Patriot Acts (9 page)

CHAPTER

THREE

At seven minutes past four in the morning I went up and
over the black iron security fence at the back of the condominium complex. It was still raining, or maybe it was raining again, and the bars were cold, but my hands were strong, and once I had a good grip at the top it was easy to use my hips and swing my lower body over, to follow my legs down. I missed a puddle, landed without a splash, and moved immediately to the carport, to shelter there from both the rain and the security lights that illuminated the lot.

There were two sets of stairs running up to the second-story condos, a main set of artificial-looking stone between the two buildings, and then a second, narrower flight on the south side of the building. I used that one, took it quickly up to the second floor. The stairwell was positioned to dump out facing the row of apartments on the floor, and I could stay low in it, hidden, and make a survey before proceeding. Not a single light burned in any of the residences.

I considered my options. A block and a half away, parked in an overlook, Alena and Dan were waiting in the Pathfinder for my call. The plan was for me to enter Illya’s home, take a thorough look around, remove the potential of any surprises he might wish to spring on us. Once I was satisfied the condo was secure, I’d ring Dan on the rented cell phone he’d provided me. Then I’d wait for him and Alena to call up from the front gate, just like they were any other visitors. I’d buzz them in, they’d join me in Illya’s home, and we’d get comfortable and wait until he came home from work. Vadim, currently staking out the Rose City Cab Co., would give us a call to alert us the target was on its way.

Then I’d take the answers I wanted from Illya, and when I was done, Dan could do whatever he damn well wanted. That what he wanted was most likely going to cause Illya a lot of suffering and misery before his final reward was of only minor discomfort to me; the way I saw it, if Illya hadn’t sold us out, Natalie Trent would be alive and well and still a joy in the world.

My problem, at the moment, was finding a quick and quiet way into Illya’s apartment. The quickest and quietest would be through the front door, so I checked it, and wasn’t surprised to find it securely locked. There was a large window to the right of the door, blinds drawn but their slats parted enough that I could peek through into what appeared to be the main room. It was dark inside, but I could make out street light coming through another set of windows opposite, and I could see the door onto the balcony.

Rain was dripping off the edges of the rooftop above me, and I turned away from the window and back into cover, looking up. The rooftop extended about halfway across the walkway, another attempt to provide partial cover against the Portland weather. Whoever had designed it had done so with at least a token nod to security, because even with the rake of the roof, its edge hung perhaps twelve feet from the floor at its lowest point. There was no way to reach it without a ladder.

Except that the walkway had a railing, four feet high, in all ways identical to the security fence surrounding the complex, but here it was meant to keep people from wandering over the edge and smashing themselves into the parking lot below. The security lights made the water that had collected on its surface shimmer, shining orange. The top of the fence couldn’t have been more than half an inch wide, and it had to be slippery.

This is the reason you’ve been doing all that damn ballet,
I told myself.

I moved to the railing, used my palm to sweep away the water, then checked the view around me once more, confirming again that no lights had come on, that no one was watching. The world was silent but for the sound of the rain hitting leaves and pavement. I swiped my hands dry on my sweatshirt, took hold of the railing, and then half vaulted, half stepped up onto the narrow strip of metal. The railing gave a disconcerting groan as it took my weight, vibrating, and below me the fall to the parking lot couldn’t have been more than twenty-five feet or so.

More than enough to thoroughly fuck me up if I did this wrong.

I went up to fifth position
demi-pointes,
using both feet, opening my arms to the sides, then executed a half turn, a
soutenu en tourant.
The railing wobbled beneath me as I completed the move, lowering my arms to first position, but I was facing the edge of the roof now, still standing
demi-pointes
not because I liked the position or the style, but because there was nothing to rest my heels on. I paused long enough to check my breathing, pulled fresh air deep inside to keep the muscles well fed, then threw myself forward in something resembling a
grand jeté,
if the
grand jeté
in question were being performed from a rain-slicked railing at ten past four in the morning by a man trying to get onto a rooftop without killing himself, or making too much noise, in the process. The fact that I was starting in
demi-pointes
was really only adding insult to injury.

Somewhere, George Balanchine was spinning in his grave.

It was a good leap, and there was a lot of power behind it, and it did the trick. I put my hands out onto the composite shingles of the roof, landed without too much noise with most of my upper body resting against the surface. I used my hips, shifted, then swung them up and to the right, and they carried me over completely. The momentum of the move staved off gravity long enough for me to roll further onto the surface, by which time I was able to turn out of it and come up on one knee. I’d made myself good and wet, but that seemed to be the extent of any damage the jump had done me.

The rooftop rose to an awning eight feet or so ahead of me, hanging over a squat rectangle of a window, then continued on to its apex. I stayed low, hearing my sneakers squeaking on the shingles as I approached and tried to peer inside, but unlike on the ground floor, the view through this window was blocked by drawn curtains. I moved off, taking the rest of the ascent slowly, careful to keep from slipping. At the apex, I dropped low, to keep my silhouette down. The view was impressive, lights shining on Swan Island below; I heard the distant sound of trucks loading and unloading. Looking south, I could see where the Pathfinder was parked at the overlook.

The rooftop sloped downwards, now towards what was the front of the condo, and I went onto my belly when I reached the edge, peering over to see a balcony twelve feet beneath. The balcony was framed with more of the black metal railing, just large enough for two deck chairs and a small, glass-topped patio table to rest between them. Once again, there was no sign of light coming from inside.

This would be the second floor of the condo itself, roughly the equivalent of the fourth floor of the building. As it had on the walkway side, the rooftop overhung the balcony, providing shade in the summer and cover from the weather year-round, though on this side it didn’t extend nearly as far, perhaps no more than a foot, maybe a foot and a half.

I took a closer look at the edge of the roof, where the shingles ended and the rain guard had been tacked into place along the lip. There wasn’t a whole lot to grab onto; I was going to be asking a lot of my fingers, especially given the rain. It was cold, too, all of the day’s meager heat already stolen away, and with my wet clothes, I was beginning to feel it.

Twisting so I was lying parallel with the end of the roof, I reached out, taking hold of the edge first with my right. The grip felt as secure as I’d thought it would, which is to say, it didn’t feel secure at all. Carefully, keeping as much of my weight on the roof for as long as possible, I swung my legs out into the air and began lowering myself down, moving my left hand into position as I had my right. There was no place to set my thumbs, no positive hold, and I had to pinch the edge with both hands, hanging off the side of the building, arms fully extended. I could see more windows, these looking out onto the balcony, their curtains closed.

The strain of the hold was eating at my fingers and shoulders, I could feel the fatigue already building in my hands. If I didn’t move soon, I’d lose the strength to move altogether.

I brought my legs together, again using my hips and abdomen to swing my legs back, away from the building. My grip started to go immediately, and I snapped my lower body forward as hard as I could before it went entirely, hoping the move had been enough to carry me onto the balcony. I arched my back and brought my arms down and in, trying to keep from smashing myself on the railing.

I landed between the railing and the glass-topped patio table, my shoes splashing down in a puddle of runoff, pulling my torso back into line as soon as I felt something solid beneath my feet. I got my hands out in front of me in time to keep from toppling forward, ending ultimately in a crouch, and for a moment I stayed exactly like that, catching my breath and hearing the rainfall beat a companion rhythm to my pulse. My fingers, all the way into my palms, throbbed, and I opened and closed my hands several times, trying to get the blood flowing properly through them once more.

On the street behind me I heard a car approaching, turned my head to see the lights coming along Willamette Boulevard, from the north. There was enough diffused illumination that I could make out the shape of a light bar at the top, a spot mounted on the driver’s side, above the mirror. The police car continued past, without slowing. If it didn’t turn off, it would pass the Pathfinder at the overlook.

Suddenly I was imagining a scenario with Alena and Dan and a dead police officer, and I didn’t like that at all, and for an instant I thought about calling them, warning them, but the call wouldn’t come in time anyway. It was an overreaction; they were keeping watch, certainly, and there were a dozen lies they could give the cop that would be a better solution than violence.

I put it out of my mind, pivoted in place, turning to face the door onto the balcony. It was narrower than the standard size, just as tall, its center clear glass. Looking through it I could make out a dresser, a small television resting atop it. Pulling my sleeve down over my hand, I reached out and slowly tried to turn the knob. There was no resistance, and it rotated almost a full one-eighty before stopping. When I pushed forward there was a slight squeak, the rubber seal at its base scraping the bottom of the door frame, but no real resistance. It opened easily, as I suspected it would.

This high up, this impossible to reach, why bother to lock the balcony door?

I slipped inside quickly, feeling carpet beneath my feet, still thick enough or new enough that it sank to receive my steps. Without light, I couldn’t tell if I was leaving just damp impressions or something more as footprints. Hopefully, it wouldn’t matter; I didn’t see Illya entering his home in the same fashion I had done. I closed the door behind me, as quietly as I’d opened it.

Then I heard a rustle, a movement of bedclothes, and atop it the sound of a sleeper’s breathing, broken for a moment.

The door to the balcony hadn’t opened into the view of the whole room, rather just this end of it, and I had a corner to my right. I put myself against it, peering out. There was a bed, a queen, and there was someone in it, a shape just visible in the shadows, comforter and blankets heaped upon it. I drew breath slowly, waiting and listening.

There was another slight rustle from the bed, and I saw a hand appear for a moment, pulling the comforter back down. The breathing relaxed, resumed the rhythm of sleep. It had been the opening of the door that had done it, the shift in the air, just enough of the outside cold coming in to disturb the sleeper. That had been all.

There’d been no sign of Illya or his cab anywhere around the building that I’d seen, and I’d made a point of looking before climbing the fence. While Vadim didn’t have Illya under surveillance at the moment, there was no reason to think that he’d come home and gone to bed. Which meant this was someone else under those covers, someone we hadn’t anticipated.

Neither Vadim nor Dan had said anything about there being another occupant in the condo. While their surveillance had been quick, I doubted it had been sloppy. So either this was a new arrival—someone who was sleeping here today—or it was someone who had been here but who hadn’t gone out. Someone who Dan’s friend Semyon either didn’t know about, or had neglected to tell Dan about.

There was a faint scent in the air, and it was vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place it. Almost floral, but not quite.

The sleeper’s breathing had become regular, steady and calm.

I stood up slowly, turned out from the cover of the wall, and stepped silently to the foot of the bed.

The sleeper was a woman, blond, maybe in her mid-to-late twenties. Almost all of her was buried beneath the bedclothes but for her head and her right arm. She was wearing flannel pajamas.

There was a red light glowing from something positioned on the nightstand nearest her side of the bed. It took me a half-second to realize what it was, and as soon as I did, I placed the scent I’d caught earlier, and that was all it took.

I left the room, entering a short hallway. Carpet continued to cover the floor, making silence easy to preserve. On my right, a flight of stairs ran past me down to the main floor of the condo. A folding door was set in the wall just past the head of the stairs, off the landing, open, and inside was a washer-dryer stack, both of them too small to be of much use. Another door, this one standard, was ahead of me, barely ajar, presumably the room I’d been unable to see into when I’d first climbed onto the roof. I knew what was inside it, now. I didn’t need to see, but I wanted to.

Maybe I was hoping I would be wrong about what I’d find.

I wasn’t.

The baby was asleep in her crib, butt in the air, blanket piled beside her. Stuffed animals surrounded her on all sides, Kermit the Frog and Elmo and a fluffy bunny rabbit and two Winnie the Poohs, and one creature with one eye and no nose and a goofy grin. The odor of disposable diapers and scented wipes was heavy. She was breathing easy, the sound of an infant deep asleep, with one cheek mashed against the mattress, her mouth open. She didn’t look happy and she didn’t look sad; she just looked like a baby girl, finally letting her mother have a good night’s sleep.