Chapter Nine: The Wheel Descends

“Every possible emotion of human fear, despair, agony, fierce resentment and blind anger mingled…with notes of infinite surprise, as though each one were saying ‘How is it possible that this awful thing is happening to me?”

-Lawrence Beesley, describing the aftermath of the sinking of the RMS Titanic

            Otto Strasser leaned back in Xander Calvan’s desk chair. It was very comfortable, as was to be expected. The warm, soft curves of the chair embraced his body, tempting him to sink down into its welcoming depths, enjoying the howls, screeches, and poundings coming from the vault. After setting Gidan and his people to work, Strasser had come out here, both to listen to the radio for any sign that their presence had been discovered and to examine Calvan’s desk for anything of interest. He doubted very much that he’d find the code to the vault (which wouldn’t do them any good without Calvan’s palm print anyway), but it was likely that he’d find something of value; something his superiors might be able to make use of.

At least, he had thought it was likely. After a quarter hour’s search, however, he was forced to conclude that Calvan didn’t keep anything remotely important in his desk. The only things that looked like it might have been of use were a few stacks of financial documents, but they appeared to be thoroughly prosaic examples of their type. Other than that, he had a few notebooks with indecipherable mathematical formulas scribbled inside, a bound guide to major corporations, several well-organized sets of office tools, and a phonebook. There was nothing here that would even be interesting to a rival company, let alone the KGB.

That struck him as puzzling. Surely Calvan must have his secrets; everyone did. If nothing else, he had to have classified documents related to his company’s projects. But if so, he didn’t keep them in his office.

So where else would he keep them?

Strasser considered the question for a moment, carefully drumming his fingers on his chin before dismissing it as unimportant.

Everything seemed to be going quite well so far; Gidan’s men had secured the building within minutes. The exits were all sealed and the alarms and phone lines cut. All but one of the elevators had been disabled, and the lower three flights of each staircase had been destroyed, while the security force had been swiftly dispatched. The Major’s intelligence had been spot-on, as usual.

 The only hitch had been Calvan’s failure to appear, which Strasser had learned from the news was likely due to a terrible wreck involving a garbage truck. He almost dared to hope that the smug pig had gotten crushed in the process.

His thoughts were interrupted by a crackling in his ear. Strasser had escued the use of ordinary radios to maintain contact with his men for fear that the signal might be picked up on police scanners and reveal their presence too soon – he was counting on at least an hour before the authorities realized what had happened – but he and his fellow KGB officers did have one means of communication: a miniature device concealed in a subtle little earpiece that operated as a kind of portal telephone. It was hard to see unless you were looking for it directly, and even if you did, it just looked like a hearing aid. Just one of the many brilliant inventions that had been pouring out of the MIPT recently.

Only his fellow agents had them. The Tanzanians were useful, of course, but Strasser wasn’t about to just give away such a useful toy as this to a backwards nation taking its first steps into international intrigue. Allies or not, some things you just didn’t share.

“Sir,” came the voice of Hans, his man in charge of guarding the lobby. “We have police.”

Strasser sat up sharply. It was too soon. They couldn’t have found out so soon. It must be a simple check or something.

“Send them away. Politely.”

There was a pause.

“Look out the window, sir.”

Strasser got up and went to the window. He couldn’t believe it. The street fifty floors below was a river of flashing red and blue lights.

He stood rigid for a moment, then regained control.

“You know what to do, Hans,” he said. “Retreat to cover and don’t let anyone inside. If they make contact, tell them we have hostages. I will deal with them.”

Turning from the window, he swept across the office.

“Gidan,” he barked. “We may need your special skills a little sooner than expected. The rest of you, keep working.”

            Deputy Chief Joseph Webb of the SIPD had just been about to leave the office for the night when the report came in. So ended any hope that he might at least have gotten home before his kids were in bed. A cop’s job was hell on the family life. Luckily, Dorothy was an ex-cop herself and knew the score. And she was a great cook too. At least, she had been back in the days when he had still made it home in time for that to matter. Maybe she’d fallen off in the last few years. How would he know?

            Webb had started off as a drill instructor in the Marines before transitioning to a cop in Los Angeles, then worked his way up to detective before moving north to take a promotion to the SIPD. It was a long life of hard jobs, and it had left him at forty-seven with a mind and a body as tough as alligator leather. He’d probably had as many all-night work days as not, but that didn’t mean they were fun. 

            With a cup of freshly bought coffee to keep him alert and some energy bars to keep the coffee from making him nauseous, Webb arrived outside the Centron Farms Building, formerly the Huston Gold.

“Alright, Bill,” said Webb, “What’re we looking at?”

Captain Bill Morgan a thin, bald, energetic man who was one of Webb’s oldest friends on the force gave him the summary: unknown number of terrorists, at least ten, maybe twenty, had taken over the fortieth floor and, from what the police themselves could see, the lobby. They supposedly held a large number of hostages – the boys were working on getting a guest list for the party tonight – and had fortified their positions pretty good. If the police went in the lobby, they’d not only have a shoot-out on their hands, but the bad guys might start executing people.

            If I were them, I’d save my bullets and just toss people over the edge, Webb thought. He had a morbid imagination: probably a holdover from his Marine days. It was one of the reasons he had done so well as a detective.

            No ransom demands as of yet, no demands of any kind. The only communication they’d had so far was relayed from a lady in the Coronet Building behind the Huston Gold, who claimed to be in touch with someone on the inside via Morse Code with flashlights. That was a new one for Webb.

            “Already sent a man up to stay with her,” Morgan explained.

As far as Webb could see, things were going pretty smoothly. The officers on the scene had done a good job of blocking off traffic and setting up a perimeter. Others were making sure the surrounding buildings were clear. Fortunately, at this time of night on a Saturday, hardly anyone was still working.

Except Mrs. Morse, he thought.

“Sir,” said one of the men manning the radio. “I just got a call that Xander Calvan is here and wants to speak to the man in charge.”

Webb sighed. This was already shaping up to be a long night.

“Send him over.”

Webb had never met Calvan before, though of course he’d heard of him and seen him in the papers often enough. Calvan was taller than he had expected, dressed in a tuxedo that probably cost more than Webb made in a year.

“Are you in charge here?” asked Calvan at once without waiting for the escorting officer to introduce him.

“Yes, sir; Deputy Chief Special Operations. My name’s Webb.”

“I would like to know, Chief, how this happened.”

“So would we, sir,” Webb answered. “Perhaps you can help us with that. Do you know any reason why they would target your building?”

“I can think of several,” said Calvan. “You say they are Tanzanians and we were hosting an event to show support for the war effort. Or they might be after the seven hundred million dollars in negotiable bonds that we have locked in our vault. Or it could be that they intend to blackmail us somehow using the hostages as leverage. Or they could have specifically been targeting me and were not able to escape in time upon learning that I wasn’t present. Or it could be a number of things.”

Webb nodded, as if that had been at all helpful.

“Alright, sir,” he said. “Is there anyone we can contact to get a layout of the building?”

“I can help you with that,” said Calvan.

That took Webb aback a little, but he didn’t show it.

“Is that right, sir?”

Calvan’s mouth curled into an amused half-smile.

“You’re wondering whether I know the building that well?”

“Well, sir, I’m sure you have a lot of other things to think about.”

“Yes, I do,” said Calvan. “But I make it a point to know everything there is to know about my property, and I have an eidetic memory. I assume you’ve already arranged for the blueprints?” 

            Though she’d known to expect him, Laura nearly jumped out of her skin when a big, burly man appeared in the door of her office.

            “No need for alarm, ma’am,” he said, shielding his eyes from glare of her flashlight. “I’m Officer Dunn, I’ve been assigned to assist you.”

            She lowered the beam and saw that he had a round, good-natured face and an all-around more generous-than-usual allotment of flesh. He made her think of a big teddy bear.

            “Thank God!” she said, turning the light off. “I’ve been stuck dealing with this obnoxious 911 dispatcher…”

            “Ma’am,” came the voice from the receiver, which lay on the desktop. “I’m actually still on the line.”

            “Oh, well,” she said, snatching it up. “You are obnoxious, and I don’t mind telling you so!”

            She slammed the phone down on its cradle.

            “Is, uh, there anything I can get you?” asked Officer Dunn, sounding somewhat wary of his new assignment.

            “Coffee,” she said. “Black. Very black. And maybe a back up supply of D-batteries? I keep expecting these to give out just when he’s trying to tell us where the bomb is hidden.”

            “They…they have a bomb!?”

            “No! I was just joking…well, I don’t actually know, but…”

            She sighed and rubbed her sore eyes.

            “Just get me some coffee, please.”

           

            George leaned his head against the glass, watching the sea of blue and white lights below him and feeling, for the first time that night, a very small amount of relief. From this distance he couldn’t really tell what they were doing, but the sight of them gave him hope that, perhaps, things might work out after all. In any case, he had done his part, and now, hopefully, the police would handle the rest. All he had to do was to hunker down and wait for the whole thing to be settled.

            At least, he hoped that was all he’d have to do.

            George watched the activity below for a while, trying to figure out what they were doing. Of course, it was probably best if he couldn’t figure it out, because if he could, Strasser sure would be able to, and that would be bad. 

            His friend across the street flashed a sign: “You okay?”

            “Enjoying the show,” he answered.

            “Hold tight,” the other said. “Working on it. Can you do something?”

            “What?”

            “Try to find out how many.”

            He had to think about that. His position was already insanely dangerous, and deliberately trying to seek out the bad guys was very likely to get him captured, at best. On the other hand, George was the kind of man who hated to see other people working while he wasn’t, and the thought of refusing to help the police any further was unacceptable. Besides, his folks had always taught him to finish any job he started, and fighting the Tanzanians was the job he’d ended up with tonight, so he ought to think of whatever the cops asked him to do to that end as his duty.

            “OK,” he said.

            “Wait,” came the answer. “Something is happening. People are coming onto the patio.”

            That was strange. Why would anyone be going out there on a night like this, in a situation like this? George decided he needed to see for himself.

            “I am going to see. Hold on.”

            Pocketing the flashlight and taking a firm grip on his rifle, George went back into the hall and headed for the other side of the building, keeping a sharp eye out for any sign of company.

            Strasser stood at the edge of the Sky Patio, gazing down into the sea of flashing lights far below. The night was filled with a light mist, and the red and blue and white flashes cast ghostly glows upon the air. 

The timing was inconvenient, but the development itself was not unexpected. He would have much preferred to have had at least an hour of uninterrupted time to attack the vault, but he could work with this. After all, with over fifty hostages the police couldn’t simply assault them openly. He could string them along for a few hours; he’d done it plenty of times before.

            No, the police didn’t bother him. What bothered him was the question of who contacted them. Since none of the hostages could possibly have done so, nor the security force, which had been carefully accounted for…so what did that leave? Perhaps party crashers?

It was a loose end, and Strasser hated loose ends.

So far, the police had not attempted to storm the building. Undoubtedly whoever had called them had also alerted them about the hostages. That was the nice thing about having so many, Strasser reflected; it forced the police to be more cautious than they might otherwise be. He could afford to execute someone for the least infraction, and the police, of course, would look bad if even one hostage died.

            It was this, more than anything, that allowed Strasser to be so sanguine about the unexpected arrival of what appeared to be half the San Ignatio Police Department within a half-hour of the building’s seizure. He may have anticipated more time to work before they showed up, but the advantage was still his.

            Now it was time to demonstrate that.

            “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said to the assembled crowd of nervous partygoers as he returned to the ballroom. “As you can see, the police are aware of your situation and have assembled outside. Do not make the mistake of believing that this alters the situation in any way. We have planned for this eventuality, and any attempts on their part to enact a rescue will be most unfortunate for you.”

            His gaze lingered on Osborne and Aurelia, as if silently promising that they would be at the top of the list. Strasser did intend to kill Osborne, at least, before the night was over. He’d been wanting to do that for months. The endless negotiations with that spoiled, self-righteous child had been as tedious and irritating as anything the he had ever done, including the fourteen months he’d spent in a South Vietnamese prison. At least there he hadn’t had to feign interest.

            “So that there is no confusion on this point,” he went on. “You will all proceed outside onto the Sky Patio and line up along the edge so that the police understand what they are dealing with.”

            A murmur of alarm and irritation rippled through the crowd at that. 

            “It’s raining,” Mr. Fletcher pointed out.

            “Then you must decide which is more dangerous, Mr. Fletcher,” said  Strasser. “The chance of catching pneumonia, or the certainty of catching a bullet.”

            That silenced the protests, but the crowd didn’t stir. They just looked at each other, as though wondering whether they ought to move now or wait for further instructions.

            Strasser sighed.

            “I see we are having difficulty with our basic listening skills,” he said. And he drew his gun and put a bullet into the ceiling. “All of you!” he barked over the renewed screams. “Up! Now!”

            The crowd stumbled to their feet, keeping their hands up and their postures low. They were pathetic; cringing weaklings who were so used to solving problems with money and bureaucracy that they were simply undone by the slightest show of force. It gave Strasser a most satisfying feeling to make these people bend to his will; almost like playing with toys as a child, setting them up just right so that they were exactly as you had pictured them. Except his toys hadn’t whined the whole time.

            The only ones who weren’t cringing were Osborne and Aurelia. He apparently had gotten his insolence back and stood straight, glaring into Strasser’s eyes. But Strasser found his eyes were drawn to the defiance of the girl who stood next to him. There was steel in this one; she met his gaze with absolute contempt, as if she’d like nothing better than to break his neck.

            He smiled. It was a very good act.

            “Go on,” he ordered the crowd. Several of the Tanzanians began shouting orders and herding the crowd out onto the balcony. Strasser, however, beckoned Aurelia to him. She turned her back on him, but at a nod from Strasser one of the Tanzanians grabbed her and pulled her over to him.

            “Leave her alone, you…” Osborne started, but the Tanzanian hit him in the mouth with his rifle butt, knocking him to the floor.

            Martha Aurelia stood before Strasser, glaring at him.

            “What do you want?” she snapped.

            “Miss Aurelia, isn’t it?” he said. “I think it is time for us to become better acquainted.”

            “I have nothing to say to you.”

            He smiled.

            “We’ll see about that,” he laid a hand on her shoulder. “I like to keep at least one of my hostages near by, you see, just in case. Perhaps we can find something to talk about during the course of the evening.”

            After he had been knocked to the floor by a rifle butt, Ben had been hoisted roughly back to his feet and pushed along near the back of the line that was forming as over fifty people were filed through two doors out into the cold, wet night. It was always windy this high up, and that just made the party guests that much more miserable as they were forced out without coats or umbrellas. The women had it worst, since most of them were in evening dress with bare arms or shoulders. Several of the more chivalrous men risked their captors’ wrath by taking off their coats to give to the ladies, which shamed the less chivalrous into imitating them. Ben found himself rather grateful that he was in the middle of a group of men, mostly his fellow board members, then he rebuked himself for the thought.

            They all began lining up along the edge of the patio, squinting in the spotlights that swept over them and looking terrified. The line filled in steadily as more and more hostages streamed out, taking their place along the edge of the famous balcony. Five armed Tanzanians took positions behind the line, just to make sure no one did anything the German didn’t want them to do.

            It was as Ben was taking his place just about at the point where the patio began to curve sharply inward again to rejoin the main structure that it happened.

            There was a sharp, sudden crack, like a gunshot. For a split second, Ben thought the terrorists had executed one of the hostages. Then there was another, a longer, lower sound this time, and even as Ben was looking about, trying to figure out what the sound was, when thought he felt the floor lurch suddenly under his feet.

            Then he realized what was happening.

            “SHIT!”

            He didn’t stop to think or to talk or to even shout a warning. He just bolted.

            But it didn’t matter; everyone else understood what was happening a split second after he did, and as one the whole panicked crowd began to stampede to the entrances.

            Meanwhile, the Sky Patio began to tilt forward like the deck of sinking ship as its supports failed one by one.

            The terrorists who had been out on the patio keeping an eye on the hostages were now fighting and struggling with the crowd to get back inside. One of them opened fire in a desperate attempt to clear the way. Several hostages fell, and even more tripped over the bodies.

            Ben was scrambling for the entrance. The balcony was growing steeper by the second, but he was only ten feet away. He slipped, nearly fell, and caught himself by grabbing the nearest object, which turned out to be a man’s sleeve. With this he managed to right himself, but in the process he threw the other off balance. Ben was too panicked to notice and drew on all his strength and adrenaline for the final push. A figure appeared out of nowhere in front of him, and he knocked it aside, not even noticing if it was a man or woman.

            The patio lurched violently once more and seemed to fall away from his feet as he sprang over the threshold. But even as his feet touched the carpet, he felt that coming away as well. The patio was taking a great chunk out of the building’s façade along with it. Ben scrambled, stumbled on the pitching floor, then felt his feet come out from under him as he screamed…

            But then a strong, firm hand caught his and he was pulled effortlessly up and onto the still-solid floor of the ballroom.

            Ben looked up, hyperventilating, near faint with relief. His rescuer had been Strasser, who immediately made a snatch for another hostage, caught her by the arm, and yanked her back to safety.

            It was only then that Ben heard the screaming.

            The assembled police, fire, and rescue workers had watched the display of hostages with grim solemnity. Captain Webb, for his part, had already been devising a plan for their rescue, aided by Calvan’s description of the interior. The tycoon was proving himself surprisingly helpful in this crisis.

            As he watched the scene through his binoculars, Webb caught movement at the bottom of his vision. Instinctively adjusting his view, he was just in time to see a large chunk of stone fall from beneath the patio. Then another. And another.

            “Mother of God…”

            Training his glasses back on the hostages, he saw them realize what was happening. The sound of dozens of people screaming in sudden panic washed over the crowd, but they could only watch helplessly as the hostages tried to flee the collapsing balcony.

            “Everybody get back!” Webb screamed. “Get back! Take cover!”

            With startling suddenness, the balcony began to tilt violently. Torrents of dust and masonry fell as though huge faucets had opened in the side of the building. People tripped, slid, and went tumbling over the edge to land on the concrete roof twenty stories below. Still, most of them had managed to cling on, and a few had even reached the building. Perhaps…

            Then, all at once, with a thunderous noise that could be heard even by the watching crowd forty floors below, the famous sky patio, carrying its throng of screaming humanity, tore away from the front of the building and fell forty floors straight down. It smashed through the lower patio without even slowing, doubling the number of tons of stone, brick, and metal that were hurtling toward the ground.

            It struck the ground with an enormous explosion of dust and rock. The entire façade of the first few floors was blasted inward, demolishing most of the lobby in an instant. A blast of dust and debris, coupled with a roar like artillery fire washed over the police, the crowd, and finally the whole city. 

            And then, for maybe thirty whole seconds, there was the deepest, heaviest silence anyone present had ever known.     

Next Week:

Chapter Ten; Picking Up the Pieces