Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 13

Five Days, Twenty Hours, Fifteen Minutes

The curiosity driving her insane, Belinda slipped back into Pendley's office – she long ago committed his key pad access code to memory. She plunked the keys in the proper sequence – 3,6,7,9,1 – and, as his door cracked, she slipped inside and walked over to his desk. Stopping, she leaned down and reached into the trash can, retrieving the crushed memo that Vulture – whoever he was – had faxed over with the PRIORITY notice blazing across the top. As a practice, Belinda never read the faxes. Pendley would be infuriated if he discovered that she had, but something told her this one was different. To her recollection, the senator never rushed off topside after receiving a fax from Vulture. Also, he very rarely immediately discarded the faxes. Was it carelessness ... or did his quick departure necessity a change to his normal obsessive-compulsive behaviors about protecting the secrecy of such documents? She didn't know ... but she was about to find out.

Slipping the paper under her blouse, she exited his office and headed for her own.

[At the same time]

DeMarco crouched, poised on the edge of the open shaft that the elevator car had not long ago rose from the secret installation. He wondered what it was – the whisper in the back of his brain – that kept him from dropping inside, forcing the elevator doors open, and breaking into the facility. What would he find? What purpose could this place – a veritable locked box – possibly serve? He knew that, the longer he waited, the more the opportunity slipped through his fingers; and the more the opportunity slipped through his finger, the more agitated Matthew grew.

"Richard," the man tried, "we have the advantage."

"Pendley could be back any minute."

"I doubt that very much."

"We cannot be certain."

"Whatever is down there – whatever Pendley has hidden away from you for all of this time – that is your destiny."

"Is it," DeMarco offered, "or is it mere coincidence?"

Flatly, Matthew argued, "You told me yourself, a long time ago, that you don't believe in coincidence. Don't you remember?"

The terrorist stared down into the blackness, remembering what he had told Matthew years ago. "Yes," he admitted. "I do recall having that conversation, Matthew."

"I don't either believe in it, either. Do you understand what this means? It means that you and I were meant to find this place. And, if we were meant to find it, then I believe we were meant to explore it." He placed a hand on DeMarco's shoulder. "This opportunity happened for a reason, and, if we don't seize the opportunity while it's available to us, we may never have a second chance."

The terrorist stared down into the shaft. It bottomed with thick rubber padding, a brace for the elevator car's underside. A series of blinking cables lined the walls – perhaps some type of auxiliary power supply in the event of primary power loss – but it could also be a disguised security system ... something extraordinary high tech with laser beam emitters. It would make perfect sense that, while the plates were locked into an open position, a secondary system came online automatically, and DeMarco guessed that one was there, trying desperately to appear innocent ... but the innocent always caught his eye.

Reaching out, he scraped his hand across the aluminum surface, gathering a handful of dust. He picked up what he could and stood. Leaning over the opening, he blew the particles into the air, and they drifted with an almost magical grace downward, past his feet, into the shaft, and were engulfed by the darkness. Suddenly, they light up as they crossed through the beams, and DeMarco knew he had been right to be skeptical all along.

"Damn," he muttered. "The old man? He thought of everything."

His head craned over the opening, Matthew asked, "What do we do now?"

DeMarco nodded. Who was it that said there wasn't a prison that could be broken out of that couldn't – more easily – be broken into? Was it a philosopher, or was it a common thug with a penchant, an admiration, an inner desire to find himself behind bars?

"Gather more dust," he said. "There will be a weakness. We must find it."

[At the same time]

Back at her desk, Belinda pulled out the piece of crumpled paper, and she set it on the blotter. Glancing around, she checked to ensure that no one was listening. Finally assured that she was entirely alone, she poked at the ball with a single finger, resting her chin on one hand.

'What could it be?' she wondered.

Arthur had always kept her in the dark. She knew about the Crypt, but she hadn't the slightest idea what they were doing in there. Oh, she had heard him speaking on the telephone – wasn't it to the Pentagon? – but she only paid as much attention as she felt necessary. In due time, she would know. She guessed it was a top-secret defense weapon of some sort. Arthur had told her that their project – she loved it when he called in that – was part of the Black Budget. She knew that, as a result, it couldn't be discussed with the American public. It was in the interest of national security.

She poked at the ball some more, and, finally succumbing to her temptation, she pried the piece of paper open ...

... and she couldn't believe her eyes.

[At the same time]

There it was.

In the corner, DeMarco saw no dust illuminated by the crisscross of laser beams.

It was a small weakness, but, nonetheless, it was there. The hole in the defense pattern would allow for a single person – perhaps one at a time – to slip down into the shaft unnoticed ... but how would one get the doors open? Thin crimson beams stretched across the two partitions, and he was quite certain that, once down there, he wouldn't have the strength – or the room – to pry them apart. If he could find the automatic release mechanism – generally, it was a safety catch located near one of the doors – then he could trigger it, the doors would slide apart, and he could slip inside ... but if the safety bar were on the far door – the one opposite the unprotected corner – he would never be able to reach it.

Eventually, he rose. "No," he assured his partner. "There is no way past this security system."

"You have to try."

"It is too dangerous."

With a firm hand on the man's shoulder, Matthew cautioned, "There is nothing too dangerous for us."

DeMarco sighed. "My friend, we have no idea of what is inside this ... this base. Triggering the doors may be possible, but what then? There may be a guard post on the other side, and, then, whichever of us is down there would be trapped. That is a risk I cannot allow."

Stubbornly, Matthew offered, "I'll take the risk."

The terrorist shook his head. "I cannot allow you to do that ... not for me ... not for yourself."

The look in the man's eyes told DeMarco that this conversation was far from over.

END of Chapter 13