“You next move is a leap, Sam,” Grimsdottir said. “Straight across the shaft to the other ledge.”

It was an eight-foot jump onto a ten-inch ledge. He was good, but not that good. He glanced down the shaft; it was a bottomless pit.

“I’ll be hanging by my fingernails, Grim,” he said. “How long?”

“Twenty-two seconds. After that, climb back onto the ledge, slip around the stanchion, and hang again. The cameras will pan right over your head. At my next mark, you’ll stand up and reach above your head. There’ll be a maintenance ladder. Climb five rungs, then freeze.”

“Got it,” he said.

His destination was a maintenance crawl space that ran over the length of the penthouse’s ceiling. Once there, away from the ever-watchful cameras and sensors, he could access a hatch the led to the roof.

He switched his trident goggles to NV and scanned the route Grimsdottir had indicated. He’d be dancing between the blind spots of two cameras. No room for error; no room for hesitation.

“Ready,” Grimsdottir radioed. “Hold . . . hold . . . Go!”

He jumped. He hung in midair for what seemed seconds with a thousand feet of nothingness yawning beneath him. His hands slapped the ledge. He clamped down and lifted his knees to minimize his swing, which lasted only a few seconds. He let his legs dangle.

“Almost there,” Grimsdottir said. “Camera’s coming around. . . . Okay, go.”

Fisher chinned himself up, then hooked his heel on the ledge and levered his body up. Then, using his right hand, he grabbed the stanchion and pulled until he could twist himself into a sitting position. He slid up the wall to a standing position.

“In place,” he called.

“Next move in four seconds. Three . . . two . . . Go.”

Fisher turned to face the stanchion, grabbed it with both hands, and leaned out, letting his own body weight and momentum swing him to the other side. He backed up until he felt his heels slip over the edge, then took a breath and stepped backward into space. He dropped straight down. As the ledge swept past his face, he snagged it with both hands.

“Seventeen seconds,” Grimsdottir reported. “Hang in there.”

Fisher thought, Very funny.

“Sorry, poor choice of words,” she said. “Okay, up the ladder and you’re home free. Go in five . . . four . . . three . . .”

Fisher was tensing his arms and shoulders for the movement when alarms began blaring.

“Go, Sam, move!”

He chinned himself up onto the ledge, snagged the rung above his head, and started climbing.

21

HEpushed through the maintenance hatch and squeezed himself into the crawl space. He was surrounded by water pipes and electrical conduits. He contorted himself until he was turned around, facing the hatch again. “What the hell just happened?” he asked.

“Not sure. I’m checking.” Ten seconds later she was back: “Okay, it looks like they had a power surge. It threw the camera algorithms off. They must have caught a glimpse of something moving—probably not enough to know what it is, but enough to raise the alarm. Hunker down and wait. Company’s coming.”

The words had barely entered his earpiece when he heard the squelch of a radio somewhere below him, followed by a ratcheting sound. It took him a moment to place the noise: The guards were forcing open the elevator doors.

Voices in Arabic echoed in the shaft. Light from below seeped around the edges of the hatch as the guards panned their flashlights around. Fisher’s Arabic was good, but the guards were talking in rapid-fire, so he caught only snippets:

“Anything? Do you see anything?”

“No, there’s nothing. What did they see?”

“Let me check.”

A radio squelched again. There was another exchange, too muffled for Fisher to make out, then a voice: “They’re not sure. Just movement.”

“Well, there’s nothing here. We’re a thousand feet up. What could be moving around?”

Radio squelch. “Control, all clear. Nothing here.”

A few seconds passed. Fisher heard the thud of the elevator doors closing, then silence.

“Moving again,” he said, and started crawling.

FIVEminutes later, having found the hatch with no trouble, Fisher crouched at the edge of the roof, looking down at the penthouse balcony. Somewhere down there Marcus Greenhorn waited.

The speed with which the hotel guards had responded to the alarm told Fisher they were very close by—as were, he assumed, the Emir’s Al-Mughaaweer special forces soldiers. Fisher neither needed nor wanted a fire-fight on his hands, so he’d have to step carefully and get Greenhorn under quick control before he could call for help.

He flipped his NV goggles into place, then lay down on his belly and scooted forward. Slowly, inch by inch, he lowered his torso over the edge of the roof until he was hanging upside down, arms braced on the eaves.

The balcony stretched the length of the penthouse, some hundred feet, and had its own hot tub, fountain, and outdoor dining room. Through the windows he could see the interior was mostly dark, the only light coming from a two-hundred-gallon aquarium glowing a soft blue. He switched to IR, scanned again, and saw nothing. He did a final check for sensors and cameras using EM, and likewise saw nothing. However many Al-Mughaaweer guards there were, they were probably stationed in the hall outside.

In one fluid motion, he slid himself over he edge, did a slow-motion somersault through his arms, hung for a split second, then dropped noiselessly to the balcony. He turned to face the windows, pistol drawn. He waited, stock still, for thirty seconds until certain he was alone.

The penthouse was accessed through three sets of French doors set at regular intervals down the balcony. He chose the one to his left. It was unlocked. He slipped inside. After spending the last hour sweating, the sudden chill of the air-conditioning on his face took his breath away.

The suite was done in earth tones, with gilded-frame mahogany walls, lush carpeting, and enough tapestries and artwork to stock a small museum. The fish tank, filled with a rainbow assortment of tropical fish, gurgled softly and cast wavering shadows on the ceiling.

He punched up the penthouse schematic on his OPSAT to get his bearings, then moved on.

HEfound Greenhorn snoring in the master bedroom. Splayed a few feet away on the double king-sized bed was a nude woman that Fisher assumed was the girlfriend to whom Greenhorn had sent the invitation. Greenhorn was dressed in white jockey shorts, a T-shirt that said EAT MY ONES AND ZEROS, and a white terry-cloth robe bearing the Burj al Arab’s crest. Despite being not yet thirty years old, Greenhorn looked ten years older, with his potbelly, pasty complexion, and mostly receded hairline.

Fisher walked to the woman’s side of the bed, and was about to dart her when he noticed a medic alert bracelet on her wrist. Ah, hell,he thought. If he were to dart or Cottonball her, there was no telling how the drugs would interact with whatever condition she suffered, and he wasn’t inclined to kill her simply because she was stupid enough to get mixed up with an idiot like Greenhorn. Besides, he consoled himself, she was all of five feet tall and ninety pounds. If she woke up, he’d deal with her.

He walked back to Greenhorn’s side. He removed a dart from the pistol, then bent over and scratched Greenhorn on the forearm. He stirred, then mumbled something, rubbed his arm, and started snoring again. The dose wasn’t enough to render Greenhorn unconscious, but rather dazed and docile for a few minutes.

Fisher gave the drug ten seconds to work, then removed his goggles and knelt beside the bed, one hand resting on the hilt of the Sykes Fairbairn sheathed on his calf. He lightly shook Greenhorn by the shoulder. “Mr. Greenhorn,” he whispered. “Mr. Greenhorn, you need to wake up.”