Page 18 of Sigma
The building manager never sees us. We clean the penthouse ourselves while we’re here, and once we’re gone, it’s cleaned by a dedicated crew of cleaners specifically selected for that purpose.
Harris nods, expression grim and serious. “Yes. Follow me.”
He leads me to the foyer area—a rather spacious room between the private elevator and the living quarters. The elevator goes to our private parking garage, a private ground-level exit, and the roof. Not even the manager has access to it—to contact us, he has to call a specific phone number with a prearranged code.
All these layers of security, and my daughter was kidnapped? It doesn’t seem possible.
I accompany Harris onto the elevator, once it’s in motion down to the ground level exit, I glance at him. “Where are my husband and son?”
“New York, still,” he answers. “We thought it safest to keep everyone separate for now. They’re at a safe house, guarded by two full fireteams. When I told him you were asleep, he told me to let you sleep and to have you call him when you woke up. There’re no developments as yet—forensics of the island reveal nothing except a couple partial footprints which tell us nothing. Same with the note and knife, and security footage. We have a glimpse of a figure in the shadows approaching Rin’s quarters, but not enough to tell us anything.”
“Okay, well, I’ll see what the manager wants and then call Val.”
The elevator halts and the doors open—Harris has a pistol in hand, held down by his thigh, and he scans as the doors open—there are four A1S guards in the small foyer just outside the elevator. Each guard is in full body armor, carrying an assault rifle.
They surround the building manager and an additional person; the manager looks…rattled.
He’s middle-aged, with a receding hairline, wearing a very fine charcoal suit with a crimson tie and matching pocket square. “M-Miss Roth, good morning. My apologies for bothering you this way, but…”
Harris gestures at the additional individual, a young woman in a tailored power suit, wearing sensible pumps. She’s white, pretty enough, brunette…she could be anyone, and you’d never pick her out in a crowd. “Who’s she?” He holds her gaze. “Who’re you?”
She has a DHL document mailer in her hands. “My name is Emily, I’m with Next Day Courier Services. I have instructions to deliver this package to Mrs. Kyrie St. Claire Roth, at this address, at this time. I am not allowed to release the package to anyone except the recipient.” She holds my gaze. “May I see your identification, please?”
I shrug, frowning. “My ID? It’s upstairs in my purse.”
Harris motions to one of the guards. “Kitchen counter. White clutch. Get it.”
The guard nods once, enters the elevator, and Harris leans in, uses a key to send the car up. A couple moments later, the elevator returns, and the guard emerges with my purse in his gloved hand—his or her, I should say, since the guard is of medium height and build and is wearing a full helmet with visor and balaclava, obscuring identifying features.
I take the clutch and produce my ID, show it to the courier, who examines it, nods. “Very good. Sign here, please.” She hands me a clipboard with a triplicate receipt, which I sign and receive a copy, and then I’m finally handed the mailer. “Thank you, and have a nice day, ma’am.” She turns to leave.
“Wait,” I say. “Who sent it?”
She shrugs. “I have no idea, ma’am, and even if I did, I couldn’t tell you. All I know is I received the package from my boss with my instructions. Deliver to the recipient only, with proof of identification.”
“I see. Thank you, Emily.” I take the package onto the elevator, and wait.
Harris glances at the manager. “I’m giving you my personal number. Any other deliveries or anything of the sort, you call me directly.” Harris produces a business card and hands it to the manager. “Needless to say, that number is for your eyes only, and only in the event of another delivery or if anyone asks about Mrs. Roth.”
“Understood, sir,” the manager says.
Harris merely nods, and joins me on the elevator. “Wait to open it,” he tells me.
We reach the penthouse and Harris takes the mailer from me and examines it, probing it with his fingers, examining the seal, and attempting to determine the contents by feel.
“Everyone back,” he orders. “Not taking any chances. Out of the room, everyone.”
“Nick, now hold on,” Layla says. “Why are you opening it, if you’re worried it’s a bomb or something?”
“I don’t think it is, but I’m not taking any chances. Now out.” He doesn’t look at his wife, and she seems to recognize that this is an instance where it’s best to not argue. All of us retreat into my bedroom, as Harris draws a folding knife from his pocket and opens it. A moment later, he calls out. “All clear.”
When I get to his side, he has the envelope open and has dumped the contents onto the table. Another generic check without any identifying features, with another word in the same ink and same block letters:
BELONGS
Harris swears, a long, florid, creative string of curses. “Starting to sound familiar,” he says.
I’m already dialing my husband. He answers on the first ring, his face and shoulders appearing on the screen.