Fredrico Rolgo looked up at the 51-storey Millennium Tower, at the antennae just visible from his position in the grassy inner courtyard of the complex.
Counting the antennae, the building's height was over 600 feet, about half the height of the World Trade Center towers. But high enough, he thought.
He glanced at his watch. Eleven in the morning. He pictured Sanguineus and Monica in his room at the Harry's Home Hotel, behind him. Their "little talk" should be concluding by now. They would be joining him for lunch in the Tower's restaurant area, in its shopping mall, the ideal place to hold a very confidential meeting, amid the chatter and bustle of shoppers and diners where they would be adding nothing more to the cluster of humanity than three animated ornaments.
Rolgo went into the ultra modern entryway of the tower and at once became just another figure in a sea of figures. He headed leisurely to the Schnitzelhaus restaurant.
Monica Paladin held Sanguineus' face between her hands, his naked body heavy upon hers, as the last shiver of her orgasm went to that corner of her mind where faceless lovers lingered like a collection of empty perfume bottles.
"For a minute there I thought you were going to kill me," she said, and gave him a last hard kiss on the mouth that had made its acquaintance with every erogenous part of her body. This gave his mouth a sensual flavor. But when she laid her head back on the damp pillow she saw in his eyes a curious faraway gleam. To whom had he made love in his imagination? Who was the woman that she had unconsciously impersonated? She knew nothing of his personal life.
A little angry, she pushed sideways against his shoulder. He rolled over obligingly, bringing her on top of him where she lay as though on a tigerskin rug in front of a fire. She crossed her arms on his hairy chest.
"You've got questions," she said, shifting her loins on his still hard manhood. "You think Phillipe suspects me. You think he's behind the attempt on Bear Claus' life. You think I might not be able to lure Phillipe to the Tower, don't you? Well, I've an idea about that. He's a movie buff. There's a cinema in the Tower, a multiplex. I'll ask him to see a flic with me tonight, after his conducting. I do believe he'll be up for a little romance after the excitement of the concert."
Sanguineus sat up, his arms around her hips, and said, "Fred has an idea about that also. Something he's done before. He's adept at arranging 'safe rooms' in public buildings to facilitate hits. He wants to rent a conference room on the top floor of the tower. An office room, actually, that hasn't been leased. Being a university lecturer gives him a certain standing among rental managers. Anyway, once we have Sorgensen in the Tower we'll be taking him up to the top floor safe room. The engineers have completed the preparations. I need to familiarize myself with the apparatus. It's on the roof, disguised as a back-up generator for the fire protection system in the elevators. A switch will allow us to hold the freight elevator at the maintenance level, basically the attic. To swing this, our client forked out a hefty bribe to the chief inspector of public works, a ruse about using the installation of the generator for advertising purposes. 'Universal Works.' We've gotten a lot of mileage out of the word Universal."
Monica said, "Mmm, that feels good. Keep rubbing my back."
"I wasn't aware of doing it. I was thinking of what I need you for, after I've got Sorgensen in the harness."
"You're brutal. Rub the back of my neck. You bit it, you know. The least you can do is rub the soreness out of it. Do you mean I have to do more than just lure Phillipe to his doom?"
"If you want your full amount of the fee, yes," Sanguineus said. "The circular saw. It's in a carrying case, like a sewing machine case. The two engineers in security uniform will put up caution tape at both ends of the mezzanine, above the second floor, to keep people a good distance away from the drama. When you see Sorgensen coming down on the wire, open the case, position it directly beneath him, and fire up the saw. The cord is plugged into a battery that's in the bottom of the case, reinforced to support the weight of the saw. It will make a godawful noise, but that will drown out any screams from your sugardaddy."
Monica bit him lightly on the bottom lip. "Aren't you going to gag him?"
"Yes, but gags have been known to fail."
"Let's take a shower together. Unless you want to do it again..."
"Fred's expecting us for lunch at the Schnitzelhaus."
"Let him wait."
Sanguineus slapped her butt. "Start the water running."
At a rather too-small table in the middle of the crowded dining area, Rolgo was holding forth on his scheme. It was a part of the assignment that did not particularly concern Sanguineus, except that he was curious to see how Monica reacted to it.
She was perfectly okay with it.
Himself, he was more interested in his Polish sausage, chopped and deep fried in a coating of flour, egg, and seasoned breadcrumbs, and a salad with German dressing and sliced red onions, washed down with a mug of Stiegl, a beer with a slight sourness which he preferred when including apple strudel in the meal, as was the case that day.
"The idea is to make it look, after the fact, like an elaborate suicide," Rolgo was saying. "We have been discreetly passing on rumors about Sorgensen's troubled conscious, and if we can forge some entries in his business journal, with confessions of that sort, the authorities may very likely go with it. Easier than trying to pin a murder on somebody. Magna is not going to make a fuss about it. Bury it and move on with life. And the CIA shouldn't be too devastated. One less mouth to zip. Claus had it right. Sorgensen is expendable. I think we'll get the ASMA contract, regardless."
Monica laughed with her hand over her mouth. "Forge entries in his diary! Are you serious?"
"With hundreds of millions of dollars to burn, Miss Paladin, we could move mountains. We already have Sorgensen's, butler, barber, and chauffeur in our pockets. Getting to his private books won't be terribly difficult, not with inside help and the talent at our disposal. Why, you're an expert in Stealth and Entry yourself. Care to take on the job after this little caper is over? I'm sure I can arrange it."
"Hell yes I'll do it! It will be just like 'Below Zero,' ha!"
In the conductor's study at the Musikverein, Phillipe Sorgensen stood at the practice podium, baton in hand, going over the movement tempos of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, the sheet music open in front of him.
He had some concern over the choral section, as he had little experience in conducting vocals. He would have to trust in the expertise of the singers.
After an hour he sat in a plush recliner by the shelves of music scores and closed his eyes, his right hand caressing the serpent handle of his rolled umbrella.
It happened that his mind drifted back a decade earlier, to that day in his Magna office when Dimitri came in with the welcome news that both towers were on fire.
Phillipe had immediately gone to the picture window to observe the columns of sooty black smoke rising over the city skyline. He remarked anxiously on the hoped-for collapse of the buildings. Dimitri reassured him that the thermite explosives would generate sufficient heat to melt the central steel framework.
And no sooner was he reassured than the first tower went down with textbook precision. He brought his hands together in satisfaction. "Worth more as a heap of rubble than it ever was while standing," he had quipped.
Now the silence of the study was disturbed by the ringtone of his custom-designed cell phone.
It was Monica.
"Let's go to a movie after the concert, shall we? 'Blue Is the Warmest Color' is playing at the multiplex in the Millennium. It won the Palme d'Or at Cannes, and Lea Seydoux is in it, my favorite actress! Do say we'll go?"
Phillipe chuckled. "Of course, my sweet. But I first have to get away from a pesky journalist. I'm afraid I won't be free til well after eleven. Is there a midnight showing?"
"Sure, or I wouldn't have bothered asking. A journalist?"
"Some writer from a travel magazine. I'll see that it doesnt take long. By the way, you'll have to share your balcony box with a philanthropist from... I forgot where, someplace in the States. See you backstage, my sweet."
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