingerprints or clues to deduct the combination from.
Wolfgang turned away, stepping to the large computer desk at the end of the room and clicking his flashlight on. Papers were scattered across the desktop, mixed with open books and empty coffee cups. Wolfgang shuffled through them, uncovering stacks of research papers and photographs of ancient artifacts. Most of the documents smelled musty and old, as if they’d lain on that desk since the time of the pharaohs. He flipped through a couple of the books, searching for hidden notes or significant highlights. The top book was written in tight lines of academic text, with photos of dead bodies being mummified. The next book was titled The Black Death of Ancient Egypt.
None of the books or papers were inscribed with an eight- to ten-digit number, with “safe code” scrawled beside it.
Wolfgang glanced around the room. The apartment was large, but aside from the stacks of empty takeout containers on the kitchen counter and the piles of research materials on the desk, the living space was almost empty. There were only a couple pictures on the walls—both canvas paintings of Ancient Egypt—and no TV set in front of the couch. No signs of a pet, or a favorite blanket, or even a well-worn novel. Everything about the apartment screamed of a person madly obsessed with her work, and nothing but.
Except there were little rectangular objects mounted next to the front door, and again next to the bedroom door. Wolfgang thought they were security devices at first—motion detectors, or cameras, even. But as he flashed his light across them, he saw blue and white paint, with a hint of gold script. Wolfgang stepped closer to the bedroom door, then peered down at the object. It was about three inches tall and rounded on the face, with a flat back mounted against the wall. The hollow object was made of wood and painted blue with a gold script carved into the face. A rolled piece of parchment stuck out of the top. Wolfgang bent closer as he heard Megan snapping at Lyle behind him.
“No good. That’s five, Charlie Eye.”
The script carved into the tube wasn’t English or even written in the Latin alphabet. It was some other language altogether, and when he slid the tiny scroll out of the top of the tube and unrolled it, the same script was printed on the inside, consisting primarily of tiny black marks with little dots printed beneath them. It wasn’t Chinese, and it wasn’t Cyrillic or Arabic, but it shared characteristics with all three. It was a defined, organized alphabet, long-lost from the current of mainstream society.
Hebrew.
“Six four nine, one one one, three two one,” Wolfgang said, turning to Megan.
Megan stood with her finger held over the keypad, only a millimeter away from punching in her sixth and final attempt. She frowned.
“What?”
“Pollins is Jewish,” Wolfgang said, holding up the scroll. “This is called a Mezuzah—the Hebrew word for doorpost. It’s a tiny scroll inscribed with words from the Torah that some Jewish people put next to the doors in their homes. The specific inscriptions are from Deuteronomy, Chapter Six, verses four through nine, and Chapter Eleven, verses thirteen through twenty-one. That’s nine digits.”
Megan stood with her flashlight between her teeth and an “Are you serious?” look on her face. Wolfgang joined her at the safe.
“When I was a kid, my best friend’s grandfather was Jewish. He kept Mezuzahs on every doorpost in his home. I remember the references.”
Megan took the flashlight from her mouth and accepted the tiny scroll, then scanned it. “I can’t read this.”
“Neither can I. It’s written in Hebrew. But trust me, that’s the combination.”
“He’s right about the references,” Lyle said. “I just googled it.”
Megan fingered the scroll, then glanced at the Mezuzah mounted to the wall next to the bedroom door.
She shook her head. “That’s too obscure. We’ve only got one combination left. We should trust the computer.”
“No,” Wolfgang said. “The computer is programmed to input known factors from her life—things like her birthdate and childhood street address. But people don’t choose passwords based on their demographics, they choose them based on their identities. Look around you. There’s nothing in this apartment that reflects personality
. Nothing but sour food cartons and stacks of books from the museum. The only personal, individual thing is the Mezuzah, because her religion is important to her.”
Megan stared at the scroll again, then glanced around the apartment. At last, she cleared her throat. “Charlie Lead?”
“Your call,” Edric said. “Whatever you do, hurry it up. You’re going on twenty minutes.”
Wolfgang placed a hand on her arm. “Trust me. This is it.”
Megan handed him the scroll, then twisted to the keypad. Her finger danced over the keys as Wolfgang recited the numbers, then she hesitated over the pound sign. Wolfgang nodded again, and she pressed it. There was a pause, and they held their breath, waiting for the red light.
The keypad flashed green. Wolfgang felt a flood of relief washing through him, and he realized he hadn’t been as confident as he thought. Megan grinned and twisted the handle. The bolts slid back with soft thunks, and Megan pulled the door open and shone her flashlight inside. The safe was empty except for a lone manila folder on the top shelf. Megan slid it out and tore the top open, then shone the light inside. Photographs. Four or five of them, taken with the aid of powerful lighting, illuminating the tattered and aged remains of a scroll.
“Charlie Lead, we’ve got it,” Megan said, still grinning. She turned to Wolfgang and smacked him on the arm. “Nice job,” she whispered.
Wolfgang felt a flood of elation, but he only nodded, unsure what to say. Her smile radiated brighter than the sun, and he suddenly realized that it was the first time he’d ever seen her genuinely smile.
Damn, it’s a good look.
Megan swung the safe shut and turned toward the door. They made it only halfway before Lyle’s voice burst over the coms.
“Charlie One, you’re busted! Security is headed your way.”
9
Megan tucked the folder beneath her arm and motioned for the door. “Let’s move!”
Wolfgang dipped for the safe-cracking tools scattered across the floor, but Megan shook her head.
“Leave them. It won’t matter after we recover Pollins.”
She paused next to the door to slip her bare feet into a pair of Pollins’s sandals. They weren’t a perfect fit, but they’d have to work. Then they slipped out the front door, and Megan turned to shut it. As she did, the elevator doors rolled back, and footsteps thumped against the carpet. Wolfgang looked up as two men in black suits hurried into the hallway. Their jackets were unbuttoned, exposing Glock handguns fixed to their hips, and their death stares killed any hope he had that this wasn’t going to be a confrontation.
“Stay cool,” Megan whispered. She brushed the hair behind her ears, and they started down the hallway, walking casually straight toward the two men without giving them so much as a glance.
“Stop right there!”
The first man was tall—an American, with the kind of haircut and cookie-cutter glower that screamed Marine Corps. He put one hand on his gun and held out the other. The second man stood two paces back, his hand next to his gun, his feet arranged in a perfect weaver-shooting stance. His skin was darker, and his jacket hung over beefy shoulders that jutted up and out awkwardly, like a bulldog.
Megan made a show of looking from one guard to the next, then popped her gum like a high school delinquent. “What’s up your ass, boys?”
Wolfgang heard a hint of a Toronto accent creep into her voice, and he took his queue.
“Ma’am, I need to see some identification,” Marine said, his hand still resting on the Glock.
Megan glanced at Wolfgang with a “What the hell?” expression, then produced a Canadian passport.
Marine took it and scrutinized it a moment, then glared at Wolfgang. “You’re both from Canada?”
Wolfgang nodded.
“Who are you visiting tonight?”
Megan took that one. “Dr. Ashley Pollins. She’s a friend.”
“I thought you were delivering food,” Marine said, turning back to Wolfgang.
“I was. I work at the Chinese place. They let me take home the leftovers.”
This time, Bulldog spoke, directing his question at Megan. “Did you check in downstairs?”
She shrugged. “Maybe. Can’t remember. It was yesterday.”
Megan popped the gum again, and the guards continued to glare them down.
Bulldog moved toward Pollins’s front door. “I’m just gonna check with the resident before we let you go.”
“She’s asleep,” Megan said. “Hell of a hangover. Been drinking all day.”
“Is that right?” The guard paused mid-step, then turned back. A little smile played at the corners of his mouth. “Drinking all day?”
Oh, crap.
Megan shrugged, but Wolfgang saw her legs tense.
“Tequila, man,” she said.
The guard smirked. “You know, that’s funny, because every year, the big dogs at the corporate office send out a little gift for the residents. You know, something to show our appreciation.”
He took a step forward, the smile growing at the corner of his lips.
Not good.
“Anyway, this year they sent a nice bottle of wine. But when the concierge delivered it to Dr. Pollins, you know what she said? She says, ‘You keep it. I don’t drink.’”
Yep. That’s a wrap.
The guards exchanged a “busted” look. It only took a split second—just one bro congratulating another on his supreme Sherlock skills—but it was a split second too long. Wolfgang and Megan sprang into action at the same moment, Megan taking Bulldog and Wolfgang taking Marine. The guard had three inches and probably forty pounds on Wolfgang, all of it muscle, but the groin is immune to the protections of big biceps and handguns, and Wolfgang had learned long ago that a shin to the groin was about as effective as a hand grenade in a fuel refinery. Marine’s eyes popped outward as the blow smashed home, then he fell forward with a guttural moan so sincere Wolfgang almost felt sorry for him.
Behind him, Wolfgang heard a commotion of arms and legs flailing, followed by a thump on the carpet. He turned to see Bulldog writhing on the floor, his right arm bent behind him at an unnatural reverse angle. His handgun lay scattered around him, fully disassembled.
“Let’s go!” Megan shouted. She swept past Wolfgang, grabbing his arm and hurtling toward the stairwell.
“Charlie Lead, requesting immediate evac!” Megan snapped as she flung open the door to the stairwell, and they rushed downward two and three steps at a time.
“Copy that, Charlie One. Arranging evac now.” Edric spoke with the practiced calm of a man whose back had been driven against the wall a thousand times, and Wolfgang felt reassured, like a kid hearing the calming voice of a parent.
Megan flipped from landing to landing with the elegance of a jungle cat as Wolfgang stumbled to follow. They made it to the fourteenth floor before doors burst open somewhere beneath them, and screaming voices shouted upward. An alarm went off, and red lights flashed from the walls.
“Charlie One, be advised, the building is on full alert,” Lyle said. His voice was as steady as Edric’s. “All exits are going into auto lock. Reserve security is moving in from the lobby.”
“Shit!” Megan said. She slid to a stop halfway down the stairs between the thirteenth and fourteenth floor, then leaned over the railing and stared down the space between the steps. Boots thundered beneath them, and she shook her head. “No good! We’ve got to get out of here.”
Wolfgang rushed back up the steps to the fourteenth-floor landing, then slammed his body against the door. It wouldn’t open. He tried again, but the door was bolted.
“Charlie Eye!” Wolfgang said. “The doors to the stairwell are locked. What do we do?”
From the far side of the com unit, Wolfgang imagined he could hear Lyle breathing through tensed lips as he pounded on a keyboard, searching for a way out of the stairwell. That was how it worked in the movies, right?
Megan shoved past Wolfgang and rushed to the wall, whe
re a mounted red box housed an ax and a fire extinguisher. Next to it was a trigger for the firearm. Megan pulled the trigger, and a new shriek joined the existing alarm, followed a moment later by a shower from the overhead sprinklers.
The door locks clicked open.
“Think on your feet, Wonderboy,” Megan said, pushing the door open. “Fire protocol trumps security protocol.”
They spilled onto the fourteenth floor and found it to be a carbon copy of the eighteenth. Plush carpet covered the hallway, which was lined on either side by luxurious wooden doors with identical little lamps next to each one. Only this time, the carpet was wet, and sleepy-eyed residents poked their heads into the hallway as the fire alarm continued to blare.
Megan slid to a stop and looked toward the elevator. The LED display above the door showed the car at the tenth floor, and it was headed up.
“Is there another stairwell?” Wolfgang said.
“It’s at the end of the hall,” Lyle said. “But you won’t get far. Security protocols probably call for them to lock down all stairwells.”
Megan and Wolfgang exchanged a glance as the elevator hit the thirteenth floor. Wolfgang imagined half a dozen beefy copies of the guards upstairs, all armed to the teeth and ready to avenge their humiliated comrades.
“Charlie One, get out of there,” Edric snapped. “Our mission does not allow for you to be caught!”
Wolfgang’s mind spun as he saw Megan continue to hesitate. He realized that she was as lost as he was, and the thought galvanized his mind into action. He turned to the nearest apartment door and saw a Latina woman wearing a cosmetic face mask poke her head out and glare at them. He visualized the apartment on the other side and assumed it looked a lot like Dr. Pollins’s apartment, at least in layout. There would be a short hallway, then a kitchen on the right, a living room on the left, and the balcony straight ahead, hovering almost two hundred feet off the pavement.
The balcony.
“I’ve got it!” Wolfgang said. He grabbed Megan by the elbow and rushed toward the woman, motioning her aside and dragging Megan behind him.
