line. Attached to it, by a paper clip, was a six-inch piece
of electrical tape on wax paper.
The bars placed some restriction on how far
Svoljsak could open the lower window, but he managed to hook his
fingers through the mesh and pull it a couple of inches up from the
sill. In preparation the monofilament had been wound from its
middle around the cardboard so that, now, he had the two ends
available together. Passing one end around a window bar he then
fixed them both securely with the electrical tape to the plastic
case. This he slid under the mesh and lowered over the edge of the
sill. He controlled its descent by unraveling line from the spool
until it hung at length from the bar.
It was useless to try and look down the wall
so Svoljsak just hoped he’d calculated the length correctly. He
straightened the pigeon mesh as best he could and closed the
window.
3:42 a.m. Better get moving. He’d scheduled a
page call for 3:50 that would get him out of the building before
the end of the shift. It would allow him to retrieve his take
without being seen. More or less. The monitor for the exterior
cameras was located at the reception area where the other guard
spent most of his time.
He patted dust off his uniform and tucked his
shirt in where it had pulled out during his tango with the storage
cabinet. Like the jacket, the pants had been a little snug so he’d
left the button on the waistband undone and used his own belt.
A final scan of the room confirmed that
personal items were pocketed, the filing units were back in place,
and the make-believe fish were still in their virtual tank. It was
time to go.
== == ==
The rain that had been forecast ticked cold
against Svoljsak’s face as he stepped from the portico into the
parking lot and walked in the general direction of his car. He’d
changed into his civvies; dark slacks, sweatshirt, and gabardine.
The uniform was in the bag that he hung casually over his
shoulder.
He scoped the area for signs of life but
nothing moved. The security cameras were now hidden in the glare of
the stadium lights but Svoljsak knew they were on and wondered how
long his piece of folded cardboard, jammed into the door rubber of
the building’s elevator, would keep the other guard occupied on the
top floor.
He veered toward the shrubbery that sat
beneath the first floor windows. The small bushes dripped raindrops
and, animated by the breeze, appeared to shiver. Behind a
particularly damp evergreen hung the plastic box. He stepped toward
it and a wet branch stroked his inner thigh. It darkened the pant
leg like a streak of cold urine. Svoljsak swore and reached for his
prize.
He pulled one end of the monofilament free of
the tape then spooled it around the plastic case as it slipped from
the window bar four floors up. With a small twig he raked his boot
print from the flowerless bed then retreated to his car. He sat for
a moment, and gazed upon the red brick expanse of the Georgian
institution. After a moment he started to laugh.
“You are mine,” he said pointing at the front
entrance. “I own you!”
In his younger days, he and the rest of his
posse would have released their exuberance with war whoops and the
odd rock tossed through an abandoned shop window. These days the
older Svoljsak was content to celebrate his victories with a fine
cigar. Cuban. Always Cuban.
CHAPTER
13
Svoljsak twisted the screwdriver sticking
out of the ignition cylinder and the little four-banger came to
life. Compared to the powerful V-8 in his Buick, this engine
sounded more like an egg-beater. He lit the cigar and glanced once
more at the entrance to Simedyne. There was no sign of a guard
running out and yelling ‘Stop thief!’ so he put the car into gear
and drove sedately through the parking lot to the exit.
A couple of vehicles were parked down the
block but the wet street was devoid of traffic. He flicked on the
wipers and turned right keeping the car in Second rather than
Drive.
of electrical tape on wax paper.
The bars placed some restriction on how far
Svoljsak could open the lower window, but he managed to hook his
fingers through the mesh and pull it a couple of inches up from the
sill. In preparation the monofilament had been wound from its
middle around the cardboard so that, now, he had the two ends
available together. Passing one end around a window bar he then
fixed them both securely with the electrical tape to the plastic
case. This he slid under the mesh and lowered over the edge of the
sill. He controlled its descent by unraveling line from the spool
until it hung at length from the bar.
It was useless to try and look down the wall
so Svoljsak just hoped he’d calculated the length correctly. He
straightened the pigeon mesh as best he could and closed the
window.
3:42 a.m. Better get moving. He’d scheduled a
page call for 3:50 that would get him out of the building before
the end of the shift. It would allow him to retrieve his take
without being seen. More or less. The monitor for the exterior
cameras was located at the reception area where the other guard
spent most of his time.
He patted dust off his uniform and tucked his
shirt in where it had pulled out during his tango with the storage
cabinet. Like the jacket, the pants had been a little snug so he’d
left the button on the waistband undone and used his own belt.
A final scan of the room confirmed that
personal items were pocketed, the filing units were back in place,
and the make-believe fish were still in their virtual tank. It was
time to go.
== == ==
The rain that had been forecast ticked cold
against Svoljsak’s face as he stepped from the portico into the
parking lot and walked in the general direction of his car. He’d
changed into his civvies; dark slacks, sweatshirt, and gabardine.
The uniform was in the bag that he hung casually over his
shoulder.
He scoped the area for signs of life but
nothing moved. The security cameras were now hidden in the glare of
the stadium lights but Svoljsak knew they were on and wondered how
long his piece of folded cardboard, jammed into the door rubber of
the building’s elevator, would keep the other guard occupied on the
top floor.
He veered toward the shrubbery that sat
beneath the first floor windows. The small bushes dripped raindrops
and, animated by the breeze, appeared to shiver. Behind a
particularly damp evergreen hung the plastic box. He stepped toward
it and a wet branch stroked his inner thigh. It darkened the pant
leg like a streak of cold urine. Svoljsak swore and reached for his
prize.
He pulled one end of the monofilament free of
the tape then spooled it around the plastic case as it slipped from
the window bar four floors up. With a small twig he raked his boot
print from the flowerless bed then retreated to his car. He sat for
a moment, and gazed upon the red brick expanse of the Georgian
institution. After a moment he started to laugh.
“You are mine,” he said pointing at the front
entrance. “I own you!”
In his younger days, he and the rest of his
posse would have released their exuberance with war whoops and the
odd rock tossed through an abandoned shop window. These days the
older Svoljsak was content to celebrate his victories with a fine
cigar. Cuban. Always Cuban.
CHAPTER
13
Svoljsak twisted the screwdriver sticking
out of the ignition cylinder and the little four-banger came to
life. Compared to the powerful V-8 in his Buick, this engine
sounded more like an egg-beater. He lit the cigar and glanced once
more at the entrance to Simedyne. There was no sign of a guard
running out and yelling ‘Stop thief!’ so he put the car into gear
and drove sedately through the parking lot to the exit.
A couple of vehicles were parked down the
block but the wet street was devoid of traffic. He flicked on the
wipers and turned right keeping the car in Second rather than
Drive.
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