Torque (8 page)

The silence deafened.

He punched in the numbers. It was still
quiet. He discounted the possibility of silent alarms. Those were
generally backed up with cameras of which there were none inside
the building. That’s what the guards were for.

Putting the card in his pocket he opened the
door to a dimly lit room that was about four metres square with a
high ceiling. Illumination from the outside stadium lights and a
twin set of computer monitors running screensavers of swimming fish
provided adequate visibility to spot the target.

On the left wall, large and looming, was a
fireproof safe that likely housed all of the sensitive material.
Next to it, to hold less crucial data, was a pair of four-drawer
filing cabinets. The sturdy American Vault Corporation strongbox
would be a formidable challenge to any safecracker—certainly beyond
Svoljsak’s skills. Fortunately, his objective was stored in one of
the two filing cabinets, and a quick appraisal told him it didn’t
really matter which one. They were both locked but with a little
effort he wrestled one away from the wall, tipped it back, and
released the mechanism from beneath.

So far, so good.

Now, Roger, he thought, did you leave
something worthwhile in here or is this just a big waste of
time?

The top drawer revealed two rows of
compact-disc cases. Some were singles while others held two or more
of the discs. The ability to accommodate vast amounts of
information made CD’s the current archive choice for many Hi-tech
companies.

The labels had small print and were difficult
to read. Svoljsak probed his breast pocket for a penlight and
realized he’d left his large flashlight standing, sentry-like,
outside the door. He assessed the risk, decided to leave it there,
and aimed the penlight’s tiny beam into the drawer. His fingers
flipped through the plastic cases until he found one with a sticker
marked
RA—Archive
, and backdated two years.

The best place to hide a tree is in a forest,
he thought, as he pulled the case from its mates.

There was a UPC barcode affixed to the back
that matched the tag on the disc inside. There was no way of
removing the sticker without damaging the disc; and the disc
couldn’t pass through the detector downstairs without being
officially ‘checked out’. It was a problem Svoljsak had prepared
for but he needed to tidy up the room before taking the next
step.

He toyed with the notion of grabbing a few
more of the discs but didn’t really know what to look for. The
prime stuff was probably locked in the safe, anyway. He shut the
drawer and was about to push the cabinet back to the wall when a
sustained rattle at the door froze him in place.

Not daring even to breath, his mind raced for
an alibi but the scene would speak for itself. He would have to
make a break for it, perhaps even fight his way out. Guards in this
building were not issued firearms but the other guy had seemed
pretty fit and Svoljsak cursed himself for leaving his flashlight
at the door.

The door that wasn’t opening.

The vent above it rattled again as more
turbulence moved through the ducts. Svoljsak lowered his head,
exhaled slowly, then straightened up and willed himself to finish
the job.

Original to the building, the large
wood-framed windows had three sections of which the tops and
bottoms cranked open. On the outer side, bars and mesh had been
added at some point in time to keep out undesirables which, at this
height, consisted mostly of pigeons.

From his breast pocket he extracted a small
square of cardboard around which was spooled a long length of nylon
fishing line. Attached to it, by a paper clip, was a six-inch piece
of electrical tape on wax paper.

The bars placed some restriction on how far
Svoljsak could open the lower window, but he managed to hook his
fingers through the mesh and pull it a couple of inches up from the
sill. In preparation the monofilament had been wound from its
middle around the cardboard so that, now, he had the two ends
available together. Passing one end around a window bar he then
fixed them both securely with the electrical tape to the plastic
case. This he slid under the mesh and lowered over the edge of the
sill. He controlled its descent by unraveling line from the spool
until it hung at length from the bar.

It was useless to try and look down the wall
so Svoljsak just hoped he’d calculated the length correctly. He
straightened the pigeon mesh as best he could and closed the
window.

3:42 a.m. Better get moving. He’d scheduled a
page call for 3:50 that would get him out of the building before
the end of the shift. It would allow him to retrieve his take
without being seen. More or less. The monitor for the exterior
cameras was located at the reception area where the other guard
spent most of his time.

He patted dust off his uniform and tucked his
shirt in where it had pulled out during his tango with the storage
cabinet. Like the jacket, the pants had been a little snug so he’d
left the button on the waistband undone and used his own belt.

A final scan of the room confirmed that
personal items were pocketed, the filing units were back in place,
and the make-believe fish were still in their virtual tank. It was
time to go.

== == ==

The rain that had been forecast ticked cold
against Svoljsak’s face as he stepped from the portico into the
parking lot and walked in the general direction of his car. He’d
changed into his civvies; dark slacks, sweatshirt, and gabardine.
The uniform was in the bag that he hung casually over his
shoulder.

He scoped the area for signs of life but
nothing moved. The security cameras were now hidden in the glare of
the stadium lights but Svoljsak knew they were on and wondered how
long his piece of folded cardboard, jammed into the door rubber of
the building’s elevator, would keep the other guard occupied on the
top floor.

He veered toward the shrubbery that sat
beneath the first floor windows. The small bushes dripped raindrops
and, animated by the breeze, appeared to shiver. Behind a
particularly damp evergreen hung the plastic box. He stepped toward
it and a wet branch stroked his inner thigh. It darkened the pant
leg like a streak of cold urine. Svoljsak swore and reached for his
prize.

He pulled one end of the monofilament free of
the tape then spooled it around the plastic case as it slipped from
the window bar four floors up. With a small twig he raked his boot
print from the flowerless bed then retreated to his car. He sat for
a moment, and gazed upon the red brick expanse of the Georgian
institution. After a moment he started to laugh.

“You are mine,” he said pointing at the front
entrance. “I own you!”

In his younger days, he and the rest of his
posse would have released their exuberance with war whoops and the
odd rock tossed through an abandoned shop window. These days the
older Svoljsak was content to celebrate his victories with a fine
cigar. Cuban. Always Cuban.

CHAPTER
13

Svoljsak twisted the screwdriver sticking
out of the ignition cylinder and the little four-banger came to
life. Compared to the powerful V-8 in his Buick, this engine
sounded more like an egg-beater. He lit the cigar and glanced once
more at the entrance to Simedyne. There was no sign of a guard
running out and yelling ‘Stop thief!’ so he put the car into gear
and drove sedately through the parking lot to the exit.

A couple of vehicles were parked down the
block but the wet street was devoid of traffic. He flicked on the
wipers and turned right keeping the car in Second rather than
Drive. The greater engine speed of the higher gear gave the
illusion of traveling faster, which made it easier to stay within
the speed limit. Still, the nervous energy he’d kept reined in now
began to manifest itself and, between checking his mirror every few
seconds and adjusting his seat, he stabbed at the radio buttons
trying to find something to match his mood.

Commercials. Stab. Country. Stab. Rap crap.
Stab. Praise the Lord. Stab.

Opting for the hiss of wet tires and the
metronome beat of the wipers he settled into ejecting cigar ash, a
millimeter at a time, through the small gap in the window. A single
set of headlights, sedan wide, appeared about a half a block back.
No telltale reflections off roof bars or any other feature
suggested it was a cop following him; nonetheless, Svoljsak’s rules
for self-preservation prescribed a random turn at the next
intersection.

The little import had been left for him at a
shopping mall with the ignition already rigged and the security
guard uniform on the front seat. He’d almost given up the job right
there; not because getaway cars are invariably stolen, that was
standard practice, but because size invariably matters. Decent
wheels
have big doors, a wide stance for strength and
stability, and most importantly pack some muscle under the hood.
Dark blue, black, or green is a good colour choice. White, even
dirty white with rust stains on the hatch, is not.

He’d briefly contemplated boosting something
more substantial but the mall lot was busy and time was short. A
quick test drive assured him that the aged gerbils under the flimsy
hood would still hop on their treadmill when asked, and that a
sprint or two remained in their tiny legs.

Getting into Simedyne had been a cinch, the
resident guard had scarcely reacted to the new face. Stan had only
been the second replacement he’d worked with that month.

He drove on. The car behind was still there,
had even closed up a little since his random turn. At the
intersection ahead a flashing ‘Do Not Walk’ sign indicated an
imminent light change. He adjusted speed to catch the light as it
turned from amber to red, and then accelerated. The headlights in
the mirror tilted briefly upwards, a sure sign that the other
driver had also hit the gas.

Svoljsak turned left, cutting the corner. He
signaled only to cover his ass in case his pursuer was indeed a cop
in an unmarked car, then put more pressure on the accelerator. The
headlights behind came around the corner with speed and continued
to close the gap.

He reached over and turned the latch on the
glove box. The lid dropped and a bubblepack envelope slid onto it.
Empty and with a blank label, it was to be his back-up courier
should there be complications. Steering with his knees he took the
CD case from the bag on the passenger seat. He put it in the
envelope and then put the package in the glove box and snapped it
shut.

Industrial secrets are worth a good price, he
thought, and more if there’s danger involved. He had always
intended to up the ante. The only question was by how much?

He sat back just as the silvery-blue glare of
the sedan’s lights slid from the rear-view mirror to his side-view
mirror. The sedan roared forward to sit even with him in the next
lane. Svoljsak held his speed and looked over at the vehicle on his
wing. The passenger window was down. Light glinted off a metal tube
and he could see into the small circular opening on the end of it.
Not good.

He punched the gas, then with both feet
hammered on the brakes. The move could well have been his last but
the guy riding shotgun was thrown off his aim when the sedan also
lurched ahead then braked. The sawn-off weapon belched fire and
sent a sparking hail of shrapnel across the hood of Svoljsak’s
car.

Both vehicles screeched to a halt askew in
their lanes, Svoljsak’s a full length behind the other car and
beside the crosswalk of a side street. The gun withdrew and the
shooter’s boot shoved open the sedan’s passenger door. Svoljsak
watched the heel hit the ground then cranked his steering wheel
hard to the right and stomped on the accelerator.

Burning as much oil as rubber the little
Korean compact scrabbled for traction on the asphalt. The shooter’s
leg retracted and the sedan’s tires, spinning in reverse, turned
the rain on the pavement to steam. Hunched low over the wheel
Svoljsak kept his foot to the mat and willed the gerbils to greater
efforts. Knowing the more powerful car would catch up in a matter
of seconds he looked desperately for a way to escape.

The buildings on either side appeared endless
and the lights of the next intersection seemed as far away as
distant suns. The sedan had pulled within fifty metres when, like
the dark gap of a missing tooth, an alleyway appeared in the solid
brickwork.

Svoljsak waited until the last possible
second then wrenched the steering wheel hard once more and jumped
on the brakes. With too much momentum and not enough traction from
the worn tires the car kept sliding forward. He was going to
overshoot. As a last resort he came off the binders and the front
wheels, now released, turned the hood toward the narrow
entrance.

Svoljsak yanked up the handbrake. The rear
wheels locked and the back end skidded and hopped in a semi-circle.
Both left-side wheels slammed into the curb together nearly tipping
the car over. It rocked back onto its shocks just as the sedan slid
past with smoking tires. The import’s dash lights dimmed. The
sudden stop and shock of the impact had stalled its engine.
Svoljsak cursed and reached for the screwdriver. It was no longer
in the ignition.

“Shit!”

The sedan had come to a stop a few car
lengths away. He felt around the floor mat and his hand found the
screwdriver. He jammed it back into the cylinder and the motor
cranked reluctantly.

“Come on, damn you. Start!”

Holding his breath, as if straining lungs
could help the engine turn over, he looked toward the inviting hole
in the wall and then at the sedan’s flaring back-up lights as it
reversed toward him. He could just about read the sedan’s trunk
emblem when the gerbils came back to life.