window, shooting down and in. Light was bad. Wind was in his face.
He’d have been damned lucky if he’d hit us.”
“We can’t stay here as we planned,” she said. “Of course not. He knows
which floor we’re on. He’s probably running for the elevator right
now.”
“We go back out?”
“I sure don’t want to.
“He’ll keep popping up along the way, trying to shoot us off the side of
the building.”
“Do we have a choice?”
“None,” she said. “Ready to climb?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
“You’ve done well.”
“I’m not all the way down yet.”
“You’ll make it.”
“Are you the clairvoyant now?”
“You’ll make it. Because you aren’t afraid anymore.”
“Who? Me?”
“You.”
“I’m scared to death.”
“Not like you once were. Not that bad. Anyway, there’s good reason to
be afraid right now. It’s a healthy fear you’ve got this time.”
“Oh, yeah. I’m brimming with healthy fear.”
“I was right.”
“About what?”
“You’re the man I’ve always wanted.”
“Then you haven’t wanted much.”
In spite of what he said, she detected pleasure in his voice. He didn’t
sound as if he were seriously denigrating himself; at worst, he was
poking fun at the sort of inferiority complex he’d displayed before
tonight. Already, he had regained some of his self-respect.
He pulled open the second half of the window and said, “You wait here.
I’ll set another piton, tie up a new line.” He took off his gloves.
“Hold these for me.”
“Your hands will freeze.”
“Not in just a minute or two. I can work faster with bare hands.
Cautiously he put his head out of the window, looked up.
“Is he still there?” she asked.
“No.”
He crawled onto the six-foot-wide ledge, stretched out on his stomach.
His feet were toward her, his head and shoulders over the brink.
She took a few steps away from the window. Stood very still.
Listened for Bollinger.
In the Harris Publications suite, Bollinger paused to reload the Walther
PPK before going to the elevator.
Graham hammered the piton into the tight horizontal mortar line between
two granite blocks. He tested it, found it to be secure, and snapped a
carabiner to it.
Sitting up, he took the hundred-foot length of rope from his right hip
and quickly arranged it in a coil that would unravel without a hitch.
The wind had sufficient force to disturb the coil; he would have to
watch it all the while he was belaying Connie. If it got fouled on
itself, they would both be in trouble. He tied a knot in one end of the
line, a knot with two small loops rising above it.
Lying down again, he reached over the brink and hooked the loops of rope
through the carabiner. He shut the gate on the snap link and screwed
the sleeve in place.
He sat up, his back to the wind. He felt as if strong hands were trying
to shove him off the ledge.
Already, his fingers were numb with cold.
The two safety lines they had used during their descent from the
fortieth floor were dangling beside him. He took hold of one.
overhead, the line had been fixed to the carabiner in such a fashion
that it could be tugged loose and retrieved from below. As long as
there was heavy tension on the line, the knot remained tight and safe;
in fact, the more tension there was-and the greater the climber’s
weight, the greater the tension-the firmer the knot.
However, when the climber left the rope, releasing the tension, and when
the rope was tugged in the proper manner, the knot would slip open. He
jerked on the line, then again, and a third time. Finally it freed
itself from the snap link and tumbled down into his lap.
He took a folding knife from a pocket of his parka, opened it. He cut
two five-foot pieces from the elevenyard safety line, then put the knife
away.
He stood up, tottering slightly as pain shimmered through his bad leg.
One of the five-foot lines was for him. He tied an end of it to his
harness. He tied the other end to a carabiner and snapped the carabiner