Collateral Damage - Marc Cerasini [69]
Fortunately, the Beresfield was an old building, with an outmoded security system that relied too heavily on the men at the front door, and not enough on modern technology. Jack saw no cameras or motion detectors outside the lobby door, or at the service entrance on Sixty-sixth Street.
Jack had already decided to enter through the service entrance. It was tucked behind an eight-foot cast-iron fence, in a shadowy alley between the Beresfield and the building behind it. All he had to do was climb the fence, pick the lock, and he would be inside. But he was forced to wait a few minutes while a chain-smoking, anorexic-thin woman finished walking her poodle. She did at last, flouting the pooper-scooper law by leaving the dog's dump at the base of a fire hydrant. As soon as the woman's stick legs disappeared around the corner, Jack moved.
With stealthy smoothness, he climbed the fence and dropped into the dimly lit alley. Hidden in the shadows, Jack used his Tac Five, CTU's version of a Swiss Army knife, to begin probing the lock. Before he even touched it, the steel door opened.
"Madre de Dios!"
The pudgy woman took a step backward when she saw the stranger looming in the doorway. Jack raised his hands to calm her.
"Estoy apesadumbrado que le asuste," Jack said, apologizing for frightening her. "Trabajo aqui, tambien."
The woman smiled, and Jack knew she'd accepted his lie, believed he was an employee for one of the wealthy residents, too.
"Buenas noches" she said, pushing past him.
"Buenas noches a usted, senora" Jack replied.
MetroCard in hand, the woman hurried through the cast-iron gate, heading toward the subway entrance on Broadway. Jack stepped through the door and closed it behind him.
He walked down a long corridor with peeling green paint on the walls, fluorescent lights buzzing above. A freight elevator stood at the end. Beside it was a door to the stairs. He took the steps, avoiding the chance of a security camera inside the elevator.
The staircase felt wider than his living room back in Los Angeles, with marble steps and brass railings that shone dully. Jack's footsteps echoed as he climbed. At the eighth floor, he opened the door a crack and checked the hallway.
Empty.
Jack left the stairwell and searched for apartment 801. There were only four apartments on this floor, and he found Tobias's quickly, placed his ear against the darkly polished mahogany. The television was on, a car commercial, then the channel changed — someone was inside. Jack considered knocking but rejected the idea. Instead, he drew out his Tac tool and went to work on the lock.
Eleven seconds later, the tumblers fell into place and the lock clicked. Jack pushed through and closed the door behind him. He stood in a large, well-appointed foyer. The lighting was muted, the walls paneled with dark wood. An antique table held an abstract sculpture. Jack pressed his spine to the wall, drew the Glock from its holster. Clutching the weapon with both hands, he moved to the next wall and peered down a long hallway lined with framed oil paintings.
He was about to move when his eyes were drawn to an object that had been carelessly tossed on an elaborately carved end table — his own Glock, taken by the Albino that morning, at the restaurant. Jack shifted the weapon he'd borrowed from Morris to his right hand, slipped his own gun into the empty holster with his left.
Jack moved cautiously down the hall. The television continued to blare from the living room — now it was turned to the Serbian News Network. Hearing the familiar language made Jack pause. He waited for the channel to change again, but minutes passed and the somber Serb anchor continued to drone her monologue.
The Albino speaks Serbian...
The realization made Jack consider something almost impossible. Memories came over him. He flashed back to the war in Bosnia. His Delta Force missions. Operation Nightfall.
Jack remembered the stories of Određeni clan bled ubica— the Pale One.
Could it