again.”
He had gotten all he was going to get, the one little scrap about the
file. But, not caring to stand idly by, having nothing else to do but
pressure her, he said, “There must be hundreds of research files on
scores of projects, so if he keeps just one of them here, it’s got to
involve the most important thing Geneplan’s currently working on.”
Squinting, and with her tongue poked out between her teeth, she brought
all of her attention to bear on the dial.
“Something big,” he said.
She said nothing.
He said, “Or it’s research they’re doing for the government, the
military. Something extremely sensitive.”
Rachael put in the final number, twisted the handle, opened the small
steel door, and said, “Oh, damn.”
The safe was empty.
“They got here before us,” she said.
“Who?” Ben demanded.
“They must’ve suspected that I knew.”
“Who suspected?”
“Otherwise, they wouldn’t have been so quick to get rid of the file,”
she said.
“Who?” Ben said.
“Surprise,” said a man behind them.
As Rachael gasped, Ben was already turning, seeking the intruder. The
flashlight beam caught a tall, bald man in a tan leisure suit and a
greenandwhite striped shirt. His head was so completely hairless that
he must have shaved it. He had a square face, wide mouth, proud nose,
Slavic cheekbones, and gray eyes the shade of dirty ice. He was
standing on the other side of the desk. He resembled the late Otto
Preminger, the film director. Sophisticated in spite of his leisure
suit. Obviously intelligent. Potentially dangerous. He had
confiscated the pistol that Rachael had put down with her purse when she
had come into the office.
Worse, the guy was holding a Smith & Wesson Model 19 Combat Magnum.
Ben was familiar withand deeply respectedthat revolver. Meticulously
constructed, it had a four-inch barrel, was chambered for the 357
Magnum cartridge, weighed a moderate thirty-five ounces, and was so
accurate and so powerful that it could even be used for deer hunting.
Loaded with hollow-point expanding cartridges or with armor-piercing
rounds, it was as deadly a handgun as any in the world, deadlier than
most.
In the beam of the Eveready, the intruder’s gray eyes glistened
strangely.
“Lights on, the bald man said, raising his voice slightly, and
immediately the room’s overhead lights blinked to life, evidently
engaged by a voice-activated switch, a trick that suited Eric Leben’ 5
preference for ultramodern design.
Rachael said, “Vincent, put the gun away.
“Not possible, I’m afraid,” the bald man said. Though his head was
quite naked, the back of his big hand had plenty of hair, almost like a
pelt, and it even bristled on his fingers between the knuckles.
“There’s no need for violence,” Rachael said.
Vincent’s smile was sour, imparting a cold viciousness to his broad
face. “Indeed? No need for violence? I suppose that’s why you brought
a pistol,” he said, holding up the thirty-two that he had snatched off
the desk.
Ben knew the S&W Combat Magnum had twice the recoil of a forty-five,
which was why it featured large hand-filling stocks. In spite of the
superb accuracy built into it, the weapon could be wildly inaccurate in
the hands of an inexperienced shooter unprepared for the hard kick it
delivered. If the bald man did not appreciate the tremendous power of
the gun, if he were inexperienced, he would almost certainly fire the
first couple of shots high into the wall, over their heads, which might
give Ben time to reach him and take him out.
“We didn’t really believe Eric would’ve been reckless enough to tell you
about Wildcard,” Vincent said. “But apparently he did, the poor damn
fool, or you wouldn’t be here, rummaging in his office safe. No matter
how badly he, treated you, Rachael, he still had a weakness for you.”
“He was too proud,” she said. “Always was. He liked to brag about his
accomplishments.”
“Ninety-five percent of Geneplan’s staff is in the dark about the
Wildcard Project,” Vincent said. “It’s that sensitive. Believe me, no
matter how much you may have hated him, he thought you were special, and
he wouldn’t have bragged about it to anyone else.”