Page 39 of Circle of Death
“I’ll guide you,” says Burbank.
On another screen, Burbank sees Margo stand and slip out of the back of the gallery. “I’ll take three,” she whispers. On the main monitor, Diaz is still speaking. Burbank turns the volume down. The president’s smooth baritone is now just a low background in the tiny comms room. The threats are what matter now. Finding them. Eliminating them. Keeping the president alive.
The first heat signature is in the ductwork directly over the rostrum—seventy-five feet above Diaz. The thermal image appears as a reddish-orange blob. Organic and alive, for sure. But no clear definition. The second thermal image is on the third level, moving quickly along a restricted corridor. From the size and density, definitely human.
“Target one is in the ceiling vents,” says Burbank.
“How high up?” asks Jericho.
“As high as you can go.”
Margo is now in the foyer just outside the General Assembly, where scattered aides and visitors are watching the president’s speech on huge wall-mounted monitors.
“Where am I headed?” she asks, chin dipped toward the mic in her collar.
“Secure corridor. One level up,” says Burbank. “You’ll need access.”
Burbank watches as Margo walks purposefully toward the staircase at the far end of the foyer. She brushes past a security guard. For a second, his stout body is obscured by Margo’s flowing garment. When he emerges into the clear again, his key card is missing from his belt.
“Got it,” says Margo.
Burbank swivels back to Jericho’s screen. But Jericho’s gone. Out of sight. Out of range. Burbank slaps the console, hoping to jostle the connection back to life. But it’s no use. Contact lost.Dammit!
Jericho is on his own.
CHAPTER 48
THE FOURTH-LEVEL CORRIDOR is nearly empty. Jericho waits for a few workers to disappear around a corner. Then he scrambles up a metal ladder mounted to an inside wall. He pushes open a ceiling hatch and muscles his way into a transverse aluminum ventilation duct. He clicks on a small flashlight and grips it between his teeth.
“Which way?” he mumbles to Burbank.
No reply.
Jericho can hear the voice of the president of the Americas booming through the sides of the metalwork. There must be a speaker column mounted near the ceiling.
He starts crawling through the narrow duct. He doesn’t even know what he’s looking for. He squeezes his broad shoulders toward his ears and inches forward, knees against the cold metal, fighting his growing claustrophobia. He feels like a mouse passing through the gullet of a snake.
Suddenly, a rivet pops underneath him. A narrow seam opens between two sections of the duct. As Jericho squirms past the break, he gets a glimpse of the audience four stories below him. Then he hears another sound. This one is coming from around a bend in the duct ahead. A shuffling, scurrying sound.
Something or someone in a hurry.
Margo presses the key card against the entry plate. The lock releases with a loud click. She pushes the door open. The corridor is empty. The walls are stainless steel and the floor is grooved rubber. The door closes behind her. No sound from the Assembly Hall below. All she can hear is the low hum of heavy machinery. Margo hugs the wall and moves down the corridor.
“Which way?” she asks Burbank. No answer.
Jericho contorts his body to squeeze around the bend. The duct narrows again.
No way he can get through. Not with his bulk. He starts to move in reverse. His chest pounds as he imagines being stuck in here forever. Then he stops and looks ahead once more. He squints. His narrow flashlight beam illuminates an obstruction in the middle of the next section. Like a stack of clay bricks.
C4 explosive!
“Bomb!” shouts Jericho. His voice reverberates in the duct. But nobody else can hear. He forces his body forward again and feels the sides of the duct compressing his shoulders and chest. Sweat drips from his forehead and runs down his nose. He grits his teeth and frees one arm. He stretches it forward, straining his muscles until he feels like they might rip.
Margo catches a flash of clothing a few yards ahead. A black burka. She looks around the hallway for a weapon she can use. Something heavy or sharp. But the walls are seamless.
She runs to the end of the hallway. Sees a door ajar. Jerks it open and steps into a dimly lit utility space—a corridor behind the corridor, lined with cables and junction boxes. The figure in the burka is moving around a corner at the far end. Margo follows, inching sideways, her back pressed against the wall. She projects her thoughts, trying to control the intruder’s mind and get him to stop. But in return she gets only a dim, primal current. More animal than human. Totally nonresponsive.
Jericho’s fingers scratch at the base of the explosives, attached to a small electronic packet. His flashlight wobbles in his mouth, slippery with saliva. He looks for a timer, but sees only a receiver. The bomb is wired for remote detonation. He spreads his legs as much as possible to distribute his weight. His thumb and forefinger are an inch from the mechanism. He makes one final painful lurch and plucks two wires from the receiver. He holds his breath, praying that he didn’t trip a backup circuit. Nothing happens. He wipes his brow and rests his head on his arm. The silence is golden.
