Temple Read Free

they entered the vault room—an enormous lab
chamber bounded on every side by six-inch- thick porcelain walls.
Outside this porcelain cocoon was another, outer wall. It was
lead-lined and at least twelve inches thick. DARPA employees called
this lab 'the Vault'

and for good reason. Radio waves couldn't breach it. Directional
listening devices couldn't touch it. It was the most secure
facility in the building.

Was the most secure facility in the building.

The thieves fanned out quickly as they came into the lab
chamber.

Silence.

Like the womb.

And then, suddenly, they stopped dead in their tracks.

Their prize stood before them, occupying pride of place in the
centre of the lab.

15

It wasn't very big, despite what it could do.

It was maybe six feet tall and it looked like a giant hour glass:
two cones—the lower one pointing upwards, the upper one pointing
downwards—separated by a small tita nium chamber which held the
core of the weapon.

A collection of coloured wires snaked out from the tita nium
chamber in the centre of the device, most of them disappearing into
a laptop computer keyboard that was crudely attached to its front
section.

For the moment, the small titanium chamber was empty.

For the moment.

The thieves didn't waste any time. They removed the entire device
from its power generator and quickly placed it on a custom-made
sling.

Then they were moving again. Out the door. Up the cor ridor. Left
then right. Left then right. Through the brightly lit government
maze, stepping over the bodies they had killed on their way in. In
the space of ninety seconds, they arrived back at the underground
garage, where they all piled back into the van, together with their
prize. No sooner was the last man's feet inside than the van's
wheels skidded against the concrete and the big vehicle peeled away
from

the loading dock and sped out into the night.

The team's leader looked at his watch.

.5:59 am.

The entire operation had taken nine minutes.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

FIRST MACHINATION

Monday, January 4, 0910 hours

William Race was late for work. Again.

He'd overslept and then the subway had been delayed and now it was
ten after nine and he was late for his morn ing lecture. Race's
office was on the third floor of the old Delaware Building at New
York University. The building had an ancient wrought-iron elevator
that travelled at a snail's pace. It was quicker to take the
stairs.

At thirty-one, Race was one of the youngest members of staff in the
Ancient Languages Department at NYU. He was of average height—about
five-foot-nine and handsome in a very unassuming kind of way. He
had sandy-brown hair and a lean physique. A pair of wire-rimmed
glasses framed his blue eyes and an unusual facial mark—a
triangular brown birthmark situated directly below his left
eye.

Race hurried up the stairs, a thousand thoughts running through his
mind—his morning lecture on the works of the Roman historian Livy,
the parking fine from last month that he still had to pay, and the
article that he'd read in the New York Times that morning saying
that because 85 per cent of people based their ATM numbers on
important dates like birthdays and the like, thieves who stole
their wallets—thus obtaining not only ATM cards, but also driver's
licences containing the owners' dates of birth—were finding it
easier to break into their bank accounts. Damn it, Race thought, he
was going to have to change his PIN number.

He came to the top of the stairwell and hurried out into the
corridor.

And then he s.topped.

Two men stood in the hallway in front of him.

Soldiers.

They were decked out in full battle dress, too-helmets, body
armour, M-16s, the lot. One stood halfway down the corridor, nearer
to Race. The other was stationed further down the hall. He stood
rigidly to attention outside the door to Race's office. They
couldn't have looked more out of place—soldiers in a
university.

Both men snapped around immediately when