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36
After speaking with Tory, David felt a warmth inside that was quickly replaced by yearning. He might never see her again. He might not get out of here alive. What irony, to have met someone like Tory who’d turned him inside out, and now this.
Bellamy’s expression mirrored frustration. “I wish I could do something more than sit here waiting to get an artillery shell down my neck.”
“There is something you can do, Sir. You can help me plan a way to get Mattoon out of the hotel.”
Bellamy shook his head. “You’re nuts. The place is crawling with rock-heads.”
“They’re plenty busy, and they’ll be busier yet when the war gets closer.”
Bellamy thought for a few minutes. “You know,” he said, “I know a few quirks about the hotel. Look here, on every floor there are maid cupboards. Know what those are? The maid wheels her supply cart down the hall, and uses her master key to open all these little doors in the walls. She puts new supplies on the shelves—towels, linen, soap, you name it—and then she moves on. Each of the master suites has one, that can also be opened from inside the bathroom. What if we—?”
Together they hatched a plan. When they were done, David said: “Granted, it’s dangerous as all get-out, but it’s better than sitting here.”
“Remember one thing,” Bellamy said, “I’ve never seen one of these troopers alone. I think they make them travel in groups to keep the brainwashing active. One individual alone might start thinking, God forbid. Two individuals might start conspiring. What I’m saying is that it’s only a matter of time before someone stops you and asks where your unit is. Or asks to see your I.D. What are you going to say then?
“I’ll figure something out.” He picked up the Bible the skinheads had left for him. Thoughtfully, he tucked it under his arm.
Bellamy, using a nail file he’d found, laboriously and painstakingly unscrewed the lock on the door, pausing every few instants to listen for footsteps. All one heard was the slamming sounds of artillery. “Who is shooting at whom?”
“I don’t know, but our friends here will be busy enough,” David said. The door swung open, and he poked his head out. The gloomy corridor was lit only by battery-powered emergency lights. The atmosphere was almost holy, almost serene, except for the clicking noises in the window-rooms across the hall, where weapons were being taken apart and oiled for a last time. “Good luck!” Bellamy said.
David shook Bellamy’s hand and started down the hall. A cool wind gave him a taste of freedom, a false sense, he knew, but an enjoyable difference contrasted to sitting in that room. The first stop was the laundry area down the hall, exactly where Bellamy had said it would be. David pawed his way through several gurneys until he found blue-and-yellow camouflage fatigues that roughly fit him. He was athletic and slim enough that it would take a few moments for someone to notice that he did not have that crazed look in his eyes, and on his lips that all-knowing smurk of the fanatic, his face a radiant mix of ignorance and bliss. He found fatigues; and a cap to hide his scab.
Furtively, looking right and left, he walked down the hall to where Mattoon was being held. Twice he passed small groups of commandos. A few nodded and one or two spoke a greeting. He waved the Bible, and they waved back. Naive, unsuspicious boys, they would be like savage dogs if called on; one word from an officer or NCO, and they’d fall on him and tear him to pieces.
Next, he went to the end of the corridor and found the maid’s station. The master key would be in there.
Locked. He remembered an old trick. At least they’d left his wallet. He took out his military ID card and thrust it between the door and its jamb. Tight fit, but there was a teeny rattle. As he worked up a sweat, moving the card up and down, he felt the bolt give a little. Standing on tiptoes, and shoving the card down until it frayed, he felt drops of sweat flying away. Then the door gave. The card pressed against the beveled edge of the bolt, pressing it out of its hole. The door swung silently open into a small, dark room that smelled sweetly of bath soap and clean towels. David stepped inside, in a wan emergency light, and skimmed his fingertip along a row of keys as Bellamy had instructed, until he found the right key. He turned off the light and prepared to leave.
As he turned to close the door, a voice pinioned him and a shiver ran through his system. “You there!” It was a booming, almost hoarse voice. “What are you doing?”
He turned and faced a huge sergeant with a blond haircut and little pig eyes, mouth twisted up at the corners showing yellow teeth.
“I asked you what you’re doing, Private.”
David remembered the Bible and held it up. “I was looking for more of these.”
The giant’s eyes became one percent less pig-like; his snarl softened, and the teeth went away. “What is your duty station?”
“Downstairs, Sergeant.”
“Where downstairs? Where exactly, Private?”
“Down by the lobby desk, Sergeant. I’m, er, part of the reception group.”
“The what group?” The snarl came back, a little. “You look like a bright one, Private. Got some education?”
“Yes.”
“That there book will see us through what’s coming, but right now you hie your behind to your station and stand by your pals, you hear me?”
“Yes, Sergeant. Thank you.”
“If I see you wandering around by yourself again, I’m going to have a serious talk with your boss.” The sergeant went one way, and David went the other. He had no intention of going anywhere but to the suite where Bellamy had said Mattoon was being held. There were no guards in the hall in front of the suite, which first made him think Bellamy was wrong. Then he heard shouting inside. He recognized Mattoon’s voice; after all, everyone in the world had been listening to it for the last few weeks. He heard several men trying to reason with Mattoon about something. David also spotted a doorway marked Utility nearby.
When he got to the nearest stairwell, he grasped the handle and looked around.
He was alone in the hallway. Quickly, he grabbed a supply cart—abandoned when the civilians had turned control of the hotel over to the military—and wheeled it down the halls. He found what he wanted in a large utility room: a long brown folding table, heavy, about six feet long, wood on top, with metal legs. Also in the room were a stack of dusty-violet hotel table cloths and a cardboard box full of Gideons. He straddled the table over the cart, then loaded the cloths on it. He emptied the box of its Bibles and stacked them visibly. Unless he met the same NCO again, the Bible ruse might work at least one more time.
Gritting his teeth in fear of being challenged again, he wheeled the contraption out into the hall, right into a group of passing commandos. They stopped, stared at him, and he at them, and then they stared at the Bibles. “Right on,” one of them said, and resumed walking.
David wheeled his rig to the wall outside the suite, against the small maid’s door for putting towels in the bathroom closet on the other side of the wall. He’d figure something out. One step at a time now. Quickly he opened the table cloths and spread them so they covered the table and hung down to the floor. He placed the Bibles on top to anchor them.
Then he heard voices.
He ducked under the table. There, he broke into a sweat.
Footsteps drew near, vibrating the floor.
He smelled the dusty carpet by his face, felt the vibrations in his frame, and felt helpless. He tried to control is loud, ragged breathing.
“Hey, this is different,” said one man, slowing, close to the table.
“Don’t loiter here,” said another. “We’ve got a job to do, and that’s all.”
“Don’t even slow down. This is forbidden territory,” said a third.
Their footsteps fell away, and David let out a breath of relief. With his sleeves, he mopped sweat from his forehead. It was stuffy under the table. He wasn’t particularly cramped, but it was only a matter of time—minutes perhaps—before they discovered him. They might take him out and shoot him, given they were capable of anything.
In the quiet, he heard Mattoon speaking angrily far away. That would be in one of the bedrooms, perhaps; certainly not in the bathroom, and the maid’s cupboard opened into the bathroom. David pushed the table about a foot clear of the wall. He reached up and stuck the key in the maid’s door.
The noise reverberated, and he froze.
Mattoon was still talking. Good. The noise might be loud in the hallway, but it would not be heard past the bathroom in the suite. He listened; no footsteps audible. As quietly and quickly as he could, he turned the key. The wooden door, which was about two feet square, whispered open a few inches. It was a simple wooden affair on two hinges; no springs involved.
Hearing footsteps, he closed the door and froze again, then ducked behind the table. Fear made him stiffen helplessly. He nearly peed. Then he thought of Tory. He must make it through this. He must look into her eyes, hold her hand, kiss her rich mouth again.
Seconds later, several men passed by, carrying something heavy.
When they were gone, David opened the door. Could Mattoon get through there? He was a big man. The cupboard was about two feet deep. Inside were a few towels, bars of soap, a bottle of shampoo, plastic cups wrapped in sanitary paper; that was all. David inspected the shelves. There were two of them, heavy wood; after a moment’s panic, he realized the cupboard was modular. The shelves could be removed by pulling small metal studs out of the frame on either side under each shelf. David swept the towels, the other items, and the two shelves under the table beside him. So far so good.
Someone had entered the bathroom and stood there humming to himself, with only the flimsy innner door separating them. David was afraid to move, lest the slightest rustle give him away. He heard urine tumbling into water. Heard a zipper. Water flushing. A door open and close. Silence.
The inner door was locked, and the key would not work from inside. However, the lock was so simple that David was able to disengage it by pushing the tumbler back with his finger. The door opened a few inches, and David glimpsed the bathroom. Expensive tiles gleamed everywhere, in various shades of luxuriant green, from moss through pistachio, alternating with a background almond. Jesus; what now?
Wait. And hope not to be discovered.
The bathroom door opened and a heavy man entered. The door closed, and David pushed the inner maid’s door open an inch. Mattoon washed his face at the sink, sighing deeply.
“Chairman!” David whispered as he pushed the door open.
Mattoon whirled.
David held a finger over his lips. “I’m a good guy. I’m here to get you out.”
Mattoon’s mind seemed to run a thousand calculations. “If this is a trick—”
“Why would it be? Sir, I’m Captain David Gordon, U.S. Army, and I’m going to ask you to follow me without too many questions. Please whisper and move quietly.”
Mattoon finished his calculations. He glanced back at the door, saw he had nothing to lose, and said: “You’re a hell of an optimist, sonny.”
“This way!” David whispered. Mattoon heaved himself through the opening. It was a tight fit. David pushed the table away and helped him out on the other side.
Inside, fists pounded on the bathroom door. “Hey! What’s that noise in there?”
“Come on!” David whispered. They ran down the corridor.
Behind them came the sound of splintering wood as bodies repeatedly threw themselves against the bathroom door that Mattoon had locked for privacy. There were several gunshots. “They’ve blown away the lock,” Mattoon said.
“Hurry!” David hoped the bigger, older man could keep up with him. But Mattoon had been an athlete and an Air Force officer in his day, and he stayed right behind David. They were running all out, feet thudding in the carpets, arms pumping like locomotive pistons.
“Hey! There they go!” someone bellowed.
Involuntarily, David glanced back and saw a head sticking out of the maid closet.
The door marked Utility was just ahead on the left. “Damn,” David said huffing.
“What’s the matter?”
David glanced back. The head had withdrawn. “Didn’t want them to see—” He pushed the door open. “Follow me.”
“Right behind you, Sonny.”
David heard shouting behind them, police whistles, running feet. “Mattoon got away!” someone yelled. “Everybody, look for a tall nigger and a dirty looking white private.”
David let the door slip shut. They were in a janitor closet, attested by mops on the walls and a drain in the floor. A steel ladder embedded in the wall from about six feet up rose into a service shaft in the ceiling. “It’s our only way,” David said.
They turned a bucket-cart upside down and used it to climb up, David leading. With luck, it would be a minute or two until the skinheads figured out where they’d gone. The path took David into a claustrophobic, chimney-like tunnel.
David heard the door below open. Footsteps milled about below.
He and Mattoon stood immobile, hoping nobody would look up.
He held his breath.
The footsteps faded away and the door slipped shut.
Mattoon whispered: “They’ll be back. They’re not that dumb.”
“We bought a few minutes. Keep moving!”
They came to a wider service area on the next higher floor, a brick tunnel, painted white. Some inexplicable dusty machines stood against one wall. “Air conditioning,” Mattoon guessed. “Okay, Captain. What now?”
“We are in the upper portion of Tower Three. Colonel Bellamy and I took a call from General Devereaux at the Composite. We are to rendez-vous with his people in two hours on the tenth floor of Tower One.”
“How is that possible? The hotel is sealed off from the world—”
“I don’t know, Sir. But right now, we need to get to that spot and hope for the best.”
Mattoon shrugged. “Not much else we can do.”
The tunnel went on forever, but about twenty feet further along they found another steel ladder. “Let’s go,” David said, climbing on the rungs. “We need to go downward to the lobby level, which connects across.”
They climbed down, hand over hand, foot over foot. David heard their breathing, the echoes of their shoes, and hoped the sound did not carry. Someplace up there a light shone dimly down the shaft.
They dropped onto a concrete platform just high enough for a man to stand up in. They were entombed by concrete on all sides except one—a quadruple elevator shaft that dropped 30 floors into the basement of Tower 3. There was no railing, and the drop was dizzying.
“We have to get down to the 5th floor,” David said. “Colonel Bellamy told me the building is riddled with these service tunnels and shafts.”
Mattoon said drily: “It appears we are completely out on a limb here. Or is that a ledge?”
“Unless we can ride down on top of an elevator,” David said. “Only I’ve never done anything like that before. I’ve jumped out of airplanes, but nothing like this.”
“Did I mention that I have fear of heights?”
Just then the shaft began to hum. They flattened themselves against the wall. David could not help notice the mix of fear, courage, and determination on Mattoon’s face as he squinted upward into the path of a descending elevator. A wall of cool air moved down and enveloped them; then the car passed on silently oiled wheels. Its back was turned to them, so the doors would open and close on the opposite side. David’s eyes followed the car as it sped downward; he could hear men talking inside; heard the name Mattoon. He looked at the Chairman, who looked grim. “They’ll be looking for you everywhere,” David said. “We have no choice. Did you notice? There is a platform on top of the car for a workman. If we can hop across, and if nobody is in the elevator—” (Mattoon rolled his eyes up at these ifs)—”we can ride down and then make our way across.” He added: “Are you airborne qualified? It would help.”
Mattoon closed his eyes as if in pain—or prayer. “Okay,” he said, visibly gritting his teeth. “Okay, Captain, you crazy son of a bitch. Oh God, why do I let myself get talked into things like this?”
“Sh!” David said. “Here it comes, back up. We’ll wait until it comes down again. We can listen and maybe catch it when nobody gets on.”
The car sped silently past, apparently empty.
It stopped a few floors above, took on a noisy load of passengers, and started down again. “...Loose in the building somewhere, and we have to find them. Can’t let Mattoon escape or else...” The elevator trundled past, its sound gritty because of the weight its pulley wheels exerted on the steel cables dangling in the shaft.
Twice more the car made the trip, each time ferrying more troops downstairs to search the corridors. Each time, David and Mattoon lay flat and held their breath, afraid their breathing or their pounding hearts could be overheard.
Then there was silence. A faint wind whistled in the shaft, bringing in a smell that cut through the machine oil and raw steel—a smell of freedom, an aroma of open skies and fresh air. “We can’t sit here all night,” Mattoon said.
“Here comes.”
The elevator rose to the 29th floor and stopped. The doors slowly rumbled open, but nobody appeared to get in.
“Now!” David said. He propelled himself off the edge, leaping about three or four feet, and catching the heavy cable. It was more rusty than greasy to the touch, but he felt like kissing it. Mattoon landed shakily, rocking the empty car with his huge weight. The door rumbled shut. “Down, down, down,” David whispered.
“Shh!” Mattoon whispered back.
“Oh no,” David whispered. The elevator started to rise. Faster and faster. Wind rushed through his hair and filled his clothing. They were going to die. He knew it. Faster and faster. The car was rushing headlong straight up, for a collision with the ceiling. They’d be squashed like bugs. David closed his eyes and hung on to the service bench until his knuckles whitened. The thick, rusty cable crackled and grumbled near his ear. Out of control. Everything was out of control. He was clinging to a postage stamp about 35 stories off the ground, headed for a final bloody slam of destiny.
David felt the wind rushing through his clothes as the elevator speeded upward. Numbers—black, on white squares—flashed by: 32, 33, 34. Abruptly the ride ended. Weak and limp, hanging on to the bench, David saw the number 35 and realized they were at the top floor. Their shelf was about six feet from the naked, raw concrete and steel girders of the roof of Tower 3.
The elevator door rumbled open, and several pairs of feet pounded inside. “Sir,” a man said, “General Devereaux is on his way here with a column of mechanized infantry.”
“That old fool.”
“He wants Mattoon.”
“Mattoon is loose in this building, and I want him too. If we can’t have him alive, then I want him dead, but I want the corpse in our possession, do you understand?” The door rumbled shut, and the cab started downward.
“Yessir.”
“It’s vital to our operation. Meanwhile, I’m going down to meet Devereaux.”
“Sir, there is no time. Your broadcast is set to begin in a few minutes.”
“That’s fine. I want to give Devereaux one chance to join us. At his age, they’re usually the last to hear about a new idea that makes sense.” The men in the car laughed—deep, hearty, mean laughter that was so close David realized if he sneezed they’d lift the flimsy grating, see him out there, and that would be the end. He lifted a finger to his lips and looked at Mattoon. The Chairman hung on in terror as the car plunged through space, leaving their stomachs a few floors behind.
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