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'I'm going to call the Navy,' he said. 'Their men were supposed to be here an hour ago. It's four thirty now.'

Graves stared at the gas-filled apartment. He had a brief mental image of the two cops staggering drunkenly in the hallway. He pushed it away; he could consider it later.

Beside him Nordmann said, 'It's really quite clever.'

Graves said, 'How thick is the gas in that room?'

'Hard to say,' Nordmann said. 'The normal colour of the gas is white. I don't think the density is very great. Why?'

'If you shot me full of those antidotes, could I survive the atmosphere in that room?'

'I don't know.'

'Would I have a chance?'

'A chance? Of course. But even if you could survive, how would you get in? You said yourself it's wired with explosives. You can't go in the front door.'

'I wasn't thinking of the door,' Graves said. 'I was thinking of the window.'

'The window?' Nordmann frowned. 'I don't know.'

Graves looked down at the street below, where an ambulance had pulled alongside the wrecked Alfa. A half-dozen cops and orderlies were trying to open the door, but it was still jammed shut. 'Damn,' he said. 'I wish he were still alive.'

'It probably wouldn't matter,' Nordmann said absently. He was staring across at the other building.

Graves said, 'How good are my chances with the antidote?'

'Four thirty-five,' somebody said.

'Maybe one in two,' Nordmann said. 'At best.'

'All right. Let's do it.'

'Are you sure?'

'What choice do I have?'

Nordmann considered this, then nodded. 'Sit down,' he said. 'I'll fix a syringe.' He quickly filled a syringe with two solutions, one pale yellow, the other clear.

Graves sat and watched him. 'How do I take it?'

'Intravenously.'

'You mean, in the vein?'

'Yes.'

'I can't possibly shoot into my veins.'

'You can,' Nordmann said, 'if I tape on an IV line. Roll up your sleeve.'

Graves rolled up his sleeve, and Nordmann tied a rubber tourniquet around his arm. He slapped the veins to make them stand out. Then he turned back to the syringe. 'I hope I've got this mixture right,' he said. He tapped the bubbles of air out of the syringe.

'So do I,' Graves said.

Nordmann attached the syringe to a piece of flexible plastic tubing. At the end of the tubing was a needle. 'I'll put the needle into your vein,' he said, 'and tape the syringe to your arm. Just before you enter the room, you can inject the contents.'

Graves felt the coldness of alcohol on his forearm, and then the prick of the needle.

'Don't move,' Nordmann said. 'Let me tape it down.' He removed the tourniquet, applied the tape, and stepped back. 'Done.'

Graves looked at the equipment taped to his arm. 'You sure this will work?'

'I told you the odds,' Nordmann said.

Graves stood up. 'Okay,' he said. 'Time?'

'Four thirty-nine.'

'Let's go,' he said, and ran for the elevator.

They came to the street and ran outside. By his side Nordmann was puffing, red in the face. Graves felt no strain at all; he was tense and full of energy. 'Rope,' he shouted to a cop. 'We need rope.'

The cop went off to get some. 'Hurry!' The cop hurried.

Graves looked at Nordmann. 'Listen,' he said. 'I just had a thought. The gas leaked out of the nineteenth floor and killed those two cops. Right?'

'Right.'

'What's to prevent us from getting knocked off in the elevator as we go up to the twentieth floor?'

'Nothing,' Nordmann said. 'It's a risk we have to take. If enough gas has leaked back into the building, we may die on our way up.'

'Is that all you have to say?'

Nordmann shrugged. 'That's the situation.'

Two burly cops came over. One had a coil of white nylon rope over his shoulder. 'Come with us,' Graves said. And he ran with Nordmann into the apartment building.

The elevator creaked up slowly. Graves fidgeted. Nordmann seemed very calm. The two cops looked at each other, obviously not understanding what was going on. They stared suspiciously at the syringe taped to Graves' arm.

They passed the tenth floor.

'Listen,' Graves said. 'I had another thought. ZV