Verne looked through the small window. Normally, the vault was sealed off from human eyes by the huge semicircular door. But once their twin set of commands had been entered, the door revolved ninety degrees, turning the access corridor into a closed tube. Now daylight lay at one end, and vast sums of cash at the other. And in between sat the armored car.
The two men watched as Crowe stepped through the delivery chamber into the vault, two empty canvas bags in his left hand. He reappeared maybe twenty seconds later, the bags now bulging, slung over his shoulder. The stacks of money had been sorted by machines into brown-wrapped bundles exactly eighty bills high: the ideal size, Verne had learned during orientation, for handling and transporting by the automated system.
Now Crowe was coming back for another load. He was moving quickly, clearly experienced at this work. Pretty tan for a manager, Verne thought absently. Must get in plenty of golf time. Or maybe he punches cows, with an accent like that. Though Verne could not see him behind the transparent armor, he knew that the driver of the truck would be watching Crowe carefully, maintaining visual and radio contact at all times.
Crowe returned with another load, disappeared inside the truck, came out again, shotgun still tucked under his right arm. Verne glanced indifferently at the shotgun. It was a nice little setup, very neat, very clean. The Utopia crew never handled the money, never handled the guns. They could hire outside specialists for that, seal themselves hermetically away during the entire transaction. No doubt the insurance adjusters loved it.
Yet again, Crowe reappeared. Even at his energetic rate, it would take several minutes to move a hundred million dollars. Curiosity waning, Verne moved away from the window, sat down heavily in his chair behind the control panel, and stretched luxuriously once again.
—
EARL CROWE STEPPED up into the armored car, ducked into the rear compartment, and let the heavy canvas slide off his shoulders. The driver, who was waiting in the rear, overturned the bags, letting dozens of identically wrapped packages spill across the steel and rubber floor. It was not exactly standard procedure—the driver should have remained at the wheel, supervising the loading, keeping a vigilant eye out for potential robbers or hijackers—but inside this sealed, tenantless corridor they were hidden from view.
Crowe swung the now-empty bags back onto his shoulder, then turned to watch the driver as he hastily stacked the brown packages into the car’s side-mounted compartments. “So, you like driving armor again?” he asked.
The driver nodded without pausing in his work. “Damn straight. And for the first time, I get to keep what I’m driving.”
Crowe gave a low chuckle. Then he turned away, trotted down the steps, and headed back toward the vault.
THE PHALANX OF security specialists at the VIP Hospitality Center had dwindled significantly since Warne’s last visit. As he approached, he could see only two: one watching the entrance, the other inside, in the shadow of an alabaster column, hands behind his back. The thoughtful, melancholy strains of the string quartet sounded from still deeper within.
The guard at the entrance glanced at the management tag on Warne’s lapel, nodded, and ushered them through.
“What are we going to do, exactly?” Peccam said as they trotted across the marble floor.
“I don’t know,” Warne said. “Ask me again in five minutes.”
But in fact he did know. At least, he hoped he did.
Poole’s words came back to him over the sounds of the quartet, the low whisper of the fountains, the chatter of a few restless guests sitting on leather divans: That high-powered transmitter we found in the duffel? It needs a clear line of sight, it can’t go through walls. Once they’re clear of the building, they’re going to implode the roof. Bring the whole thing down, escape in the aftermath.
Perhaps Poole could get to the charges in time, disable enough to keep the dome from collapsing. But they couldn’t count on that. And that meant there was only one other thing to do. Stop the armored car from leaving the Utopia Underground.
Once again, Poole’s voice sounded in his head. They’ve got guns, remember? Lots of nice, big guns. Utopia’s guards are unarmed.
It was true. Utopia had no weapons to use against the armored car. But maybe—just maybe—they had something else.
Warne pushed his way through the double doors and down the carpeted corridor, trying to reconstruct the layout of the place in his mind. He’d been rushed, then as now, and the memory of his previous visit was a blur. This is the door. I think. Not bothering to knock, he grasped the knob, turned it, pushed the door open.
In the room beyond, the short, slightly built man named Smythe turned at the sound of their entrance. The thick spectacles hung down on his nose, and the thin strands of hair—so carefully combed and brilliantined on the monorail that morning—were askew. He had been pacing, apparently for quite a while.
There was a rustling sound, then a blur of movement from behind the table that held the coffee machine. Wingnut emerged, panning his head assembly around. Fastening twin cameras on his master, the robot lurched forward, emitting a loud, belchlike bark. Warne patted the head array, relieved to see him. And the man was still here, too: thank God.
“Mr. Smythe,” he said, “I’m Andrew Warne. Do you remember me?”
The short man frowned behind his spectacles. “Ah, yes. You were on the monorail with me this morning. And then again, here, I believe. Ms. Boatwright called you after I…after I…” He stopped.
“That’s right,” Warne said hastily. “And this is Ralph Peccam. He works as a video technician for Security, reporting to Bob Allocco. You met him here, too.”
Ten minutes, the cold little voice whispered in his head. You’ve got ten minutes, maybe less. This small talk, this cordial round of introductions, was agony. But it was vital: if there was the least chance of this working, Warne knew he needed Smythe’s trust.
“Mr. Smythe,” he went on, “I hope you’ll forgive me. We’re in a bit of a hurry here. I wonder if you could help us out with something.”
The man took off his spectacles and began polishing them with the end of his tie. Without glasses to shield them from the outside world, his pale blue eyes looked exposed, startled.
“Of course,” he said. “If I can.”
“Mr. Smythe, can you tell me…well, can you tell me what kind of fireworks are stored here at the Park?”
Smythe went on polishing. “Oh, the usual sort. You know. Class B.”
“Class B?”
“Of course. Orange Book classification 1.3.” When this was greeted by silence, Smythe added, “That’s one of the U.N. classifications for dangerous goods. One point three. Fiery projectiles. Display grade, not consumer grade, naturally.” He seemed shocked at such gross ignorance.
“Are there many?”
“Many? Oh, you mean fireworks? Oh, my, yes. You’d be surprised at the number they go through, with the coordinated shows every evening. Especially the gerbs, comets, and—”
“I see. What kind explode?”
The wiping slowed, then stopped.
“Explode?” Smythe asked. He had an annoying habit of repeating the last word of a question. “Well, let’s see. All fireworks explode, that’s their nature.” He began explaining in the slow, patient tone one might use with a small child. “There are two kinds of black powders, of course: the unglazed meal powder you use for lift, and the one for burst—”
“No, no,” Warne interrupted. “I mean, what kind blows up?”
“Blows up? Well, that depends on what you mean by blowing up. We have crossettes and tourbillions, which you know are moving displays. They blow up, down, sideways. Or the kind of colored fountains that—”
“No!” With an effort, Warne controlled himself. “What kind does damage?”
Smythe looked shocked. He replaced his glasses. “I would have to say that, ah, most of them do. Or would, if improperly used.” He hesitated, looking more closely at Warne. “But the outdoo
r aerial displays, the multi-break star shells and maroons, would probably…” His voice tapered off.
“And where are they kept?” Warne asked, almost prancing now with impatience.
“In the storage magazines on C Level.”
“You’ve got access?”
“Naturally. I supervised their installation.”
Warne glanced back at Peccam, who had been listening to this exchange with increasing disbelief. Then he turned once again to Smythe.
“Look,” he said. “We really need your help. It’s related to the—what you found back in the Specialists’ Lounge. Could you please show us these storage magazines?”
Smythe hesitated again, longer this time.
“Please, Mr. Smythe. It’s vitally important. I’ll explain on the way. We have to hurry.”
At last, Smythe nodded.
“Come on, then,” Warne said, taking Smythe by the arm and almost propelling him toward the door. “As quickly as possible, please.”
Then he stopped, looked back. “And Wingnut,” he said briskly. “Heel.”
With a klaxon call of delight, Wingnut shot forward, following the group out of the room.
And as Warne hurried down the hall, he massaged Wingnut’s echolocator thoughtfully, turning it round and round on his wrist.
ANGUS POOLE TOOK the narrow metal stairs two at a time, pulling himself up by both handrails. It had been too many years since he’d done forced marches in full kit, and he was more out of breath than he cared to admit. To his left, the concrete wall of the stairwell curved away out of sight overhead, fluorescent lights bolted to its face at a rising angle. To the right, beyond one-way observation glass, the green lawns and parti-color tents of Camelot fell away below, a lush tapestry of battlements and pennants and gaudy medieval spectacle. Poole paid no attention.
It had taken longer than it should have to find the access stairwell: he’d had to sweet-talk a cast member from Camelot, bluff his way past a security specialist with the aid of Warne’s passcard. As he climbed, he didn’t want to think about how many minutes had already been wasted.
He also didn’t want to think about how crazy all of this sounded. The idea that the massive dome was rigged to implode—to scatter countless shards of glass and chunks of steel down over the interior of the Park—seemed too extreme for even a piece of work like John Doe. Poole wondered if the woman, Sarah Boatwright, had understood what Barksdale’s broken mouth was saying. Or if Barksdale could even be believed. Maybe he was raving, delusional. Or maybe it was some ploy of his to escape, get them to leave him alone in Medical. But in his gut, Poole didn’t believe this. Barksdale had been desperate to talk, gargling on his own blood in an effort to warn the Park chief about what was going to happen. Just moving those shattered jaws must have been agony. The man had to be telling the truth.
The corridor angled around a gentle bend, the spectacle of Camelot vanished, and up ahead the stairs ended in a metal door. A thin line of sunlight traced a rectangular outline against the dark frame. An infrastructure worker in a beige jumpsuit was coming down the staircase toward him, oversize duffel in one hand. He glanced over briefly as Poole ran past. Poole returned the glance but kept climbing as quickly as he could: the last thing he wanted now was to stop and play twenty questions with some drone. Thankfully, there was no shouted warning, no demand to stop, and Poole kept climbing toward the door, his thoughts bent on the task ahead.
If the dome really was rigged, what exactly could he do about it in the few minutes left? You’re running in the wrong direction, jerkoff, every self-preserving instinct shouted within him. These guys were obviously pros—whatever awaited him up there, it sure as hell wasn’t going to be a fertilizer bomb wired to a windup clock. This was a job for a disposal team with first-class resources and time to spare…
And then he thought of his cousin and her family—an obnoxious family to be sure, but family all the same—and the countless thousands of other guests that packed Utopia, blissfully ignorant, smiling and chattering as they walked beneath the shadow of that vast dome…and Poole found himself redoubling his speed as he climbed toward the door.
Perhaps it wasn’t that hopeless. This wasn’t a war zone; they probably had only one or two grunts to lug up the explosives and equipment; there wouldn’t be multiple redundancies. And if there was a transmitter, that meant there also had to be a receiver somewhere. Finding it would be faster, surer, than dismantling a few of the detonators in hopes of saving the dome. The receiver would be on the rear side somewhere, facing the maintenance road that led away from the Park—he was sure of that. That tech with the head cold, Peccam, had said the transmitter needed a clear line of sight.
Four more steps—two—and he was at the door. For a sickening moment he feared it would be impassable, that it would have some kind of hand-geometry reader like the door he’d convinced the cast member to open, but with relief he saw it had only a simple steel knob. A savage kick was enough to burst the lock and open the door.
Blinding light and baking heat rushed forward to embrace him. For a moment, Poole hesitated, face turned away and eyes tight shut, stunned after the cool darkness of the staircase. He took one step forward, and then another, as the painful white glare receded and the scene came into focus around him.
The access stairs ended in a small metal shed, set down like a child’s toy atop a vast, flat escarpment. Sparse high-desert vegetation, juniper and straggly sage, clung to the fissures and gullies that ran away through the sandstone before him. The reddish surfaces looked wounded and gouged, as if scarred by some terrific battle. This was the mesa top surrounding the circular bowl that held Utopia. And ahead, arching over that bowl, rose the dome, the roof of the Park, steel ribs and hexagonal glass panels shimmering like dragonfly wings in the sunlight.
Seeing it, Poole stopped dead once again. It was so massive—the smooth curve of its surfaces so precise, so achingly regular above the pocked uneven sandstone—that it seemed to possess the distant otherworldliness of a dream-tower. Poole forced himself to look away, glancing toward the sky to orient himself. Then, with a deliberate effort, he trotted forward.
As he approached the dome, he made out a network of catwalks and ladders, cunningly set into the supporting ribs and crosspieces. There was no sign of tampering, no suspicious-looking emplacements. He almost grunted with relief: perhaps Barksdale had been wrong, after all…
And then he saw the det cord.
It had been strung beneath the lowest walkway, following the metal as it curved around the base of the dome. Poole came up to the catwalk, knelt beneath it, reaching to turn the plastic-coated cord gingerly between his fingers. It was professional grade, thin and light but very reliable. He resisted the urge to cut it, certain it was rigged in such a way that any tampering would set off a premature explosion.
He rose again and, with a sinking feeling, ran along the base of the dome, following the cord. After fifty feet or so, he reached the first charge: a small mound of plastique, expertly shaped around the base of a truss. At another time, he would have appreciated the subtle beauty of the placement. The field agent in him approved of the economy of material. The demolitions expert—for Poole no longer had any doubt that such a person was responsible—had clearly opted for a surgical attack, emphasizing precision over sheer volume of explosive.
He continued along the base of the dome, toward the rear of the Park. He came across another charge, then another, all expertly placed to do the maximum amount of structural damage with the minimum amount of explosive. One man had done this; two at most. It was a highly disciplined job. All too disciplined: there would be no shoddy workmanship here, no weaknesses to exploit. The sinking feeling grew stronger.
As he ran, Poole had kept his eyes on the line of det cord as it snaked beneath the catwalk. Up ahead now, low along the curve of the dome, he could see a larger control box, lines of det cord attached to it. Must be the receiver, he thought with a fresh surge of hope.
; Suddenly, an object came into view in the bottom of a shallow gully before him, and he swerved to avoid it. Then he stopped, turning back quickly to kneel beside it.
“Sweet sister Sadie,” he muttered.
It was the body of a man: late thirties, tall, wearing the uniform of a maintenance worker. His rubber-soled shoes were drawn up beneath him, and some kind of electronic device dangled from his utility belt. A large bloodstain was splashed across the white fabric of his work suit. Poole reached out a finger to touch the fabric: it was stiff, the fatal wound hours old.
On the underside of the catwalk, not five feet from where the dead man lay, another shaped charge had been carefully molded into position. Poole leaned in for a closer look.
Movement registered in his peripheral vision. Old, half-forgotten reflexes took over, and Poole immediately flattened himself in the rocks beside the corpse. He glanced up cautiously, using the body as cover.
At first, he saw nothing: the gnarled, wizened surface of the mesa top seemed utterly still. And then the movement came again. It was a man, out in the sunlight beyond the vast shadow cast by the dome. He was hugging its base, moving slowly, only the left side of his body visible from Poole’s angle. He wore the beige jumpsuit of an infrastructure worker, and Poole cursed under his breath as he recognized the man he’d passed on the stairway. He’d been so wrapped up in the problem at hand, it hadn’t even occurred to him to question who would be coming down those access stairs. He’d assumed all of John Doe’s men would have regrouped by now, ready to leave in the armored car. But he should have known better: John Doe was thorough; he’d have kept a spotter watching the escape route until the last possible minute. Never assume, they’d taught him. Always question. Take nothing for granted.