Дэвид Балдаччи - The Collectors

“I have to say the regilding of the Torch of Learning’s flame at the apex of the dome with twenty-three-and-a-half-carat gold leaf was an inspired touch.”

“Well, I can’t take credit for that one, but it does look terrific against the roof’s copper patina.”

“But you can take credit for using modern technology and construction techniques to make the building even better,” she said.

“That we did. It’ll easily last another hundred years or more. And with a price tag of over eighty million, it should.”

“We won’t be allowed to take any pictures of the construction plans, will we?”

“I’m afraid not. Security issues and all that.”

“I completely understand, but I had to ask. Can we at least look at them? When we do write the story, I want to be able to give full flavor to all the incredible ingenuity that your firm brought to the project. And it might help you give us a better commentary if they’re in front of us. Our magazine will be distributed in eight countries. Not that your firm needs the exposure, but it couldn’t hurt.”

Keller smiled. “Well, it sounds like this article will be good for business. In fact, we’ve been looking to branch out overseas.”

“Then I think this is a match made in heaven,” Annabelle replied.

“Any particular phase you’d like to look at?”

“All of it, really, but perhaps a focus on the basement and the second floor, which I heard were challenges too.”

“It was all a challenge, Ms. Collins.”

“Please, call me Regina. And the reconfig of the HVAC?”

“That was a bear.”

“I can tell this is going to be a great article,” Annabelle cooed.

Keller picked up the phone, and minutes later they were looking over the architectural plans. Milton positioned himself such that he took in every inch of the drawings, mentally filing every detail away in far reaches of his brain that most human beings could not access in theirs. Keller went over various points while Annabelle quickly sized up the plans and directed his attention and comments to the basement fire suppression room, the HVAC and the Rare Books reading room vaults.

“Now, the fire suppression equipment is centrally housed and piped through the slab?” she asked, drawing a finger along this part of the plan.

“Exactly. We were able to centrally locate it because of the delivery system we had. But they’re in the process of changing the suppressant.”

“Halon 1301,” Milton volunteered, and Annabelle gave him a rewarding smile. “An ozone depletion monster. We have the same problem across the pond.”

“Precisely,” Keller agreed.

“And this HVAC duct runs right up to the vaults housed around the reading room,” she pointed out.

“Yes, that was a little tricky because of the limited space, but we piggybacked some of the principal ductwork right onto the shelving columns.”

“And still allow them to be load-bearing. That is very clever,” Annabelle complimented.

They went over the drawings for another half hour until Annabelle pronounced herself satisfied. “Leslie,” she said to Milton, “do you need to see anything else?”

He shook his head and, smiling, put his finger to his temple. “I’ve got it all up here.”

Annabelle laughed and Keller quickly joined in.

She took a photo of Keller and his partner, Mahoney, for the story, and promised to send them a copy of the magazine when it came out. Don’t hold your breath, guys.

As they were leaving, Keller said, “If you have any more questions, don’t hesitate to give us a call.”

“You’ve been more helpful than you could possibly imagine,” Annabelle replied truthfully.

As they climbed into Annabelle’s rented Ford, Milton said, “Thank God that’s over. My palms are so sweaty I could barely open the car door.”

“Milton, you did great. That halon comment was perfectly timed to put the mar — I mean, to put Keller at ease.”

“It actually did feel good. Even though I felt like throwing up a couple of times.”

“Forget about it; that comes with the territory. And you showed some style too with that ‘got it all up here’ comment.”

Milton beamed. “You liked that one? It just came out.”

“I can tell you’re a natural at this.”

He glanced at her. “You seem to do this stuff really well too.”

She put the car in gear. “Just beginner’s luck.”

While Annabelle and Milton were meeting with the architects, Stone had ventured into the neighborhood where Bob Bradley had lived. He’d dressed in a floppy hat, oversize coat and baggy pants, and he had on a leash Goff, Caleb’s mongrel dog, which had been named after the first director of the Rare Books Division. This was a dodge that he’d used before, and had actually originated in his old job with the government. People just could not bring themselves to be suspicious about someone walking a pet. Stone had no idea, of course, that Roger Seagraves had used the same ploy in making his escape after killing Bradley.

As he strolled down the street, he could see that all that was left of the town house was a blackened mass of toppled studs and a scorched brick chimney. The two attached homes on either side of Bradley’s residence had also been extensively damaged. Stone looked around the area. It was not a particularly affluent part of town. Being a congressman was not the financial windfall that some people thought it was. Members had to maintain two residences, one in their home state and one in the capital city, and the cost of housing in D.C. was extraordinarily high. Some congressmen, particularly newer ones, often shared homes in Washington or even slept in their offices for this reason. Yet the veteran Bradley had lived alone.

Milton managed to get Stone background information on the man, and Stone had also consulted the journals kept at his hiding place. Together they had presented an overall picture of Bradley. Born in Kansas, he had had a typical politician’s career, if there was such a thing, serving twelve terms in the House and rising through the ranks to head up the House Intelligence Committee for over a decade before assuming the position of Speaker. With his death at age fifty-nine, he left behind a wife and two grown children, all back in Kansas. From what Stone could learn the man had been honest and his career never threatened by scandal. His stated purpose of cleaning up the Congress could very well have made him many powerful enemies and led to his death. Some might conclude that assassinating a man who was third in line to succeed the president would be too audacious a move. However, Stone knew that was a pipe dream: If one could kill presidents, nobody was safe.

Officially, Bradley’s murder was still an ongoing investigation, although the media, after a flurry of stories about it, had been uncharacteristically mum. Perhaps the police were starting to suspect that the terrorist group didn’t really exist and Bradley’s death was due to something far more complex than the work of bigoted and violent lunatics.

He stopped next to a tree so Goff could take a leak. Stone could sense the presence of authority all around him. He’d been in the spy business long enough to know that the truck parked at the far end of the street was a recon vehicle, the two men inside assigned to ferret out any helpful details by watching the dead man’s home. One of the nearby townhomes had probably been commandeered by the FBI with an investigative team working there 24/7. Binoculars and cameras were no doubt trained on him right now. He pulled his hat down a bit lower, as though in response to the breeze.

As he was looking around, he caught sight of something, immediately turned around and walked the other way, dragging Goff along in his haste. A white D.C. Public Works van had turned the corner and was heading his way. He did not intend to find out if it was a real public works van or full of people who specialized in causing other humans enormous pain.