Authors: Chris Jordan
“How old are these tunnels?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Twenty years or so. Something like that.”
“So the last time this perfectly safe elevator was inspected was twenty years ago?”
“It’s the only way up,” he says. “I’m afraid there’s no alternative. If you like, we’ll send you up in the car alone. Mr. Shane and I will follow.”
“No way!”
There’s barely room for the three of us in the car, which sways a little as it slowly ascends, bumping the shaft walls. Shane notices my complexion going green and says, “So you’re not fond of elevators.”
“Not little swingy ones, no.”
He takes my hand. “Try closing your eyes.”
That makes it worse. My hand is sweaty, his hand is cool and strong.
“We’re going to be fine,” he says, his voice calm and reassuring. “We’ll make a call to my friend Maggie and she’ll make sure that help is on the way. You’ll be safe in Mr. Weems’s Bunker, won’t she, Mr. Weems?”
“Most certainly,” Weems says. “I’ve taken every precaution. Vash can’t touch us.”
“And where will you be, while I’m being all safe and cozy?”
“I’ll be having a look around the Pinnacle.”
“Searching for Noah.”
“That’s right.”
“I’m coming with you.”
He shakes his head, dismissing the idea. “I’ll bring him to you. That’s a promise.”
“He doesn’t know you. He’ll be scared.”
“We’ll discuss this after we make the call,” Shane says, sounding stubborn.
“There’s nothing to discuss.”
He grunts. We come to the top and the little elevator bumps to a stop, rises an inch, and settles at the correct level. Back in the relative stability of the tunnel, my knees stop trembling and the relief makes me almost giddy.
“Wait here,” says Weems. “I have to disable Vash’s cameras.”
He climbs up a set of rungs protruding from another, much smaller vertical shaft—remarkably agile for a man of his age—and a moment later he’s gone, having sealed the hatch at the top of the shaft.
“I’ll be moving fast,” Shane says, continuing the conversation while we wait for our strange little guide to return. “There’s no telling what I’ll run into.”
“La-la-la-la-la.”
“What?”
“Means I’m not listening.”
“Bulldog,” he mutters.
Above us the hatch opens, and Weems calls down for us to come on up.
3. Slam, Bam, No Thank You, Ma’am
To be truthful, I don’t really recall much of that History Channel show about Hitler’s bunker. Jed was the one with an interest in World War II, not me. But I do remember the Spartan interior and, of course, the total lack of windows. My sense is that Hitler and his cronies were living in a concrete hole in the ground, with air supplied by a venti
lation tower that looked like a witch’s hat. In the end it was cyanide and pistols, and the bombproof bunker became a gruesome tomb, with death coming not from above, but from the people themselves.
Weems’s bunker isn’t quite that desperate, but he does have the Spartan part down. Actually it’s more like a monastery without windows. Small, sparsely furnished rooms that could be cells. Bare concrete floors with a few thin rugs here and there. The only thing decorating the thick, concrete walls are framed photographs of his hero and mentor, Arthur Conklin. Seeing the famous author in a series of candid pictures—speaking at a podium, working on a manuscript, blowing out the candles on a birthday cake—is for me a very unsettling experience. This is Jed’s father. His dad. The physical resemblance is slight, but it’s there. And it says something that all of the pictures are cropped to leave out whoever else might have been present. As if Arthur Conklin lived in a universe occupied only by himself.
While I look at the photographs—they’re deeply creepy if you know what was left out, namely his wife and son—Shane and Weems discuss the surveillance problem.
“Vash had a crew install new smoke detectors about six months ago, when Eva first made her move. I knew at once they were hidden cameras and began to behave accordingly. Fortunately they neglected to put a camera in the bathroom, so they never spotted the tunnel entrance. I use it sparingly, of course. For the most part it didn’t matter if they monitored my movements—I’m a creature of habit, very predictable. And up until a week or so ago I came and went freely and still had regular access to the Pinnacle.”
“What’s regular access?” Shane wants to know.
“The Pinnacle is built into the steepest part of the mountain about a quarter mile from here,” Weems explains, sounding almost professorial. “An aerial tram covers the last five hundred feet of vertical distance. It’s reliable and efficient, based on a design they used in Portland, Oregon. An identical tram connects the Bunker to the same lower terminus—the original tram, from before the Pinnacle was built. Both cars can carry up to twelve tons of freight and passengers.”
“So you can leave anytime you like.”
Weems gives a wry smile. “Alas, no. Both trams are controlled from the Pinnacle. My tram only works if they say it does, and at the moment they prefer to keep me in the Bunker, ostensibly under their control.”
“Okay, the trams are regular access. What else?”
“There’s a helo pad on the upper level of the Pinnacle. Rarely used because of the wind shear, which makes landing difficult even on a calm day. I assume Vash has it booby-trapped, because that’s the obvious landing place for an assault by helicopter. The access door to the helo pad is blastproof, even if you did manage to land a copter.”
“You mentioned a satellite phone,” says Shane, who seems eager to get on with it.
“Yes, of course. But first let me show you the layout of the Pinnacle itself. You may find it useful.”
Weems rolls open a blueprint and the two men lean over it, tracing the outline of the complex. I have to butt in to get a look—why is it that men always suppose a woman can’t read an architectural drawing? Okay, I’m not good with schematics, but with the help of the Home Depot clinics, and many hours studying HGTV, I’ve de
veloped an excellent sense of space and scale. And I must say the Pinnacle looks really cool, designwise. The exterior drawing reveals a soaring structure with a subtly curved concrete roof extending well beyond the supporting walls, like the brim of a stylish hat. Protection from snow, I assume. Large glass walls slant inward at about twenty degrees. The whole place has the look of a modern airport terminal in some trendy city like Paris, or that famous opera house in Sydney.
The look of it aside, Weems points out that the design was about more than being stylish. “Arthur always had security in mind, even in his more open periods. The way the roof juts out and the walls slant back? He insisted on that because it makes an assault from the air extremely difficult—it’s rappelproof for one thing. Plus there are blast shutters that can be deployed instantly. As I mentioned, the tram is controlled from the top, and if that fails, the cable can be manually detached at the upper terminus, cutting off all access. The only other way in is through the tunnel shaft, indicated here,” he says, tapping the drawing with a thickened fingernail. “But as I say, we can expect Vash and his men to figure that out sooner rather than later. My concern is that when she becomes aware that an attack is under way, Eva will drop the blast shutters, detach the tram cable, and seal the building. You’ll have a siege situation.”
“That would be the nightmare scenario,” Shane agrees. “We can’t let that happen.”
“Seen enough?”
“I think, so, yeah.”
Weems rolls the prints up and produces an Iridium phone that could be a clone of the one that belongs to the Barlows.
Part of a matched set, apparently—not that it did the Barlows much good. “You’ll have to stand close to an exterior wall,” he suggests, handing the sleek little phone to Shane.
Shane, looking just a teensy bit nervous, punches in the number. He strains to listen and then his face lights up. “Maggie! I’m inside. Yes. I’ve secured Mrs. Corbin, who was being detained against her will. She has seen video images of her son, who is being held in the other building. The Pinnacle. Just like you said. Weems?” Shane glances over, makes eye contact with the strange little man. “Mr. Weems is cooperating. Matter of fact, he’s the one who broke me out of jail and gave me the means to contact you. No, I’m not kidding, I’ll tell you all about it later. Hold on, I’ve got an idea.”
Shane has Weems unroll the blueprints, snaps pictures of the Pinnacle design, then takes a photo of me standing next to Weems, who does everything but tuck his head into his torso like a turtle, and sends all of the images to the FBI over the satellite phone.
Looking very pleased with himself, Shane says, “Okay, that should be more than enough for a warrant. Maggie? See if the HRT will respond to the obvious challenge. If not, go for the local, but get ’em here quick, whatever you do. Time is of the essence. We think they may be making a move against the boy. Gotta go!”
He snaps the phone shut.
“What’s the HRT?” I ask.
“Hostage Rescue Team. They’re the best. But if they’re not available, the field office tactical team in Denver can do the job.”
“So it’s happening? For real?”
“Help is on the way.”
Now that it’s actually happening, now that the rest of the world is ready to believe me, working to rescue my son, I’m not sure how to react. Part of me is wild with anticipation, part of me sick with fear. What if we’re too late? What if they hurt Noah? What if any one of a million things goes wrong and somehow it’s my fault?
Shane doesn’t seem to notice, as if he’s already concentrating on the task at hand.
“Mind if I keep this?” he asks Weems, dropping the phone into a pocket before our host has a chance to reply.
Obviously the big guy is about to make his move. I’m ready for an argument about why I should stay behind. Too dangerous, I’ll get in the way, and so on. Let him try—I’m not taking no for an answer. I can’t be this close to my son and not take the extra step.
What I don’t expect is that without so much as a quick goodbye, Randall Shane will take three quick strides to the bathroom door and lock himself inside.
Slam, bam, no thank you, ma’am.
By the time I persuade Weems to unlock the door—okay, I threaten his miserable life—Shane has already slipped down into the shaft and sealed the clever little hatch behind him.
4. Freaking Never
Evangeline has a new plan. This will be a short-term plan, as opposed to her long-term plan. Long-term, she becomes the voice of the Rulers, in complete control of the organization. That’s a given, despite the nagging impedi
ments that stand in her way. Short-term, she finds a way to turn the current crisis to her advantage. She must take control, bend others to her will—that, after all, is the most basic rule of one. Manage this crisis successfully, it will also help achieve her long-term goal.
Planning and execution. Which, in this case, are inextricably linked.
“Vash?”
Lover boy is busy at his desk, scrolling through the video archives, looking for evidence of how Wendall Weems is managing to move around the community undetected. He looks up from the screens, his handsome face bathed in the light from below. “Yes?”
“Irene has her instructions. She’ll take care of the boy.”
He shrugs, absently stroking the wings of his mustache with his left thumb. “Good.”
“Any sign of Mr. Nobody and the miracle mom?”
“Not yet. They’ll show.”
“No doubt,” she says with a tiny, cutting smile. “Probably when we least expect it.”
“Could happen, yes.”
He waits, knowing there’s more.
“I’ve been thinking, Vash.”
“Ah,” he says, his expression unreadable.
Evangeline plants her hip on the edge of his desk. She’s excited by her new idea. Even in the middle of a long winter night it makes her feel wide-awake, zoomed with the perfection of her plan.
“When Arthur passes, we enter a new age,” she begins. “Everything will change, and yet we must have continuity. The organization cannot be allowed to splinter. We must
continue to speak with one voice. Even more important, we must shape the truth.”
“Shape truth?”
Evangeline sees that she finally has his attention. Bagrat Kavashi is familiar with the notion of a malleable truth.
“Let’s assume that we can expect a visit from the Feds, sometime very soon. Within the next day or so. Do we agree that’s likely, whether or not this man Shane pays us a visit here personally?”
“Very likely. Hundred percent.”
“Okay, given that we’ll be taking a hit, exposing ourselves to the outside world, the questions is, what do they find?”
“Not boy,” he says firmly.
“Not alive, no. He’s a smart little thing, who knows what he might tell them? But what if the Feds find something that leads them to the boy, and away from us? What if they find Wendy and his followers?”
Kavashi perks up, interested. “Blame the boy on Weems?” He nods, liking the idea. “The mother, too.”
“Why not? I’ve been thinking that Wendall might be a morbid individual, drawn to death. It happens in some organizations. Remember the folks from Heaven’s Gate. No? They believed they would rendezvous with an alien spacecraft after death, and be taken to a better place. An express ride to heaven, more or less. Mostly less, as it turned out. But their example might be useful.”