Donald Westlake - The Hot Rock

Softly she said, "Did everything go all right?"

"I'm back," he said simply.

She kissed his chest and looked up at him wickedly. "You're in the CIA, aren't you?" she said.

"I'm not allowed to talk about it," he said.

"Mmmmmm," she said and began to bite him all over.

"I love patriotic women," Greenwood murmured.

Thursday, the nineteenth of October, was one of those changeable days. It started off with a drenching rain in the morning, then turned windy and cold, then the clouds blew away in the middle of the afternoon and the sun came out, and by five-thirty it was as warm as a summer afternoon. Albert Cromwell, safe deposit box guard at the 46th Street and Fifth Avenue branch of C amp;I National Bank, had worn raincoat and rubbers in the morning as well as carrying an umbrella, and went home carrying all three. He didn't know whether to be disgusted at the changeableness of the weather or pleased with the goodness it had finally arrived at, and decided to be both.

Home for Albert Cromwell was a twenty-seventh-story apartment in a thirty-five-story building on the Upper West Side, and he traveled there by subway and elevator. Today, as he entered the elevator on the final leg of his homeward journey, a tall and imposing man with piercing black eyes, a broad forehead, and thick hair jet black everywhere except for the gray at the temples boarded with him. Albert Cromwell hadn't noticed, but the same man had entered the elevator with him every evening this week, the only difference today being that this was the first time the two of them were alone.

They stood side by side, Albert Cromwell and the imposing man, both facing front. The doors slid shut and the elevator began to rise.

"Have you ever noticed those numbers?" the imposing man said. He had a deep and resonant voice.

Albert Cromwell looked at the other man in surprise. Strangers didn't talk to one another in the elevator. He said, "I beg your pardon?"

The imposing man nodded at the row of numbers over the door. "I mean those numbers there," he said. "Take a look at them," he suggested.

Puzzled, Albert Cromwell took a look at them. They were small glass numbers running from left to right in a long chrome strip over the door, starting with B at the left (for basement), then L for lobby, then 2, 3, and so on all the way up to 35. The numbers lit up one at a time to indicate which floor the elevator was at. Right now, for instance, the number 4 was on. As Albert Cromwell watched, that number switched off and number 5 switched on in its place.

"Notice how regular the movement is," the imposing man said in his resonant voice. "How pleasant it is to see something so smooth and regular, to count the numbers, to know that each number will follow the one before it. So smooth. So regular. So restful. Watch the numbers. Count along with them, if you wish, it's very restful after a long hard day. It's good to be able to rest, to be able to look at the numbers and count them and feel one's body relaxing, to know that one is relaxing, to know that one is safe in one's own building, safe and relaxed and calm, watching the numbers, counting the numbers, feeling every muscle relax, every nerve relax, knowing that one can now let go, one can lean back against the wall and relax, relax, relax. There's nothing but the numbers now, nothing but the numbers and my voice. Nothing but the numbers and my voice. The numbers and my voice."

The imposing man stopped talking and looked at Albert Cromwell, who was leaning back against the rear wall of the elevator, gazing in a bovine way at the numbers over the door. The number 12 switched off and the number 14 switched on. Albert Cromwell watched the numbers.

The imposing man said, "Can you hear my voice?"

"Yes," said Albert Cromwell.

"One day soon," the imposing man said, "a man will come to you at your place of employment. At the bank where you work. Do you understand me?"

"Yes," said Albert Cromwell.

"The man will say to you, 'Afghanistan banana stand.' Do you understand me?"

"Yes," said Albert Cromwell.

"What will the man say?"

"Afghanistan banana stand," said Albert Cromwell.

"Very good," said the imposing man. The number 17 lit briefly over the door. "You are still very relaxed," said the imposing man. "When the man says to you, 'Afghanistan banana stand,' you will do what he tells you to do. Do you understand me?"

"Yes," said Albert Cromwell.

"What will you do when the man says to you, 'Afghanistan banana stand'?"

"I will do what he tells me to do," said Albert Cromwell.

"Very good," said the imposing man. "That's very good, you're doing very well. When the man leaves you, you will forget that he was there. Do you understand?"

"Yes," said Albert Cromwell.

"What will you do when he leaves you?"

"I will forget he was there," said Albert Cromwell.

"Excellent," said the imposing man. The number 22 lit over the door. "You are doing fine," said the imposing man. He reached out and pushed the button for the twenty-sixth floor. "When I leave you," he said, "you will forget our conversation. When you reach your floor, you will feel rested and very, very good. You will forget our conversation, and you will feel rested and very, very good. You will not remember our conversation until the man says to you, 'Afghanistan banana stand.' Then you will do what he tells you, and after he leaves, you will again forget our conversation and you will also forget that he was ever there. Will you do all that?"

"Yes," said Albert Cromwell.

The number 26 lit over the door, and the elevator came to a stop. The door slid open. "You did very well," the imposing man said, stepping out to the corridor. "Very well," he said, and the door slid shut again, and the elevator went up one more story to the twenty-seventh floor, which was where Albert Cromwell lived. It stopped there, and the door opened, and Albert Cromwell shook himself and stepped out to the hall. He smiled. He felt very good, very relaxed and rested. He walked down the hall with a buoyant step, feeling great, and thinking it must be because of the unseasonably warm weather this afternoon. Whatever it was, he felt great.

Dortmunder walked into the bank, remembering what Miasmo the Great had told him last night when reporting success at last with Albert Cromwell. "If at all possible," he had said, "do your work tomorrow. If you miss tomorrow, you'll have the whole weekend to wait before you can try again. The suggestion should be firmly enough fixed to last until Monday, but naturally the sooner you trigger him the better. He could watch a television program Saturday night and somebody on it would say, 'Afghanistan banana stand,' and the whole thing would open up in his mind. So if you can do it tomorrow, do it tomorrow."

So here it was tomorrow. Tomorrow afternoon, in fact. Dortmunder had come here once already today, at nine-thirty this morning, but when he'd walked by the stairway and looked down, it was Albert on duty outside, which meant George would be inside, and George they didn't have primed, so he'd gone away again, coming back now in the hope that Albert and George shifted after lunch and didn't keep the same posts all day long.

Luck was in. Dortmunder got to the head of the stairs and looked down and there was George. Dortmunder didn't hesitate, he trotted down the stairs, said hello to George, signed in, and was let through the first door.

There was no one in the small in-between room, and for just a second Dortmunder felt the cold touch of apprehension in the middle of his back. He could see himself locked away in here by a gloating George, everything known, he being held here until the police could arrive. A fitting end to the Balabomo Emerald quest.