Authors: Gerald A. Browne
He paused there. So far, so good. But the rain wasn't being a help. He blinked, bent over, and shook his head rapidly to get the rain from his eyes for a moment. He straightened up. Facing him was the side of the Zuzana building, uninterrupted corrugated metal. And there was its roof. As he had estimated, to the edge of it was a good twelve feet up. The pitch of the roof was steeper than he'd thought, at least forty-five degrees. The slant of the roof was being hit by a lot of rain. Each four-inch groove in the corrugation was like a downward trough, so water gushed off the edge as though coming from dozens of spigots.
He knelt and took out the two lengths of clothesline. He tied them end to end so they made a continuous hundred feet. He arranged the line as it needed to be, in arm-length loops, coiled but free, like a lasso. The line was wet, somewhat stiff, and heavier, not so easy to handle. Perhaps that wouldn't be a problem. Most of all he had to keep it from tangling. To one of the free ends of the line he attached the hammer, looping the line over the head of the hammer, snug around the neck and the claw. He wasn't confident of his knots, but when he stood up and the hammer was dangling on the end of the line it felt there to stay. He held the coil of loops loosely in the upcurved palm of his left hand while his right grasped the line about three feet from the hammer. He twirled the hammer like a boatman taking a sounding. The line sang as he increased the speed of the twirl, and when he had it twirling as fast as possible he let it go.
The hammer sailed upward through the rainy dark on a diagonal course. The loose loops of line fed out from his left hand. He had figured the Zuzana building was forty feet wide, then an additional ten feet allowed for the pitch of the roof. The hammer had to clear that distance. He believed it had; the line still had tension on it. He let the tension take the line until it went slack, didn't want any more. He hurried down to the back alley and around to the opposite side of the Zuzana building. The hammer was there, lying in the mud. He reclaimed it and tied that end of the line to the protruding elbow of a plumbing pipe. Then he returned to his makeshift ladder and climbed back up to the second-story roof of the adjacent building. He took up the slack of the line and paused for a moment to feel good about having accomplished this initial part of it, told himself he was more clever than the average thief. Why, though, right on top of that feeling, canceling it, did he feel farther than ever from Vivian? Here he was on the rooftop of some little factory in the rain in the night in the middle of Czechoslovakia. Where was she at that moment? Nikolai again pictured her with Archer, probably in his newest Rolls, but not amused by something clever Archer had just said, not caring whether she was there or not. Rather, miserably remote because of the presence of his absence, Nikolai hoped.
He tied that end of the line to a standpipe. Then he reached up the line, grasped it with both hands, and brought his feet to the side of the Zuzana building. Hand over hand, a vertical step at a time, he hauled himself upward. He hadn't thought this part would be difficult, but it required his entire strength, and all the while the accumulated rain streamed off the edge above and beat on him like a waterfall. At one point he tried for a deeper breath through his mouth and the water got into his windpipe and choked and burned. He hung there, coughing, but didn't relinquish an inch of what he'd gained. He managed to reach the edge, slung his right leg up onto the roof, then pulled up the rest of him. He stood on the slope, resisting the sharp angle of it with the help of the line. He climbed to the peak.
On the other side of the roof, about a third of the way down from the peak, was a metal chimney pipe which served the ovens, and about ten feet down from that was a window, one of several situated along the roof for ventilation. The window was about four feet square. Like a trapdoor, it was hinged on the high side, with a substantial raised edge all around to prevent rain from running in. Nikolai's plan had focused on that particular window. He'd noted it while foreman Kaplicka was explaining why, for flawless crystal, the ovens had to be kept heated at 2,400 degrees Fahrenheit and the gaffer was blowing and swishing about. It couldn't be just any of the windows, it had to be that particular one.
Nikolai turned his back to it. Now he needed tension on the line from the other direction. As soon as he'd taken up what slack there was he stepped backward off the peak and descended cautiously. When he got to the window he saw it was held propped open on the low side by a vertical notched rod. The rod, and therefore the window, could be raised or lowered by means of a long chain that hung inside. Nikolai peered in at the main work space thirty feet below. The mouth of one of the ovens was casting a madder-yellow reflection upon the concrete floor, and the light that was on in the front-office cubicle far off to the right was providing enough to vaguely define some edges and shapes. He had no trouble making out the steel beam that was directly below the window, one of the five crossbeams which held this structure together. It was Nikolai's only way of getting across to the caged-in area. That area measured about twenty by twenty. It was enclosed by double steel mesh, a much heavier-gauge mesh than the heaviest wire sort, like that normally used for gratings. The enclosing sides went up twenty some feet. The thing about the caged-in area that had most fed Nikolai's curiosity and nourished his hunch was the way its only entrance was triple-locked. Why, Nikolai had thought that afternoon upon noticing the three heavy-duty locks, should that area be made so inaccessible, unless at one time or another something of greater value than crystal was kept in there?
He went in feet first through the window opening. While keeping hold of the raised edge of the window he searched with his feet and found the flat surface of the beam. It was twelve inches wide. At once, Nikolai was almost knocked off balance. By the noise. The rain beating on the metal roof just above his head was a din like a thousand Kodo drummers. The percussion seemed to vibrate all the way to the center of Nikolai's brain, overwhelming his thoughts, blurring his concentration. He had the urge to escape the noise, climb back out the window. Instead, he took two steps out onto the steel beam and two more and then his will to not fall three stories prevailed. He continued on, taking it a small, sure step at a time. When he reached midpoint, about twenty feet out, he stopped abruptly. His eyes had caught movement below. It was someone off to his left emerging from where the shadows were darkest. A man. He had on dark trousers and dark shoes, and his hair and full beard were dark, so to Nikolai he appeared phantasmal, like only an inflated white shirt floating slowly along. What made the man surely real to Nikolai, however, was the straps of his shoulder holster and the holster itself with the shiny black butt of an automatic pistol sticking out of it. A watchman. What was it here that required an armed watchman? Nikolai took it as another indication that he'd come to the right place. What a waste of time the police station would have been.
The watchman was now directly below Nikolai. He stopped there and brought his hand to the back of his neck. He glanced up. Nikolai suddenly realized that his saturated sweatshirt and jeans were dripping, and there was nothing he could do to prevent it. Drips were giving him away. The watchman was now looking right up at him, squinting to make him out up there in the dark. Next the watchman would draw that pistol, aim it upward, and pick him off. Shouldn't he jump and land on the watchman while he still had the chance? That's what he'd do if this were a movie, Nikolai thought. Good was always leaping from balconies and ledges so it could land on bad, and making it look so easy. But this would be a thirty-foot jump, Nikolai reasoned, the same as jumping from the roof of a three-story building. He'd probably misjudge and land on the concrete floor and break both legs and then he'd be helpless as the watchman stood over him and took point-blank aim.
The watchman was still squinting up.
Nikolai stood absolutely still.
The moment seemed distended, as though ambivalent fate required extra room to put whatever it would into it.
The watchman went to the wall nearest the ovens. He yanked on the long dangling chain to close the window Nikolai had come in through. That apparently satisfied him. He hadn't seen Nikolai up there in the darkness; he blamed the open window for the drips. He continued on to the front of the place and disappeared into the office.
Nikolai waited until most of his previous resolve had returned. He realized now there was danger to this beyond merely being caught. Concentrate, he cautioned himself. Consider every move before you make it. No slip-ups. He proceeded slowly across the beam, and after his tenth step he'd reached the spot where it passed about seven feet above the top edge of the steel-mesh enclosure. Earlier at the hotel Nikolai had visualized his attempting this part of it. All he had to do now was be as successful at it as he'd imagined. As a boy he'd never been much good at perching on the tops of high places, a shortcoming he'd never thought would be crucial. Walking this steel beam had been one thing. Easy enough. It was a foot wide. Even Ninja wouldn't have had trouble with it. The top edge of the mesh enclosure, however, didn't offer more than three or four inches.
He sat on the beam with his legs dangling over one side. Here goes everything, he thought, and keeping hold of the seriflike shape of the lower part of the beam he slid off it, all the way down until he was hanging by his hands. He searched with his feet for the top edge of the enclosure, extending to find it, using the entire length of his body and the additional length of his arms. His sneakers brushed the edge, just brushed it. He needed another inch or two. Hell, he wasn't made of elastic. He couldn't hang on much longer. His arms and fingers were starting to burn from strain. Something told him he'd have another couple of inches if he thought himself longer; if he could relax his shoulders just enough and his arms just enough and at the same time manage to hang on. No choice but to give that a try. He didn't have the strength left to pull himself up. He closed his eyes and asked the tension of his shoulders and arms to relinquish a couple of inches. He kept feeling with his feet, and now more of the surface of that edge came in contact with the soles of his sneakers. To relieve his fingers and arms he let the edge have some of his weight, and then he became confident enough to commit entirely to standing balanced upon it. He felt close to giddy with accomplishment. Hell, he was as sure as a statue, could stand perched up there forever. How was it that purpose made up for shortcomings? The question seemed to nudge him and make him waver. He quickly crouched, grabbed hold of the edge with both hands. Like a clumsy monkey clambering on the inside of its cage he descended to the concrete floor.
He glanced about the enclosed area. The light from the ovens allowed him to make things out. Along the wall was a workbench and three high stools. To his left were heavy-duty cardboard containers of various sizes, about thirty or so. Most of those looked sealed-up, ready to be sent; a few had top flaps open, apparently were in the process of being packed with crystal objects. Also there on that side of the enclosure was a huge transparent plastic bin three-quarters full of foam packing material, the little white scallop-shaped sort.
On the right, a desk and typewriter, and next to the desk, two metal files, and beyond the files in the far corner, an upright steel cabinet. The cabinet seemed to Nikolai the most likely place. He was sure it would be locked, but when he went to it and tried its doors they swung right open as though the cabinet were eager to show him it contained nothing of serious value. Just letterhead stationery, printed order forms and invoices and such, a first-aid kit, a bottle of antacid, a half-used bar of heavily perfumed soap lying on a musty-smelling washcloth. On the bottom shelf, an umbrella and the heels-and-straps jumble of five women's shoes, two pair and an odd. Behind the shoes in the corner, a metal box, the kind usually used for keeping cash. The box would be locked, Nikolai thought, locked because it contained diamonds, a thousand carats of Aikhal goods. He'd pry the box open and there would be a fat packet, his answer to everything, worth twenty million or so at dealer's price. So easy.
The box wasn't locked.
In it were four twenty-koruna banknotes and a few fifty-haler coins.
Nikolai replaced the box, closed the cabinet, took his attention to the adjacent files. The files also were unlocked, so Nikolai wasn't very hopeful as he went through them. Nevertheless he was systematic, thorough, searched in and under and in back of the file folders in each of the four drawers. He brought out his flashlight, wrapped his fingers around the illuminating end of it in such a way that when he turned it on its beam was diminished and more directional. Randomly he examined some of the file folders, the letters and duplicate invoices they contained, hoping to hit upon the other address, the Paris one that Kislov had given him, 131 rue de Paradis. He believed that in confirming a connection between there and here he might also find a clue. He was into the bottom drawer of the file when he suddenly became aware that he could hear the papers his fingers were disturbing. The rain had stopped. Now he would have to be more cautious about making noise. The watchman was a hundred feet away in the front office, but the way this place was constructed every sound was amplified. In fact, now Nikolai could even hear the intense heat inside the ovens, the steady roaring exhale of molecules in a frenzy. The bottom drawer made a metal-against-metal screech as he pushed it closed.
He gave up on the files and began searching the desk, was going through its disorder when he happened to glance up in the direction of the front office as he had been doing every so often. This time the watchman was coming out. The watchman had heard him, Nikolai believed. That was a flashlight in the watchman's hand. The watchman's attitude was different; there was a sense of urgency and purpose to his stride. Caught in this cage, Nikolai thought. His only chance was to hide.