Page 59 of The List
A FTER RECEIVING D E F LORIO’S INSTRUCTIONS, V ICTOR J ACKS ENTERED the building that housed paper machine number three.
It was nearly a hundred degrees outside under a blazing summer sun.
Yet that seemed cool compared with the stifling humidity inside the gargantuan brick structure.
Hundreds of workers hustled about tending to the seemingly insatiable needs of the roaring equipment.
The paper machine spanned the length of a football field, an alternating series of wires, felt, and dryers that collectively sped wet pulp from one end to the other, eventually converting brown mushy goo into dry solid paper.
Water was a huge component of the process, steam the number one by-product, and everyone wore either earplugs or a headset to shield from the deafening roar.
Communication was through hand gestures and sign language.
Not a whole lot different from his own line of work, Jacks thought.
He was dressed as a security guard. His presence virtually unnoticed. The guards constantly wandered through the mill. He knew exactly where break room number five, or the Boar’s Nest, was located, so he threaded his way between the machinery toward the metal stairway.
Before starting his climb, he casually glanced around to see if anyone was paying him the slightest attention.
H ANK WATCHED THE GUARD AND SILENTLY CONGRATULATED HIMSELF on the hasty evacuation. His main objective was simply to get out of the building unnoticed, the appearance of the uniformed man suddenly adding a complication.
He studied the guard’s face.
The same man who’d been stationed at the contract negotiations all last week and one of the guards who’d come into the cafeteria earlier. That was way too many coincidences. Probably one of De Florio’s associates.
The guard climbed the metal stairs toward the Boar’s Nest.
Hank glanced at his watch.
10:19 A.M.
He knew what was happening one floor below, in what was referred to as the basement.
Tony Wright, one of his electrician helpers, had surely started his approach to the lowermost rollers of paper machine number three.
Twenty-two and a troublemaker, Wright was eternally grateful to Hank, who both got him his job and made sure the company kept him on the payroll.
Thirty minutes ago he’d told Wright to toss a screwdriver into the felt rollers at precisely 10:20.
Paper breaks were common, with a set procedure that engulfed everyone associated with the machine until the broken sheet could be fed back across the rollers and production restored.
Breaks happened mostly when small debris or parts of machinery fell into the run.
But they could be induced. A screwdriver would not only tear the paper but also destroy the felt on which the pressed pulp rode.
The resulting damage would take time to repair.
Hank checked his watch.
10:20.
He hoped Wright was punctual. No one else would be in the basement. It was the hottest place in the building, notoriously avoided unless absolutely necessary. Scalding steam misted. Machinery screamed.
Then he heard it.
The unmistakable sound of a tear reverberating throughout the building.
An alarm sounded.
Amber lights twirled.
Workers raced to their assigned stations, the idea being to get the machine back online as quickly as possible.
Distraction accomplished.
Hank glanced at the guard standing at the top of the stairs. He’d locked the Boar’s Nest, so the man was gazing inside through a side window. He took advantage of that opportunity and darted for the door.
It took only a few seconds for him to cross the open area at the north end of the building and step outside.
V ICTOR J ACKS TURNED TO SEE WHAT HAD SPURRED ALL THE COMMOTION.
Workers scurried everywhere.
Then, across the building, he caught a glimpse of Hank Reed.
Slipping out a door.
H ANK CASUALLY STROLLED ACROSS THE HOT SAND AND GRAVEL OF the open yard that surrounded the massive brick building.
The midmorning sun burned bright, made even more brilliant by a sharp reflection off the white chalky ground.
He yanked sunglasses from his shirt pocket and shoved them on, which helped with the glare.
Fifty yards away he passed the lime kiln, its metal grotesquely encrusted with thick layers of white paste.
A hundred yards from paper machine number three he glanced back and saw the security guard bolt out the door and head toward him.
That wasn’t good.
Change of plan.
He picked up his pace and nearly jogged toward the door that led into paper machine number two.
Though he’d gained a slight lead, extra time would be needed at the barge dock.
He shot through the door, jerked off his sunglasses, and headed straight for the storeroom, one of the few secure places within the plant.
Though several alarmed doors led out, only one provided access in.
In years past the entrance had been secured by a simple lock, a shift supervisor the only person with a key and charged with the responsibility of admitting people and accounting exactly for what was taken out.
Now the door was electronically controlled, activated from within a small glass cubicle where access could be videorecorded.
The extraordinary measures were necessary since the room contained millions of dollars in parts, equipment, and tools, everything needed by the mill at a moment’s notice from the smallest screw to the largest electrical generator.
A tempting target for employee theft.
A concrete hall separated the building’s outer wall from the freestanding metal walls, dividing the massive space into usable sections.
He hustled down the corridor, trying not to attract attention.
He glanced back just as the guard entered the building.
He still had a fifty-yard lead but noticed the guard picking up his pace.
He turned off the hall into the anteroom for the storeroom.
He could now be seen through the glass cubicle.
But since the man on duty knew him well, all he had to do was point to the door and the electronic bolt instantly released.
He entered, never losing a step in his stride, and the spring-loaded door closed and locked behind him.
The storeroom was partially soundproofed and air-conditioned, one of the few areas in the mill equipped with those two luxuries.
It was a cool, eerie, irregularly shaped space full of bays and inlets formed from the leftover square footage between the generators, the building’s loading dock, and a sprawling electrical control room.
The ceiling stood barely eight feet. It carried the look and feel of a library with row after row of metal shelves overflowing with tools and parts.
Tens of thousands of items were precisely cataloged, tagged, and numbered, computers maintaining an accurate inventory.
No one actually worked inside, people just came and went after finding what they needed and logging out.
He quickly moved to a far row of shelves and ducked behind, turning his attention back to the door.
J ACKS ENTERED THE ANTEROOM.
“Did Hank Reed come through here?” he asked the attendant through a hole in the glass.
The attendant nodded.
“Where’d he go?”
“In there,” the man said, casually pointing to the door.
“Open it.”
H ANK HEARD THE BOLT RELEASE.
He stood behind a row of shelves a hundred feet from the entrance, near the door he intended to use as an exit.
He hadn’t already left because he wanted to see if he could lose his tail within the maze.
He knew every inch of the storeroom, often using it as a quiet spot to gather information.
He hoped that local knowledge would give him an edge.
Perhaps his pursuer had never been inside before.
The door shut.
“Mr. Reed, we need to talk,” a voice said.
He did not respond. Instead, he glanced behind at the exit door and hoped it hadn’t been locked as the shift supervisor sometimes had an annoying habit of doing.
Steps approached.
“Mr. De Florio wants to see you. No point in running. Just come along quietly.”
He reached up and grabbed a two-inch washer from an open box on the shelf.
Aiming carefully, he tossed it over the shelves, away from him.
Metal banged against metal. The guard reacted, and he watched through the shelves as the man darted straight for the sound, the opposite direction from where he was hiding.
He turned and gently grasped the doorknob.
It opened, the dead bolt not set.
Praise the Lord.
He slipped out and closed the door.
He now stood in another concrete hall, this one leading to receiving.
It was there that all the equipment and supplies for the storeroom were inventoried and categorized before being shelved away.
The hall was constantly rinsed to keep it free of debris and he sidestepped a stream of quick flowing water, nearly running for outside.
The barge dock was now less than fifty yards away.
A FTER SIGNING IN AT MANAGEMENT’S GATE B RENT SPRINTED DOWN the crumbling concrete road that paralleled paper machine number two.
Along the way he passed the auto and carpentry shops, both in outbuildings bordering the Savannah River.
He knew the pavement would take him around the building and directly to the dock.
He looked back.
De Florio stepped through management’s gate and turned toward him.
T HE INSTANT D E F LORIO ACQUIRED B RENT IN SIGHT HE REACHED FOR his radio and pushed the SEND button.
“Bluebird. Robin. Your position.”
Victor Jacks answered, “Storeroom. In pursuit.”
“Is he in sight?”
“Negative.”
He knew the storeroom was a maze with a variety of exits, so he played a hunch. “Leave there and proceed outside. Toward the river.”
“Roger.”
He kept walking.
His quarry turned the corner a hundred yards ahead.
10:26 A.M.