Read Online 02 Thunder of Heaven: A Joshua Jordan Novel by Tim Lahaye - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Tim Lahaye
Tags: Christian
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welcome.”
The banker reached out to shake hands with the customer who was carrying a briefcase. The customer looked the part of a Swede. The man’s hair had been dyed blond. He had blue contacts in his eyes and had endured the sacrifice of staying shaded from the sun to keep his skin from tanning. While the customer had been spending the last few days on a rented yacht in the Dubai marina he had to wear long sleeves and a ball cap. What a drag.
The banker continued. “I’m sure you remember the procedures for our safety deposit boxes.”
The customer smiled. “Yes, I certainly do.”
The banker would have no way of knowing how well the man with the briefcase understood the security procedures. In fact, this “customer” had visited the commercial section of the tower before — during its construction. He had cased out the bank, and particularly the safety precautions being installed, even as it was being built. He was a man who kept tabs on potential high-dollar hits like this one, targets that could help fund the lavish globe-trotting lifestyle to which he’d become accustomed. His mobility was necessary for other reasons too — like the fact that Interpol, Scotland Yard, France’s Direction Centrale de la Police Judiciaire, and the FBI were all looking for him.
“Come this way,” the banker said. He led the customer into a frosted-glass cubicle with a soft chair and a small table. The cubicleled to a locked steel door, which, when opened, led down a dead-end hallway filled with safety deposit boxes and a video touch screen.
“I’ll leave you to your business. If you need anything, Mr. Jorgenson, just let me know.”
With that, the banker left the cubicle and closed the door behind him.
The customer set down his briefcase and opened it. He took out the credit card of Rolf Jorgenson. He walked over to the big metal door and swiped the card in the locking device. A green light on the door lit up. He heard the heavy click as it unlocked, pushed it open, with the briefcase in his hand, and looked to his right at the touch screen. He tapped in the security code that Mr. Jorgenson had given him — under duress. That was before things got even uglier for the Swedish broker who dealt in precious gems.
Now came the only part that presented a mild obstacle. The customer looked at a box on the screen that read in a dozen different languages: “Place Palm Here for Biometric Identification.”
He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a spray can and a small plastic case. He snapped the case open and pulled out a tissue-thin polymer cutout of a right-hand palm print. It had been taken from Mr. Jorgenson in a manner that insured a painstakingly perfect duplication. The customer carefully laid the tissue-thin imprint across his own hand. Then with his left hand he used the latex spray to mist a fixative over the polymer imprint of Jorgenson’s palm, securing it temporarily to his own.
He placed his palm onto the screen and tapped the button.
For a few seconds nothing. Then the screen lit up. “Identification confirmed. Hello Mr. Jorgenson. You may now proceed to access your lockbox with your key.”
He wanted to say something to the surveillance cameras in the corners of the ceiling but didn’t. Something viciously cynical like, “So sorry Mr. Jorgenson wasn’t able to be here. He would have sent his regrets, but that was impossible. They have probably found him by now with his neck broken and his right hand cut off. Who could have done such a thing?”
Instead, he smiled at the cameras and walked past the securityboxes until he came to Jorgenson’s. He slipped the key in and opened the small door. A bundle of papers and a black velvet bag were inside.
He pulled out the bag and strolled back to the cubicle. The light was better there. He tucked a jeweler’s glass over his eye and spread the contents of the bag on the table. Two dozen large, brilliant diamonds glinted with an inner fire.
Yes, this
The banker reached out to shake hands with the customer who was carrying a briefcase. The customer looked the part of a Swede. The man’s hair had been dyed blond. He had blue contacts in his eyes and had endured the sacrifice of staying shaded from the sun to keep his skin from tanning. While the customer had been spending the last few days on a rented yacht in the Dubai marina he had to wear long sleeves and a ball cap. What a drag.
The banker continued. “I’m sure you remember the procedures for our safety deposit boxes.”
The customer smiled. “Yes, I certainly do.”
The banker would have no way of knowing how well the man with the briefcase understood the security procedures. In fact, this “customer” had visited the commercial section of the tower before — during its construction. He had cased out the bank, and particularly the safety precautions being installed, even as it was being built. He was a man who kept tabs on potential high-dollar hits like this one, targets that could help fund the lavish globe-trotting lifestyle to which he’d become accustomed. His mobility was necessary for other reasons too — like the fact that Interpol, Scotland Yard, France’s Direction Centrale de la Police Judiciaire, and the FBI were all looking for him.
“Come this way,” the banker said. He led the customer into a frosted-glass cubicle with a soft chair and a small table. The cubicleled to a locked steel door, which, when opened, led down a dead-end hallway filled with safety deposit boxes and a video touch screen.
“I’ll leave you to your business. If you need anything, Mr. Jorgenson, just let me know.”
With that, the banker left the cubicle and closed the door behind him.
The customer set down his briefcase and opened it. He took out the credit card of Rolf Jorgenson. He walked over to the big metal door and swiped the card in the locking device. A green light on the door lit up. He heard the heavy click as it unlocked, pushed it open, with the briefcase in his hand, and looked to his right at the touch screen. He tapped in the security code that Mr. Jorgenson had given him — under duress. That was before things got even uglier for the Swedish broker who dealt in precious gems.
Now came the only part that presented a mild obstacle. The customer looked at a box on the screen that read in a dozen different languages: “Place Palm Here for Biometric Identification.”
He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a spray can and a small plastic case. He snapped the case open and pulled out a tissue-thin polymer cutout of a right-hand palm print. It had been taken from Mr. Jorgenson in a manner that insured a painstakingly perfect duplication. The customer carefully laid the tissue-thin imprint across his own hand. Then with his left hand he used the latex spray to mist a fixative over the polymer imprint of Jorgenson’s palm, securing it temporarily to his own.
He placed his palm onto the screen and tapped the button.
For a few seconds nothing. Then the screen lit up. “Identification confirmed. Hello Mr. Jorgenson. You may now proceed to access your lockbox with your key.”
He wanted to say something to the surveillance cameras in the corners of the ceiling but didn’t. Something viciously cynical like, “So sorry Mr. Jorgenson wasn’t able to be here. He would have sent his regrets, but that was impossible. They have probably found him by now with his neck broken and his right hand cut off. Who could have done such a thing?”
Instead, he smiled at the cameras and walked past the securityboxes until he came to Jorgenson’s. He slipped the key in and opened the small door. A bundle of papers and a black velvet bag were inside.
He pulled out the bag and strolled back to the cubicle. The light was better there. He tucked a jeweler’s glass over his eye and spread the contents of the bag on the table. Two dozen large, brilliant diamonds glinted with an inner fire.
Yes, this
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