Matt Reilly Stories (8 page)

‘I’ll
hold the hook,’ Little John said, ‘you hold me. Just make sure you’re ready
with a suction cup by the time we reach the Chrysler.’

‘Got
it,’ Robin Hood said.

Little
John untied the hook. Hood grabbed the bigger man’s belt—while keeping a suction
cup gripped in one hand.

Then,
without any further ceremony—just as the first SEALs arrived on their level in
the gantry elevator—Hood and Little John jumped off the edge of the dusty concrete
floor and swung.

THE
CHRYSLER

It
was a spectacular swing.

Two
tiny figures, suspended from a building-mounted crane, flanked by three Navy helicopters,
swinging in a beautiful flat arc, high over Lexington Avenue.

They
swung fast—swooping downwards, across the face of the ugly unfinished tower—then
they shot out into the open air above Lexington, reaching the bottom of their
arc…and then they came back up again, up and up and up, zeroing in on the shiny
vertical side of the Chrysler Building.

They
came to a window, hit it hard—and
stopped
, thanks to the suction cup in Hood’s
hand, now affixed to the exterior of the great structure.

Within
seconds, the adjoining window was broken and they were inside, heading for the
nearest elevator.

Bing!

A
minute later, the elevator arrived at the 75th floor of the Chrysler Building.

Hood
and Little John charged out of the lift, blasted a security lock, stepped into
a partitioned office area.

‘Jumpers
off,’ Hood said.

They
wrenched off their jumpers as they hustled across the floor, heading for the eastern
windows.

The
removal of their bulky woollen jumpers revealed small packs on their backs—as
well as, in Hood’s case, the chest-pack containing the coveted document.

They
came to the eastern wall of the building, saw the world beyond it—the tops of buildings,
the East River, and right next to the East River, their destination…

‘You
ready for the rollercoaster ride?’ Hood said.

‘Are
you kidding? This is what I’ve been waiting for,’ Little John said.

‘Then
let’s do it.’

Firing
as he ran, Hood blasted the eastern windows to hell and then, without so much
as a second thought, he and Little John sped up and launched themselves out through
the exploded-open window and plummeted down through the sky.

Although
our two nations have traded indirect blows in this burgeoning conflict, the United
States is not yet a formal part of this war. Our entry into it, however, need
not occur at all.

THE
FINAL LEG

The
backpacks, of course, held parachutes.

But
these were no ordinary parachutes.

Hood
and Little John had known the Americans would send choppers. Likewise, they had
known that getting to their final target would require at least one parachute jump.

The
only problem: parachute’s tend to hang in the air a long time.

And
so they were using stunt chutes—high-speed, high-performance chutes that dropped
fast due to perforations in their canopies, but which also were capable of
tight control. After all, they were still three blocks from their target
building, which was why the Chrysler had been the only option: it was high
enough to allow them to parachute—fast and low, without any hovering—through
three blocks of street canyons and onto the roof of their target destination.

The
choppers saw them as soon as their twin parachutes blossomed.

And
took off in pursuit.

The
stunt chutes worked well.

Hood
and Little John shot downwards through the air like twin bullets, falling fast but
flat, in dead-straight trajectories. They swung around onto 43rd St, banking
like race cars, now heading due east.

And
for the first time that day, they saw their destination.

It
loomed before them at the end of 43rd St, two blocks away—a medium-sized square-shaped
building made of glass and grey concrete, with an endless line of fluttering
international flags stretched across its top.

The
UN Building.

Fronting
onto 1st Avenue.

Hood
and Little John were losing altitude every second—
fifty
storeys…forty-eight…forty-six
…

The
choppers swung into the canyon behind them, rotors thumping, the lead helicopter
trying to give the SEALs in its side doors a clear shot.

It
was going to be close.

The
two thieves shot through an intersection, descending quickly, flying fast.

Forty
storeys…thirty-eight…

Shooting
forward, the windows on either side of the street blurred with motion.

They
came to 1st Avenue, blasting out of the chasms of New York City, shooting high
over the street, soaring over the wide paved forecourt of the UN’s
headquarters.

The
choppers boomed out of the canyon system a second later, chasing desperately.

But
they were too late.

The
two parachutes sailed over the top of the UN Building, pulled up sharply, and landed
deftly on its roof.

The
moment Hood and Little J landed, they jettisoned their stunt chutes and took
off at a run, disappearing inside a rooftop elevator shack just as security
personnel appeared from the fire stairs.

The
three choppers lurched to a halt in front of the imposing international
structure, stopping in mid-air, their race lost.

The
usual bank of TV crews out the front of the building caught sight of the two parachutes,
a couple of them actually raising their cameras in time to get footage of the
two daredevils.

Hood
didn’t mind. In fact, it was exactly what he wanted.

It
was the nicest touch of all that they had painted some symbols onto their stunt
chutes: anti-nuclear slogans berating the French for their continued nuclear
testing in the South Pacific.

It
was reported on the news that night as just another publicity stunt by guerilla
environmentalists.

Once
inside the UN Building, Hood and Little John attached clip-on ties to their collars,
and assumed the walk of regular bureaucrats.

Owing
to the labyrinth of national offices inside the building, the Americans would never
know into which mission the two thieves walked—would never know which country’s
high-pressure release valve was used to open the mysterious Grauss case.

In
this vein, Herr Fuhrer, I propose an alliance between our two great
nations—between Germany and the United States of America—that will supercede
any previous treaties my country may be party to.

I
await your reply. In the meantime, I remain,

Yours
sincerely,

Franklin
Delano Roosevelt

President
of the United States of America

-----------------------------------------------------------

OFFICIAL
STAMP 046-24 --DOCUMENT NOT DELIVERED

(7
DECEMBER, 1941) --DESTROY ALL COPIES --DESTROY ALL COPIES

–-DESTROY
ALL COPIES –-DESTROY ALL COPIES

-----------------------------------------------------------

THE
BENEFITS OF LEVERAGE

Two
days after the theft, the President of the United States gave an impromptu
press conference during which he announced that tariffs preventing Australian
meat products from entering the United States—tariffs which for years had
unfairly protected American farmers from open-market competition—would be
abolished.

He
also issued a statement saying that aggressive US tactics toward the Euro and
the European economy would cease. Some economic commentators noted that several
currencies that were ‘tied’ to the Euro would benefit immensely from such an
action, one of which was the beleaguered Australian dollar.

When
questioned about the sudden changes of policy, the President denied that it had
been the result of a recent meeting at UN Headquarters with top-level
Australian diplomats.

In
fact, he said, relations between the two nations were stronger than ever. Why,
just next week, US SEAL teams were to engage in exercises with crack troops
from the elite Australian SAS…

________________

AND
THE THRILLER WRITER

_____________________________

They
met in a hotel in New York City. She was a hip young rock star from LA—newly
discovered and heavily promoted—on a sixteen-city tour of the States selling
her new album.

He
was also on tour, but it was a wholly different kind of promotional trip.

She
went on Letterman.

He
did interviews on local cable channels.

She
went on Howard Stern.

He
did a syndicated late-night radio show—a midnight-till-dawn sit-in.

She
had stretch limos to take her around.

He
took cabs.

She
had an army of publicists and managers and record company execs who insisted on
doing everything for her.

He
had a chain-smoking in-house publicist from his publishing house.

Her
songs were all Rock-the-System, Rage-Against-Capitalism stuff. She wrote them
herself. Her image was petite girl-genius: lead guitar, baggy jeans, and big
doe eyes.

He
was published around the world by a gigantic publishing conglomerate.

She
did a lunchtime in-store appearance at the Virgin Megastore on Times Squares.
The 3,000-strong crowd flowed out onto the street, causing a traffic jam.

The
Rock Princess & the Thriller Writer His in-store gig that day attracted 76
people. His publicist (cigarette in mouth) was absolutely thrilled. ‘Mark, this
is awesome! When Grisham did this place the first time, only four people turned
up!’

At
the Radisson on Lexington, she was in the top-floor Grand Executive Suite.

He
was in a room overlooking a back alley.

She
was a rock princess.

He
was a thriller writer.

They
met in the restaurant of the hotel.

It
was late. Each had had a long day. Except for the two of them, the restaurant
was empty.

He
was seated alone in a corner booth, eating a club sandwich with one hand and
reading a book with the other, like he always did.

She
was also sitting by herself, but not by choice.

She
was dressed up, made up: lipstick, eye shadow, blush.

The
whole catastrophe.

And
a catastrophe it surely was.

Her
boyfriend hadn’t shown for dinner. He was sold as the classic Serious Young
Musician, but in reality he was just another wannabe Kurt Cobain clone. Their
relationship—rock princess and Serious Music Dude—was something that he and his
army of publicists never failed to exploit.

Her
cell phone rang. It was Serious Music Dude. Cancelling.

‘Sorry,
babe, but there’s a party on at the Blackwater and Chad says I just have to be
seen there.’

She
hung up, and alone at her table she softly started to cry.

The
quiet sobbing made him glance up from his book.

He
saw her sitting two tables away, all dressed up, dabbing

The
Rock Princess & the Thriller Writer at her eyes with a handkerchief.

‘Excuse
me, miss. But are you okay?’

She
looked up.

It
was obvious from his earnest expression that (a) he had no idea who she was,
and (b) his concern was genuine.

And
so in that darkened restaurant, they started talking.

Music
wasn’t his strong suit.

He
didn’t know the Foo Fighters from the Goo Goo Dolls.

But
he knew what he liked.

And
while at first he didn’t know who she was, he’d heard her latest single on the
radio. ‘That’s yours? Hey, I like that song. Good fast drumbeat.’

She
asked him what other music he listened to.

‘These
days, mainly singles. I don’t buy albums much anymore. I just like songs I can
tap my toes to—like Robbie Williams’ Rock DJ, or anything by Smash Mouth. You
know,