Stuart Woods - Heat

“Well, that’s all, gentlemen,” Coldwater said, rolling up the plans. “Let’s go back to the house for some brunch. He handed the rolled-up blueprints to Jesse. “Hang on to those for me.” Then he led the way from his underground redoubt.

Back in the truck, Jesse dropped the blueprints behind the seat as he got in.

“Shit!” Bottoms breathed. “You ever seen anything like that?”

“No, and neither has anybody else. When are you talking to Kip again?”

“Soon as I get out of St. Clair.”

“Tell him what you saw, will you? In the greatest possible detail?”

“You better believe it,” Bottoms said.

Jesse drove back down the mountain toward Coldwater’s house, feeling optimistic again. Maybe Bottoms’s testimony would put some spine into Barker and get him moving. And Jesse now had one more opportunity to convince Washington.

Jesse went back to the office and spent the morning with Herman Muller, going over the production schedule on the New York plywood order. At lunchtime the plant emptied, and Muller, as usual, went into town for a hot lunch.

Jesse got Coldwater’s blueprints from his truck and spread them out on his desk. He adjusted his gooseneck desk lamp for the best light and, one by one, photographed the pages with the Zippo camera. When he was done he went into Muller’s private bathroom, got his telephone from his lunchbox and called Kip.

“What’s up, buddy?” Kip asked

“Two things: first, Charley Bottoms showed up this morning and nearly caused me to clutch my chest and turn blue.”

“Sorry about that; if you’d called in I could have warned you.”

“Second, I’ve photographed a good chunk of Coldwater’s fortifications and all of the blueprints.”

“Holy shit! You really came through for me, Jesse!”

“You bet I did, buddy; now, how am I going to get the camera to you?”

“Got a pencil? I’ll give you an address, and you can Federal Express it. Here we go, send it to John Withers, Nashua Building Supply, 1010 Parkway, College Park, Maryland.” He added the zip code and phone number. “It’s a drop I’ve set up. Can you get the camera off today?”

Jesse glanced through his glass wall toward the reception desk and the out box. “Yes, they haven’t picked up yet today.”

“Great, I’ll look forward to your shots.”

“Charley is my backup on this, Kip. Now you have all the evidence you need, right?”

“If all goes well, we’ll be in there inside a week. I’ll need a few days to plan and assemble a force.”

“All right. The next time I talk to you, I want to hear that you’re on your way.”

“Over and out.”

Jesse broke the connection, then went to the reception desk, found a FedEx form and envelope and addressed it as instructed. He inserted the envelope into a pile of a dozen waiting for pickup, then took the plans back to his truck. He spent the rest of his lunch hour eating a sandwich and leafing through the blueprints, and what he saw confirmed his suspicions about the bookcase in Coldwater’s underground suite. When he got back to his desk, the phone was ringing.

“It’s Jack Gene,” a deep voice said. “What happened to that roll of blueprints I asked you to carry?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Pastor; they’re in my truck; I forgot all about them. I’ll run them by your house after work.”

“Run them by my house now,” Jack Gene said and hung up.

Jesse scribbled a note to Herman, then left the plant. He drove up to Coldwater’s house, noting that the visiting cars had left, and rang the bell. Yet another beautiful young woman, this one pregnant, showed him to Coldwater’s study. The room was empty.

“The pastor is on the phone in the kitchen,” she said to Jesse. “He’ll be with you in a few minutes.” She left, closing the door behind her.

Jesse glanced at the telephone on the coffee table; a single red light glowed; Coldwater was on line one. Quickly he set the blueprints aside and went to the bookcase. He was surprised that the hinged false front yielded to only a slight tug; not even locked. Behind it sat a large red safe, a reproduction of a nineteenth-century model. Jesse had seen it offered in mail order catalogs. He knelt and put an ear to the safe, first glancing at the phone to be sure the red light was still on, then he slowly twirled the combination knob, listening to the tumblers. The mechanics of this safe had not changed for a hundred years, and Jesse believed he could open it in a couple of minutes.

He had once had a short course in safecracking from a snitch of his in Miami, an old-time thief who had turned to drug running for easier and bigger money, and he could open, he reckoned, about half of the safes he’d ever met. His snitch would have thought this one to be a piece of cake. Jesse looked at the telephone, and the light was out.

Quickly, he closed the cabinet and leaned on it, and one second later, Coldwater entered the room.

“There you are, Jesse,” he said. “Take a seat; would you like some coffee?”

“Thank you, sir, yes,” Jesse replied. He handed over the blueprints. “I’m sorry I took these with me; I just forgot they were in the truck.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Coldwater said, lifting the telephone and pressing the intercom button, “I just don’t want them out of the house. Bring us coffee for two,” he said into the phone.

The two men settled into chairs before the fireplace, and Coldwater gazed sleepily at him. “What did you think of Charley Bottoms?” he asked.

“Big fellow,” Jesse replied. “I wouldn’t want him mad at me.”

“Quite right,” Coldwater said, smiling. “Did you think he was bright?”

“I didn’t have much of a chance to form an impression,” Jesse said. “Is he important to you?”

“He could be; any of those men here this morning could be, in the right circumstances. They and their followers have a lot of combat experience among them.”

“Are you anticipating combat?”

“I’ve learned to anticipate every eventuality,” Coldwater replied. “I’m always ready for anything.” The coffee arrived, and Coldwater poured for them.

“This is a beautiful house,” Jesse said, looking around. “Did you build it?”

“I did, and I designed it, too. Tell me, have you spotted the safe yet?”

“I beg your pardon?” Jesse said. His heart was beating faster now. Maybe Coldwater did have some sort of weird sixth sense.

“There’s a safe somewhere in this room. Can you find it?”

Jesse looked around. “Behind a picture?”

“Nothing as obvious as that. Come on, you’re a builder; where would you hide it?”

“May I look around?”

“Go right ahead.”

Jesse walked slowly around the room, pretending to search, and he saw something he hadn’t noticed before; there was another false bookcase that matched the one in Coldwater’s underground study. He kept moving, then stopped in front of the bookcase that hid the safe. He fingered a book spine, determined it to be fake, then ran his fingers along the shelf. It opened easily.

“Well done,” Coldwater said. “Do you know you’re the first person to find it in under a minute? Pat Casey, as good as he is, took nearly ten.”

“I guess Pat has never built a bookcase,” Jesse said, sitting down again and picking up his coffee.

“You know anything about finance, Jesse?” Coldwater asked out of the blue.

“Just that part of it that pertains to running a small business. I’ve never been in the stock market or had any investment more complicated than a CD.”

“Pity,” Coldwater said. He seemed suddenly discouraged. “I’ve begun to think that Kurt Ruger, as talented as he is, as long as he’s been with me, might no longer be the right man for his job.”