The Sacred Vault_ A Novel - Andy McDermott [73]
Through the earpiece he heard Matt humming ‘The Stripper’ - Rad’s computer was displaying the live signals from the cameras as well as the faked ones going to the guards’ monitors. ‘Tell Matt to pack that in,’ he muttered. The tune stopped.
He dropped his clothing to the floor . . . revealing a skin-tight polyurethane bodysuit. The super-slick garment had been designed for swimmers, reducing drag as they passed through the water to such an extent that they had been banned from professional competitions. But slickness - and tightness, the suit as constricting as a Victorian corset - were exactly what Eddie needed. Round his waist was a belt, also pulled tight.
He stuffed his clothes into the locker, then carefully shut the door and donned the wrist straps, clipping the heat-gun, the screwdriver and the suction cup to them. He then put the torch’s strap round his head and reached up to push the case and the silicone container on top of the lockers, followed by the plastic bottle.
Now the hard part began. Eddie jumped to grab the top of the lockers, feet against the doors. He was not wearing his usual boots, but close-fitting black climbing shoes, with rubber soles for maximum grip. As quietly as possible, he pulled himself up.
The space between the dusty surface and the suspended ceiling was barely more than a foot, but Eddie knew it would soon feel positively expansive. As the plans Lola procured had promised, there was a ventilation grille a few feet away. Pushing his belongings ahead of him, he crawled to it.
A minute’s work with the screwdriver, and the vent cover was freed at one end. He turned his attention to the other, only unfastening the screws halfway so that he could tilt the grille down on its makeshift hinge.
Shuffling to the end of the newly created ramp, he fastened the case to the back of his belt with another strap, then took the small bottle and squirted its contents over the front of his bodysuit. It was a lubricant; he had actually bought it from a sex shop. Looking into the darkness of the duct, however, he doubted he would get much pleasure from it.
‘Okay, I’m going in,’ he said, holding the suction cup. ‘Tell me if the guards move.’
‘I will, Eddie,’ said Karima. ‘Good luck.’
‘Thanks.’ He switched on the torch, pressed the suction cup against the metal floor and pulled himself inside.
It was worse than he had imagined. The short section of duct at the apartment had been clean; this was filthy, a grimy layer of God-knew-what having been drawn in by the ventilation system several floors above. But he continued, advancing with each hiss of the cup. The case and plastic container ground complainingly over the grille as he hauled them along behind him like a train.
Even with the benefit of the bodysuit, the duct was horribly cramped. He tipped his head to shine the light down the shaft. He had to cover over fifty feet before reaching the vault - where his first obstacle waited.
Karima’s voice crackled in his ear, the metal duct making radio reception even worse. ‘You okay, Eddie?’
‘Yeah,’ he grunted. He was sweating, the situation not helped by the tight synthetic suit.
‘Good. The guards are still at the desk.’
‘Okay.’ His movements had already become a routine. Release the suction cup, stretch and plant it against the metal six inches further ahead, apply suction, pull himself forward, repeat. The extra weight he was dragging made it more draining. His own body, pressed against the duct on all sides, was almost blocking the flow of air. The vent was getting stuffy, stifling - and it would soon become a lot hotter.
He fixed his attention entirely on advancing, trying not to think about the metal pressing in on him. Another six inches, and another. He looked