THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN 9 AM AND 10 AM EASTERN STANDARD TIME

NYC, Roscoe Tower

9:15:03

9:15:04

9:15:05

9:15:06

Michael J. Roscoe was a careful man. The car that drove him to work at quarter past nine each morning was a custom made Mercedes with reinforced steel plates and bulletproof windows. His driver, a retired FBI agent, carried a Beretta subcompact automatic pistol and knew how to use it. There were just 5 steps from the point where the car stopped to the entrance of Roscoe Tower on New York's 5th Avenue, but closed-circuit television cameras followed him every inch of the way. Once the automatic doors had slid shut behind him, a uniformed guard --also armed with a Beretta ­­­­--watched as he crossed the foyer with long strides and entered his own private elevator. The elevator had white marble walls, a blue carpet, a silver handrail, but no buttons. Instead, there was a glass panel on the wall. Roscoe pressed his hand against the glass. A sensor read his fingerprints, verified them with the ones on file, and activated the elevator. The doors slid shut and the elevator rose to the 60th floor with out stopping. Nobody else ever used it. Nor did it stop at any of the other floors of the building. At the same time that the elevator was rising, the receptionist down in the lobby was on the phone, letting the staff know that Mr. Roscoe was on his way. Everyone who worked in and around Roscoe's office was handpicked by him, and it was impossible to see him without an appointment. When you're rich, you need to be careful. There are madmen, kidnappers, terrorists---the desperate and the dispossessed. Micheal J. Roscoe was the CEO of Roscoe Electronics and the 9th or 10th richest man alive---he had to be very careful indeed. Ever since his face had appeared on the cover of Time magazine (which dubbed him as the 'Electronics King'), he knew that he had become a visible target. When in public he walked quickly, with his head bent. His glasses had been especially chosen to hide as much of his round, handsome face as possible. His suits were expensive, but anonymous. There were dozens of different security systems in his life, and although they had once annoyed him, he had allowed them to become routine. But ask any spy or security agent and they'll say that routine is one of the things that can get you killed the most. It tells the enemy where you're going and when you're going to be there. Routine was going to kill Micheal J. Roscoe, and this was the day that death had chosen to come calling. Of course, Roscoe had no idea of his fate as he stepped out of the elevator that opened directly into his private office, a huge room occupying the corner of the building with floor to ceiling windows giving views in two directions: 5th Avenue to the east, Central Park just a few blocks south. The two remaining walls contained a door, a low book shelf, and a single oil painting---a vase of flowers by Vincent van Gogh. The black glass surface of his desk was equally uncluttered: a computer, a leather notebook, a telephone, and a framed photograph of a 14-year-old boy. As he took off his jacket and sat down, Roscoe found himself looking at the picture of the boy. Blond hair, blue eyes, and freckles. Paul Roscoe looked remarkably like his father had 30 years ago. Micheal Roscoe was now 52 and beginning to show his age despite his year-round tan. His son was almost as tall as he was. The picture had been taken the summer before, on Long Island. They had spent the day sailing. Then they'd had a barbecue on the beach. It had been on of the few happy days that they had spent together. The door opened and his secretary came in. Helen Wadsworth was English. She had left her home and, indeed, her husband to come and work in New York, and still loved every minute of it. She had been working in this office for 11 years, and in all that time she had never forgotten a detail or made a mistake.

"Good morning, Mr. Roscoe," she said.

"Good morning, Helen,"

She put a folder on his desk. "The latest figures from Singapore. Costings on the R-15 Organizer. You have brunch with Senator Andrews at 10. I've already booked the reservations."

"Did you remember to call NSA?" Roscoe asked.

Helen Wadsworth blinked. She never forgot anything, so why had he asked? "I spoke to Col. Lambert's office yesterday evening," she said. "He was not available, but I've arranged a person-to-person call with you this afternoon. We can have it patched through to your car."

"Thank you, Helen."

"Shall I have your coffee sent in to you?"

"No, thank you, Helen. I won't have coffee today."

Helen Wadsworth left the room, seriously alarmed. No coffee? What's next? Mr. Roscoe had begun his day with a double espresso for as long as she had known him. Could it be that he was ill? He certainly hadn't been himself recently---ever since his son has been caught with and ounce of pot. And this phone call to Col. Lambert at NSA! Nobody had ever told her who she was, but she had seen his name once in a file. He had something to do with military intelligence. A 3rd Echelon something or other. What was Mr. Roscoe doing, talking to a spy? Helen Wadsworth returned to her office and soothed her nerves, not with coffee---she couldn't stand the stuff---but with a large, refreshing cup of English Breakfast tea. Something very strange was going on, and she didn't like it. She didn't like it at all.

9:23:06

9:23:07

9:23:08

9:23:09

60 floors below, a man walked into the lobby area wearing gray overalls with an ID badge attached to his chest. The badge identified him as Sam Green, maintenance engineer with X-Press Elevators Inc. He was carrying a briefcase in one hand and a large silver toolbox in the other .He set them both down in front of the reception desk. Sam Green was not his real name. His hair---black and a little greasy---was fake, as were his glasses, mustache, and uneven teeth. He looked 50 years old, but he was actually closer to 30. Nobody knew the man's real name, but in the business that he was in, a name was the last thing he could afford. He was known merely as "The Gentleman," and he was one of the highest-paid and most successful contract killers in the world. He had been given his nickname because he always sent flowers to the families of his victims. The lobby guard glanced at him.

"I'm here for the elevator," he said. He spoke with a Bronx accent even though he had never spent more than a week there in his life.

"What about it?" the guard asked. "You people were here last week."

"Yeah. Sure. We found a defective cable on elevator 12. It had to be replaced, but we didn't have the parts. So they sent me back." The Gentleman fished in his pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. "You want to call the head office? I've got my orders here."

If the guard had called X-Press Elevators Inc., he would have discovered that they did indeed employ a Sam Green---although he hadn't shown up for work in 2 days. This was because the real Sam Green was at the bottom of the Hudson River with a knife in his back and a 20 pound block of concrete attached to his foot. But the guard didn't make the call. The Gentleman had guessed that he wouldn't bother. After all, elevators were always breaking down. There were engineers in and out all the time. What difference would one more make?

The guard jerked a thumb. "Go ahead," he said.

The Gentleman put away the letter, picked up his cases, and went over to the elevators. There were a dozen elevators in the skyscraper, plus a 13th for Michael J. Roscoe. Elevator number 12 was at the end. As he went in, a delivery boy with a parcel tried to follow. "Sorry," The Gentleman said. "Closed for maintenance." the doors slid shut. He was on his own. He pressed the button for the 61st floor. He had been given this job only a week before. He'd had to work fast, killing the real maintenance engineer, taking his identity, learning the layout of Roscoe Tower, and getting his hands on a sophisticated piece of equipment he had know he would need. His employers wanted the multimillionaire eliminated as quickly as possible. More importantly, it had to look like an accident. For this, The Gentleman had demanded---and been paid---$100,000. The money was to be paid into a bank account in Switzerland; half now, half on completion. The elevator door opened again. The 61st floor was primarily used for maintenance. This was where the water tanks were housed, as well as the computers that controlled the heat, air-conditioning, security cameras, and elevators throughout the building. The Gentleman turned off the elevator, using the manual override key that had once belonged to Sam Green, then wen went over to the computers. He knew exactly where they were. In fact, he could have found them wearing a blindfold. He opened his briefcase. There were 2 sections to the case. The lower part was a laptop computer. The upper lid was fitted with a number of drills and other tools, each of them strapped into place. It took 5 minutes to cut his way into the Roscoe Tower mainframe and connect his own laptop to the circuitry inside. Hacking his way past the Roscoe security systems took even less. He tapped a command into his keyboard, and then Michael J. Roscoe's private elevator on the floor below did something it had never done before. It rose one more floor---to level 61. the door however, remain closed. The Gentleman did not need to get in. Instead, he picked up his briefcase and toolbox and carried them into the same elevator he had taken from the lobby. He turned the override key and pressed the button for the 59th floor. Once again, he deactivated the elevator. Then he reached up and pushed. The top of the elevator was a trapdoor that opened outward. He pushed the briefcase and toolbox ahead of him, then pulled himself up and climbed onto the roof of the elevator. He was now standing inside the main shaft of Roscoe Tower. He was surrounded on four sides by girders and pipes blackened with oil and dirt. Thick steel cables hung down, some of them humming as they carried their loads. Looking down, he could see a seemingly endless square tunnel illuminated only by the chinks of light from the doors that slid open and shut again as the other elevators arrived at various floors. Somehow the breeze had made its way in from the street, spinning dust that had stung his eyes. Next to him was a set of elevators that, had he opened them, would have led him straight into Roscoe's office. Above these, over his head and a few yards to the right, was the underbelly of Roscoe's private elevator. The toolbox was next to him, on the roof of the elevator. Carefully, he opened it. The sides of the case were lined with a thick sponge. Inside, in the specially molded space, was what looked like a complicated film projector, silver and concave with a thick glass lens. He took it out, then glanced at his watch. 9:35 AM. It would take him about 8 minutes to connect the device to the bottom of Roscoe's elevator and about 2 to make sure that it was working. 10 minutes total. He was a bit pushed for time, but he could make it. Smiling to himself, The Gentleman took out a power screwdriver and began to work.

9:44:58

9:44:59

9:44:00

9:45:01

Helen Wadsworth called her employer's phone. "Your car is here, Mr. Roscoe."

"Thank you, Helen."

Roscoe hadn't done much since he arrived. He had been aware that only half of his mind was on his work. Once again, he glanced at the photograph on his desk. Paul. How could things have gone so wrong between a father and a son? And what could have happened to make him turn to drugs? He stood up, put his jacket on, and walked across his office, on his way to bunch with Senator Andrews. He often had brunch with politicians. They wanted either his money, his ideas---or him. Anyone as rich as Roscoe made for a powerful friend, and politicians need all the friends they can get. He pressed the elevator button, and the doors slid open. He took one step forward. The last thing that Michael J. Roscoe saw in his life was the inside of his elevator with its white marble walls, blue carpet, and silver handrail. His right foot, wearing black leather shoe that was handmade for him by a small shop in Rome, traveled down to the carpet and kept going---right through it. The rest of his body followed, tilting into the elevator and then through it. And then he was falling 60 floors to his death. He was so surprised by what had happened, so totally unable to understand what had happened, that he didn't even cry out. He simply fell into the blackness of the elevator shaft, bounced off the walls, then crashed into the solid concrete of the basement, 500 yards below. The elevator remained where it was. It looked solid but, in fact, it wasn't there at all. What Roscoe had stepped into was a hologram, an image being projected into the empty space of the elevator shaft where the real elevator should have been. The Gentleman had programmed the door to open when Roscoe pressed the call button, and had quietly watched him as he stepped into oblivion. If the multimillionaire had managed to look up for a moment, he would have seen the silver hologram projector, beaming the image, a few yards above him. But a man getting into an elevator on his way to brunch does not look up. The Gentleman had known this. And he was never wrong.

9:55:06

9:55:07

9:55:08

9:55:09

A man who looked nothing like a maintenance engineer walked into JFK International Airport. He was about to board a flight for Switzerland. But first, he visited a flower shop and ordered a dozen black tulips to be sent to a certain address. The man paid with cash. He didn't leave a name.

9:59:57

9:59:58

9:59:59

10:00:00