John Weisman - Direct Action

1:53A.M. Tom stood, head tilted back, looking up toward the second floor, his gloved right hand resting on the shiny black-painted cast-iron drain-pipe. It was perhaps four inches in diameter-about the size of a healthy hickory sapling. But a lot smoother. The good news was that pipe joints protruded every four feet or so, and they’d give him something to catch on in case he lost his grip and started to slide. Tom exhaled, reached up, grabbed the first joint, wrapped his legs around the pipe, and pulled. By the time he was eight feet off the ground, he was sweating.

He remembered, in the way ironic memories sometimes intrude, that Sam Waterman had once told him, “Kiddo, pain is simply weakness leaving the body.” The thought brought a grim smile to his face. If what Sam said was true, Tom would be left completely without weakness by the end of his night’s work.

1:58. He was almost at the halfway point-which meant his nose was almost level with the first-floor windows. He looked down. It had taken him more than five minutes to climb less than eighteen feet.

2:02. Three-quarters of the way home. He’d developed a rhythm. He used his upper-body strength (what there was of it) to pull himself up a few precious inches. His legs were wrapped around the pipe, his feet jammed against the rough brick wall. He’d pull, and squeeze, pull and squeeze, and rise a few inches with each painful repetition.

2:06. Tom’s head came level with the sill of the target window. Exhausted, he reached up to the next pipe joint and, using the last of his strength, wrestled himself the final half foot into position. Rivulets of sweat running into his eyes, he hung there totally spent, his weight supported by the half an inch of pipe joint his sneakered insteps rested on. After about fifteen seconds, he rubbed his face against his sleeve, breathed deeply, and then set to work.

First, he slid his right hand around the drainpipe to keep himself from slipping. With his left hand he loosened the inch-and-a-half-wide web belt around his waist, pulled it out through the trouser loops, ran it behind the pipe, cinched the pressure buckle tight, and then took hold of the belt with his left hand and wrapped the strap three times around his hand and wrist. Now, by using the belt, he could swing himself back and forth, giving himself the reach he needed to see inside the window.

2:07. Using his right hand, Tom retrieved the camera from his fanny pack. He said a silent prayer to the gods of video transmission and activated the device. Holding it securely in his hand, he swung himself to his right, sidling up to the window.

It was shut tight. He brought himself back, feet clamped on the pipe joint and left hand holding firmly on to the webbing, while he considered his next moves.

He shoved the camera back into the fanny pack and-taking no chances-zipped the compartment shut. Then he swung back toward the window as far as he could. It took him two tries, but he finally was able to touch the cracked paint of the outer sash with his fingertips.

That wasn’t enough. He swung back to the drainpipe. Now he took his right foot off the pipe joint altogether, skidded his left instep around the lip of the joint, unwrapped the web belt to give himself another five inches of reach, then pushed off once more.

This time he swung low enough so that his right hand was actually able to grasp the wooden sill. Not daring to breathe, he held himself there, fully extended for some seconds, the unwilling hero of his own Harold Lloyd cinema verité feature film.

When he’d finally convinced himself he wasn’t going to fall, he gripped the sill and pulled his body as low as possible. Carefully, he brought his face close to the dirty glass.

2:09:21. The shade had been pulled down. Of course it had-he’d seen no light emanating from the window from the yard below. But now, with his nose just inches from the glass, he saw roughly an inch, maybe an inch and a half, of open space at the bottom of the window shade.

Using every bit of his strength, Tom unwrapped the belt one more wind and extended himself another two inches. Now he was at the very end of his tether, and his left toe on the pipe joint was all that kept him from falling. Still, he strained to peer inside. It was impossible.

He let go of the sill and swung back, heaving a huge sigh when he had both hands and both feet firmly on the drainpipe. He fiddled with the web belt until he had it wrapped exactly the way he’d need it. Tom extracted the camera from the fanny pack. Then he slipped his right foot off the pipe joint, leaned out, and swung back toward the window.

He eased his right hand past the sill, held the camera lens up to the glass, and moved the pencil-size instrument, oh so slowly, from left to right, hoping that Murphy’s Law would, this one time, not be in effect, and that the camera’s low-light-capable lens would capture whatever was in the room-and even perhaps, some images of what lay beyond.

2:13A.M. He’d counted to a hundred and eighty-roughly three minutes of video. If the gods were indeed smiling on him tonight, the camera’s transmissions were secure on the battery-powered recorder in the 4627 van. Well, he’d know everything there was to know in a few minutes.

Gently, Tom set the camera into the fanny pack and zipped the pouch closed. He pendulumed back to the drainpipe, where he hung for some seconds, the sweat pouring off his face and neck. His feet were so numb he couldn’t feel his toes.

He unwrapped the web belt from his hand, pulled it around the pipe, and buckled it around his waist. He tightened the Velcro tabs on the backs of his gloves so his wet hands wouldn’t slip on the painted cast iron.

He slipped his hands around the drainpipe as if it were a firehouse pole, eased his feet off the joint, and slid down until his running shoes caught on the next lowest protrusion. He stopped momentarily, then repeated the action, faster each time, dropping another four feet, then another, then another.

2:19. Tom peered over the wall at the end of the alley. The intersection was deserted. He jumped, pulled, scrambled, rolled over the top, dropped onto the pavement, and headed south toward the rendezvous point at a slow jog.

He’d just reached the foot of rue Ramey when Reuven’s voice exploded in his ear. “Change of plans.” It took Tom an instant to realize Reuven was speaking in Arabic.

Tom answered in kind. “Go.”

“I’m at your flat.”

“What?”

“MJ’s all right-nothing happened. No time to talk. Grab the truck. Meet us out front. I’ll explain.”

“Us? But-”

“Just move-move now .” Reuven’s belligerent attitude didn’t brook any opposition.

“On my way.”

2:48A.M. They were waiting in the vestibule. Reuven ushered MJ into the front seat of the truck, slammed the door shut, then went around to the side, opened the cargo bay, loaded her suitcase, and hoisted himself inside. “Office, Tom. Go to the office-now. I called Tony Wyman. He’ll meet us there.”

Tom wanted answers before they moved. He looked at the confused, frightened expression on his fiancée’s face and enveloped her in his arms. “It’s all right, sweetie. Everything’s going to be just fine.”

Then he turned toward the Israeli. “What the hell’s up?”

“That fellow on the street had your address on him,” Reuven machine-gunned in rapid French. “Since you told me this wonderful woman had shown up unexpectedly, I thought it prudent to get over here.”

“Why in God’s name didn’t you get hold of me?”

“Because you had a job to do, my friend-something I couldn’t do. And because I was on the case.” Reuven smacked his fist into his palm. “The sons of bitches are onto you. I don’t know how, but they are.”