Alex reasoned that the roman numerals represented a date. III.III.V translated to March 3, 2005. She was rewarded with 2 million hits. She added “Win or Die” and the number fell to 200,000. No help there.
Alex retreated a few steps. Several of her young lions had served in the marines, and each had body art to remind him of a difficult campaign—Fallujah in Iraq, Helmand Province in Afghanistan. Perhaps the tattoo was to commemorate an operation or a battle won or lost. Diligently she culled through accounts of the Foreign Legion’s recent engagements. There were deployments to the Middle East and Kosovo, as well as less publicized actions in Africa and Asia. Nowhere, however, did she find a mention of a specific battle or operation that had taken place on March 3, 2005. She could not validate her supposition that the roman numerals signified a date.
Alex slid back the chair and padded into the kitchen. The clock read 11:30. She realized that she hadn’t eaten since early that afternoon. Her stomach informed her in no uncertain terms that she was starving. She opened the fridge and found a piece of Gruyère and an apple. Slim pickings. She had a memory of sneaking into the kitchen with Bobby late one night after making love, finding a giant bowl of leftover spaghetti carbonara in the fridge, and sitting together at the table, toes touching, wordlessly scarfing it down. It was too bad they got along only when they didn’t talk to each other. The carbonara sounded delicious right about now.
Bobby was a wonderful cook.
Alex sat lost in her thoughts until the minute hand reached twelve. Rising, she returned to her office and at 12:03 placed a call to Paris, France, where the day was just beginning.
“Allo?” said a sleepy voice.
“Jean. It’s Alex Forza in New York. We have a situation.”
Jean Eyraud, deputy director of the French DGSE—the Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure, France’s national counterterrorism organization—snapped to attention. “How can I help?”
“I have some fingerprints I need you to run. He’s one of your guys. Former Légion Étrangère.”
“Send them over. I’ll see to it immediately.”
“And Jean…vite.”
37
It was not an accident.
Elevator doors do not open by themselves when the elevator itself is six floors below, Astor told himself as he stood in his kitchen, stunned, unsure why he was still alive, part of him not quite believing what had happened.
It was not an accident.
Not when the elevator belongs to someone looking into his father’s murder and the murder involved a vehicle inexplicably careening across the White House lawn. And not when the dead man’s assistant is murdered by a pinpoint knife-thrust to the heart by a person or persons able to float through a home without making a noise.
It was not an accident.
Still, if it were only his febrile mind desperately seeking a means to connect these events in the wake of narrowly escaping his own death, he might be able to posit a modicum of doubt. He might be able to argue that he was mistaken, that strange as it may seem, elevators sometimes do malfunction, and like it or not, this was one of those times.
But that was not the case.
He had proof.
Astor hurried from the kitchen and stumbled upstairs, falling halfway to the top, then raising himself, urging himself onward, carrying himself like the secret drunk he used to be. Inside his bedroom, he made a beeline for the desk, his hands sorting through the annual reports, examining the covers, discarding them one by one until he found what he was looking for.
The Sonichi Corporation of Japan.
He sat down on the floor cross-legged and thumbed the pages. He saw the heading and stopped. It was on page 23. “Industrial Products Division.” It read, “Last year the company extended its market line in its elevator business, branching laterally from the commercial sector to the residential sector with the introduction of two models, the Express 2111 and the Express 2122.”
Astor chucked the report aside and ran back downstairs. He punched the elevator call button. Seconds later the door opened. A brightly lit elevator car beckoned. Boldly, he stepped inside. The name was proudly stamped above the call buttons. Sonichi Express 2122.
There was one last matter.
Leaving the elevator, he placed a call from his cell.
“Yessir, Mr. Astor. How may I help?”
“Hello, Don, just wanted to check if you called me about five minutes ago.”
“Excuse me, sir?”
“Something about my car. You asked me to come downstairs and take a look.”
“Your car is just fine, sir. Checked it myself when I came on shift.” Don the doorman laughed wryly. “You goofing on me, Mr. A?” Read as, “You back on the sauce again, Mr. A?”