It was then that the Karanadon raised its arm one final time.
But it didn’t swing.
It jumped.
Onto the roof of the elevator!
Swain didn’t have time for disbelief. The elevator just plummeted straight down!
A piercing metal-on-metal screech attacked Swain’s ears as the elevator descended in a freefall down the shaft. Wind whipped all around him as sparks flew out from every corner of the falling elevator.
The big beast stood on the other side of the roof oblivious to what it had done. It glared at Swain.
What sort of stupid creature jumps onto an elevator that it’s holding up? Swain’s mind screamed.
But Swain didn’t have time to think about that now. He dived for the hatch, fell through it, landed heavily on the floor of the elevator.
‘Get down!’ he called to Holly, above the wail of the falling elevator. ‘Get down on the floor! Flat on the floor! Rest your head on your arms!’
The elevator screamed down the shaft.
Holly did exactly as she was told, lay flat on the floor. Swain scrambled alongside her, covering her with one arm, and did the same—lay flat on his belly, spreading his legs wide, burying his head in his other forearm, using it as a cushion.
The last of the cables must have broken by now, he thought as he lay on the floor, waiting for the bone-jarring crash that would come any second now.
The Karanadon poked its huge head through the small hatch—upside-down. It wanted to get inside, but it would never fit.
The elevator roared down the shaft, sparks flying from all sides, its high-pitched wail getting higher and higher and higher.
And then it hit the bottom.
The impact was stunning.
Swain felt his whole body shudder violently as the elevator went from thirty-five miles an hour to zero in a split second.
The muscles on his forearms cushioned his head. And his body, since it was already flush against the floor, stifled most of the force of the impact.
The same happened with Holly. Swain hoped Selexin was all right, since he had already been on the floor, knocked out.
As the elevator hit the bottom of the shaft with a horrendous bang!, the roof beneath the Karanadon gave way and the big beast burst right through it, crashing to the floor of the elevator, landing heavily on its back—right next to Swain—in a cloud of dust and shattered plastic.
A minute passed.
Slowly, Swain lifted his head.
The first thing he saw was the dark wrinkled snout and the enormous white fangs of the Karanadon, right in front of his eyes.
He started. But the beast did not move.
Swain quickly looked at his wristband and sighed. The green light was back on. The Karanadon was out cold.
He lifted his body and all sorts of debris fell from his back onto the floor. Half the roof of the old, wide elevator had fallen in under the weight of the big beast, and pieces of the ceiling and shards of fluorescent light bulbs lay strewn all over the elevator.
Christ, he thought, it looked as if a bomb had gone off here: white dust floating through the air, the roof caved in, half the lights flickering, the other half destroyed beyond recognition.
Swain stood up. He touched the large bruise that was forming on the back of his head. His lower back ached from the thunderous impact. He lifted his arm off Holly.
‘Holly?’ he said, quietly. ‘Are you okay?’
She stirred gently, as if coming out of a deep, painful sleep.
‘Wha . . .what?’
Swain shut his eyes in relief and gave her a kiss on the forehead.
‘Are we there yet, Daddy?’ she whimpered, her head still buried in her forearms.
‘Yes, honey, we’re here,’ he smiled.
Across the lift, Selexin groaned. He slowly raised his head and stared, unfocused, at Swain. Then he looked across the lift at the limp—but live—body of the Karanadon.
‘Oh my goodness . . .’
‘Tell me about it,’ Swain said dryly.
‘Where are we?’
‘We’re at the bottom of the shaft, I guess. We took the quick trip down.’
‘Oh,’ Selexin said absently.
He didn’t seem too worried about anything right now, and for that matter, neither did Swain. He figured they could stay here for a while. The Karanadon wouldn’t be waking up in the very near future, and no-one would be able to find them here.
He sat up, gently placing his daughter’s head in his lap, and leaned up against the wall of the semi-destroyed elevator and smiled sadly at the destruction all around him.
Bob Charlton stopped his Chevy at a red light and dialled his office. It had barely rung once when Rudy answered.
‘Robert Charlton’s phone.’
‘Rudy?’ Charlton said.
‘Yes, sir. Where are you?’
‘At the moment, stuck in downtown traffic. I’m on my way. I’ll be back in about five minutes.’
At the other end of the line, Rudy Baker paused, and glanced nervously around Charlton’s office.
‘Okay, sir,’ he said. ‘Is there anything you want me to do in the meantime? Look up something for you?’
Charlton’s voice said, ‘Good idea, yes. While you’re waiting, check the computer. See if the New York State Library was linked up with the main when we did that National Register of Historic Places thing a few months back. If it was, run down to Records and pull the plans. Get the blueprints and see if you can find out where the damn booster valve is.’
‘Uh . . . okay, sure,’ he hesitated again.
‘What is it, son?’ Charlton said. ‘Something wrong down there?’
‘No, sir. Not here,’ Rudy lied. ‘I’ll see you when you get back.’
‘All right then.’ Charlton hung up.
In the office, Rudy leaned forward and switched off the speakerphone.
‘Well done, son,’ a voice behind him said. ‘Now, why don’t you just take a seat with the rest of us, and we can all wait here together until your boss comes back.’
Charlton hurried out of the elevator and walked quickly down the hallway to his office.
He looked at his watch.
It was 7:55 p.m.
He hoped that Rudy had got those files on the State Library. If he had, with a bit of luck they might be able to have the main up and running again by midnight.
Charlton charged into his office and stopped instantly.
Rudy was sitting in the chair behind Charlton’s desk. He looked up helplessly.
Five other men, all dressed in dark suits, sat in a neat row in front of the desk.
As Charlton walked in, one of the men stood up and walked over to him. He was short and stocky, with red hair and a big orange walrus-style moustache.
‘Mr Charlton, Special Agent John Levine,’ he flashed his wallet, revealing a photo ID. ‘I’m from the National Security Agency.’
Charlton examined the ID card. He wondered what the NSA would want with Con Ed.
‘What seems to be the problem, Mr Levine?’
‘Oh, there’s no problem,’ Levine said quickly.
‘Then what can I do for you?’ Charlton’s eyes wandered warily around his office, scanning the four other men seated there.
They were all big men, broad-shouldered. Two wore sunglasses even though it was nearly eight in the evening. They were very intimidating.
‘Please, Mr Charlton, take a seat. We just came by to ask you a few questions about your inquiry into the New York State Library.’
‘I’m not looking at the Library itself,’ Charlton said, sitting down in a spare chair. Levine sat opposite him. ‘I’m just looking for a break in our main electrical line. We’ve had quite a few calls from that area, complaints about the power cutting out on people.’
Levine nodded. ‘Uh-huh. So. Apart from being in the same area, what is the connection between these complaints and the State Library?’
‘Well,’ Charlton said, ‘
The Library is on the National Register of Historic Places, you know, one of those lists of old buildings that aren’t allowed to be demolished.’
‘I know it.’
‘Anyway, we linked a few of them up to the main a few months back, and we’ve found that when they go down, sometimes they take the whole damn system with them.’
Levine nodded again. ‘So why have you begun to focus on this building? Surely there are others in the area that deserve similar attention?’
‘Mr Levine, I’ve been doing this sort of thing for ten years now and when you get a break in the main it can mean a shitload of problems. And that means you have to check everything. Every possibility. Sometimes it’s kids hacking at the cables with daddy’s chainsaw, sometimes it’s just an overload. I’ve always found it prudent to go down and check with the police and see if they’ve pulled in someone from that area lately.’
‘You went to the police?’ Levine raised an eyebrow.
‘Yes.’
‘And did you find anything?’
‘Yes, I did. In fact, it was the police who put me on to the Library in the first place.’
‘If you don’t mind me asking,’ Levine said, ‘Which police station was this?’
‘14th Precinct,’ Charlton said.
‘And what did they tell you?’
‘They told me they picked up a small-time computer thief in the State Library last night, in relation to the murder of a security guard. I saw the fellow, too—’
‘A murdered security guard?’ Levine leaned forward.
‘Yes.’
‘A guard from the State Library?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the police said he was killed last night?’
‘That’s right. Last night,’ Charlton said. ‘They found the thief right next to him, covered from head to toe in the guard’s blood.’
Levine looked around at his fellow agents. Then he said, ‘Do they think the thief did it?’
‘No. He was just a scrawny little guy. But they think he must have stumbled upon the guys who did. Then they roughed him up. Something like that.’
Levine stopped for a moment, deep in thought.
Then he asked very seriously, ‘Have the police put any men inside the building? Inside the library?’
‘The detective I spoke to said they have two officers down there right now,’ Charlton said. ‘You know, babysitting the building overnight, until some site team can go in tomorrow.’
‘So there are police officers inside that building right now?’
‘That’s what they told me.’
At that, Levine turned to his men and nodded at the nearest one, who stood immediately.
‘14th Precinct,’ Levine said to him. He glanced back at Bob Charlton. ‘Mr Charlton, can you remember the name of the detective to whom you spoke?’
‘Yes. Captain Henry Dickson.’
Levine just turned to the standing agent and nodded curtly. The agent didn’t reply. He just ran straight from the room.
Levine faced Charlton again. ‘Mr Charlton, you have been very helpful. I thank you for your co-operation.’
‘Not at all,’ Charlton said, rising from his chair. ‘If that’s everything, gentlemen, I have a main to fix, so if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go and check out that library—’
Levine stood, placed his hand on Charlton’s chest, stopping him.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Charlton, but I’m afraid your inquiry into the New York State Library stops here.’
‘What?’
Levine spoke calmly. ‘This is no longer a matter for you or your company, Mr Charlton. The National Security Agency will take care of it from here.’
‘But what about the main?’ Charlton objected. ‘Or the electricity? I have to get it back on.’
‘It can wait.’
‘Bullshit, it can wait.’ Charlton stepped forward angrily.
‘Sit down, Mr Charlton.’
‘No, I will not sit down. This is a serious problem, Mr Levine,’ Charlton paused. ‘I’d like to speak with your superior.’
‘Sit down, Mr Charlton.’ Levine said, a new authority in his voice. Immediately, two agents appeared at Charlton’s sides. They didn’t touch him, just stood by his shoulders.
Charlton sat, frowning.
Levine said, ‘All I will tell you is this, Mr Charlton. In the last two hours, that library has become the focus of a major NSA investigation. An investigation that will not be stopped because one hundred and eighty-seven New Yorkers won’t be able to watch Friends for one night.’
Charlton just sat there, silent. Levine walked over to the doorway.
‘Your inquiry is concluded, Mr Charlton. You will be advised as to when you may proceed.’ Levine stepped through the doorway, taking one agent with him, leaving Charlton in the office with Rudy and the other two agents.
Charlton couldn’t believe it. ‘What? You’re keeping me here? You can’t do that!’
Levine stopped in the doorway. ‘Oh yes I can, Mr Charlton, and I will. Under Federal law, it is within the power of an investigating officer to detain anyone concerned in a matter of national security for the duration of that investigation. You will remain here, Mr Charlton, with your assistant, under supervision, until this investigation is substantially concluded. Thank you for your co-operation.’
Down the hall, Levine stepped into the elevator and pulled out his cellular phone.
‘Marshall, here,’ a crackled voice said at the other end. There was a lot of static on the line.
‘Sir, it’s me, Levine.’
‘Yes, John, what is it? How did it go?’
‘Good and bad, sir.’
‘Tell me the good news first.’
Levine said, ‘it’s definitely the State Library.’
A pause, then, ‘Yes.’
‘And we got to Charlton just in time. He was just about to go there.’
‘Good.’
Levine paused, nervously fingering his red walrus moustache.
Marshall’s voice said, ‘And the bad news?’
Levine bit his lip. ‘We had to detain him.’
There was silence on the other end of the line.
‘There was no choice, Mr Marshall. We had to keep him away from the library.’
The man named Marshall seemed to be thinking it over. Finally he spoke, as if to himself. ‘No. No. That’s okay. Charlton will be all right. Besides, if this thing comes off, any flak the Agency gets from him will be water off a duck’s back. What else?’
Levine held his breath. ‘There are two cops inside the building.’
‘Inside?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, fuck,’ Marshall’s voice said. ‘That is a problem.’
Levine waited in silence. The phone hissed with static. Marshall lapsed into thought again. When he spoke, his voice was soft, deliberate.
‘We’ll have to take them with us.’
‘The cops? Can we do that?’
Marshall said, ‘They’re contaminated. It doesn’t look like we have much choice.’
Levine said, ‘What do you want me to do now?’
‘Get over to the library and, for the moment, stay out of sight. The boys from Sigma will be there shortly,’ Marshall said. ‘I’ll be landing in a couple of minutes. There’s a car waiting on the runway, so I’ll be there in about thirty minutes.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Levine hung up.
James A. Marshall sat in the executive compartment of the National Security Agency’s Director’s Lear as it began its descent into Newark.
As the Divisional Agent in Charge of the NSA’s ultra-secret Sigma Division, Marshall was officially based in Maryland, but lately he found that he was spending most of his time out in the western states, New Mexico and Nevada.
Marshall was a tall man of fifty-two, mostly bald, with a white-grey beard and hawk-like black eyebrows that narrowed at his nose, giving him a perpetual look of deadly seriousness. He had been in charge
of Sigma Division—the NSA’s elite high-technology discovery division—for six years now.
Back in the seventies and eighties, the NSA had been the US intelligence community’s pride and joy, electronically compressing billions of encryption algorithms that were to become the foundation of its world-renowned code-breaking computers. Then, in the early nineties, Sigma added to this lustre when it utilised semiconductor technology to make the greatest breakthrough in the history of code-making and breaking—it successfully created the world’s first quantum computer.
But with the subsequent thawing of the Cold War, code-cracking began to assume a lesser priority in the eyes of the government. Budgets were cut. Money was diverted to other sectors of the intelligence community and the military. The NSA had to find something new to excel in—something that would justify its continued existence. Otherwise it would almost certainly get folded into the Army.
James Marshall and Sigma Division were tasked with finding this new expertise.
Within weeks, Sigma’s resources were focused upon a new and remarkably different goal. Only this was a goal that did not require the creation of new technology, but which rather was centred on the search for, discovery of, and deciphering of, a very special kind of technology.
Highly advanced technology.
Technology that man himself could not create.
But technology which the NSA—and the NSA alone, with its new quantum supercomputers—would be in a unique position to decipher and exploit.
Extra-terrestrial technology.
Marshall took it all with a grain of salt. Sure, the Air Force had built underground warehouses in New Mexico and Nevada. But despite the reports of television specials asserting that they had in fact found, captured and studied alien spacecraft and lifeforms—one such special even suggested that the technology behind the Stealth Bomber came from such studies—those warehouses had remained irrefutably and unequivocally empty.
In short, the Air Force had found nothing. And in the ever-competitive quest for budget dollars, that provided the NSA with an opportunity . . .
Like tonight, Marshall thought.
And as his plane made its descent, he looked at the printout in his lap for the hundredth time.
Two hours ago, at 6:01 p.m. Eastern Standard Time, an NSA satellite, LandSat 5, during a random sweep over the north-eastern tip of America, detected and quantified an unusually large electronic displacement that seemed to be emanating from Manhattan Island.