Woods, Stuart - Stone Barrington 48 - A Delicate Touch by Woods Stuart

Author:Woods, Stuart [Woods, Stuart]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2018-12-31T00:00:00+00:00

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BOB CANTOR DRESSED in a business suit with a necktie and put a briefcase in his truck. He drove to the Thomas building and parked in the underground lot, near the elevators. Then he put on some horn-rimmed glasses, a fake mustache, and a fedora, took his briefcase, and got into the elevator, where he discovered that he couldn’t go above the mail lobby without a key card. This meant clearing security. First, he had to go to the reception desk.

“Picture ID,” the security guard said.

Bob handed him the Florida driver’s license he had made for himself earlier that day.

“And who did you wish to see?”

“Congressman Hank Thomas,” Bob replied.

“I don’t know if he’s in New York today,” the man replied.

“He’s been in the building since early this morning,” Bob said. “He asked me to meet him here.”

The guard handed him back his license and a guest security badge. “Wear that,” he said. “Take the elevator to the fortieth floor, that’s where his New York congressional office is.”

“Right,” Bob said. He went through a metal detector while his briefcase was X-rayed, then went to pick it up.

A guard was staring at an object inside his briefcase. “What’s that?” he demanded, pointing at the screen.

“A ham and Swiss on rye with mustard,” Bob replied.

“What?”

“A sandwich. I’m on a diet, and I eat only what my wife prepares.”

“Okay,” the man said, “go on up.”

Bob picked up the case and had a good look at the building directory, checking for ground-floor offices. The word “Private” was the only name that appeared on the ground floor.

He got onto the elevator and pressed the button for forty; when he reached that floor, he immediately switched to a down elevator. You didn’t need a pass going down.

In the garage, he got into his truck, which was a Mercedes Sprinter, took off his jacket, and ate his sandwich. At noon, people began to enter the garage and drive away. Upstairs, he figured people were leaving their offices for lunch. At a quarter to one, he got into some coveralls and a baseball cap, and, keeping the mustache and glasses, took his toolbox and located a spot near where the private offices were, a floor above. There was an entry door, which was locked.

Bob made short work of picking the lock, then let himself in, wearing his visitor’s badge. The stairway, he noted, had a half dozen thick cables leading up from somewhere below, and he recognized them as concealing bundles of many smaller cables. He made his way upstairs and found a woman sitting at her desk, eating a salad. “Yes?” she asked.

“I’m here to fix the copying machine,” he said.

“We don’t use copying machines much,” she replied. “There’s only the one.”

“Then that must be the one,” he said. “Where would I find it?”

“Go over there, take a left, and there’s a door at the end of the corridor, with a sign saying ‘Admittance to Authorized Personnel Only.’” She opened a desk drawer and handed him a key.

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