Christopher Smith - Fifth Avenue

Elizabeth was moving across the lobby to the bar. Vincent watched her. Like her daughter Celina, Elizabeth Redman was tall and slender, her blonde hair coming just to her shoulders, framing an oval face that suggested intelligence and a sense of humor. The diamonds at her neck, wrists and ears were competitive, but not aggressive. She knew the crowd she’d invited. She knew how to work them. It was obvious.

As she stepped past him, Spocatti turned and caught a glimpse of himself in the huge mirrored pillar to his right. Where the gun pressed against the breast pocket of his black dinner jacket, there was a slight bulge-but Spocatti paid little attention to it. He was a member of security and had been hired this evening to protect George Redman, his family and their guests from a possible intruder.

The irony almost made him laugh.

He took in his surroundings. Although security appeared tight, it was sadly loose. After today’s bombing, George Redman had hired twenty-five men to stand guard over tonight’s gala-and, as far as Spocatti was concerned, every one of them was an amateur, which was just fine with him.

Now, he should have no problem slipping into one of the elevators and getting the information Louis Ryan needed on the takeover of WestTex Incorporated.

Elizabeth Redman was moving again-this time in his direction. Although she seemed unaffected by it, Spocatti sensed by the confident way she held herself that she was very much aware of the power she wielded in this city.

She approached with a smile and an extended hand.

“I’m Elizabeth Redman,” she said. Her grip was firm.

“Antonio Benedetti.”

“I’ve always loved Italy,” she said.

Well, that's rich. “What can I do for you, Mrs. Redman?”

“Nothing much,” she said. “Just see to it that no bombs explode here this evening and I’ll be grateful. Can you handle that?”

“Of course.”

Elizabeth lifted her head. Her eyes hardened as she studied him. “Maybe,” she said. She motioned to the other members of security. “As for these other men, I’m not so sure.”

“Neither am I.”

“You don’t think they’re capable of protecting us?”

“To put it plainly, no.”

“They’re all experienced,” she said.

“Perhaps so, but who taught them? I’ve been watching them make mistakes for the past few hours. They aren’t professionals.”

“And you are?”

“I am.”

There was the deep sound of a bass guitar being plucked behind them. Elizabeth looked at Spocatti and said, “Mr. Benedetti, this morning three bombs exploded on top of this building. Several men were hurt, my daughter nearly killed. Tonight, I think we all know that anything could happen-and it possibly might. With such amateurs on our security staff, it looks as if you’re going to have your work cut out for you. I hope everything goes well.”

Amused, Spocatti watched her walk away.

George and Celina Redman arrived ten minutes before their guests.

They left the family elevator together and moved in two separate directions. Spocatti watched Celina. He thought she was stunning in her red-sequined dress. Her stride was long and determined-she moved with her mother’s confidence.

Elizabeth was standing at the canopied entrance, speaking to the four members of security stationed there. Celina placed a hand on her mother's back as she approached one of the guards, plucked the cigarette from the man’s hand, dropped it into a nearby ashtray and turned him so he faced the windows. She pointed at the street.

The woman was good. Not only had she saved a life earlier this morning, but she was keeping security focused so no harm came to anyone this evening.

When it came time to kill her, it would be a waste.

George Redman was in a world of his own. He was moving about the lobby, looking with pride at the tables, the flowers, the elaborate place settings. Spocatti knew from Louis Ryan that owning this building on Fifth Avenue was George Redman’s dream. He knew how hard the man had worked for it, how happy he was that it was finally his.

Spocatti glanced at his watch. Too bad it won't be yours for long.

Behind him, the band began playing “My Blue Heaven.” Spocatti looked across the lobby and saw through the windows the first guests alighting from their limousines.

The party was beginning. George and Elizabeth and Celina were at the entrance, waiting to greet, to hug, to be congratulated. It wasn’t until Spocatti slipped behind the waterfall and stole into one of the elevators that he realized the youngest daughter wasn’t here.

The outcast, he thought fleetingly, was missing.

The elevator doors whispered shut behind him.

Spocatti reached into his jacket pocket and removed the computer-coded card Ryan gave him earlier. He inserted it into the illumined slot on the shiny control panel, punched into the keypad the eight-digit combination he had set to memory, and waited.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then a computerized voice said, “Clearance granted, Mr. Collins. Please select a level.” So it was somebody named Collins who sold out to Ryan, Spocatti thought. He pressed the glowing button marked 76.

The elevator began its ascent.

Spocatti removed the card from the slot and withdrew his gun. As the car slowed to a stop, he stepped to one side. The doors slid open. Sensing, judging, he peered out, saw no one and relaxed.

Now for the fun part.

The corridor was long and well furnished. On the ivory walls were paintings by the old masters, the door at the end of the hall was crafted of mahogany, the wood floor gleamed as though it had just been waxed. On a delicate side table, a Tiffany lamp cast amber rainbows of light.

Spocatti leaned back inside the elevator. To any one else, this would have seemed nothing more than a richly appointed corridor. To him, it was an obstacle course.

He holstered his gun, removed a slender pair of infrared glasses from his jacket pocket and put them on. Instantly, everything took on an eerie red glow. He had seen no video cameras in the hallway, but that didn’t mean there weren’t any. The paintings could be decoys. He'd need to risk it.

He looked back into the corridor. Directly in front of the elevator was a thin beam of light that would have been invisible without the glasses. Moving carefully, he dipped beneath it, knowing that if he accidentally severed it, a sensor would detect the difference in temperature and he would not hear the silent alarm as it alerted the police.

He moved on, the web of beams becoming more difficult to elude as he neared the door that concealed Redman International’s vast cluster of computers. At one point, he had to crawl on his stomach. A moment later, he had to jump twice and roll. I could have already tripped the alarm and not even know it, he thought. The thrill he felt from not knowing charged him.

He reached the door. Spocatti knew it was reinforced with at least three inches of steel. Ryan told him there would be a small keypad at the base of the door that, upon entering a six-digit code, would not only open the door, but turn off all surveillance equipment as well.

He knelt, found the keypad-and saw that it was protected by a series of beams crisscrossing in front of it. He swore beneath his breath and looked again at his watch. Ten minutes had passed. I want to be out of here in thirty.

He studied the beams. Slanting in various angles from floor to ceiling, they formed a grid-like pattern that was so small in design, his fingers would almost certainly sever one of them if he tried reaching through the tiny, diamond-shaped gaps. He needed something long and thin to stick through the openings and tap out the code. Like a pencil, perhaps. Or a pen. But he had neither. Mind racing, he looked around the room, but there was nothing here he could use and it infuriated him. He had come so close.