Chapter 9 - THE CATHEDRAL OF COLD CASH
The Bank of North America sat on the corner of State Street.
It was not a modern glass tower.
It was a fortress built of granite blocks in 1892, with Corinthian columns and iron-barred windows.
Beneath its marble banking hall lay the Sub-Vaults.
Three levels below the pavement.
Built to withstand artillery fire.
For seventy years, the Voss syndicate had held Safe Box 001.
It contained no gold.
It held deeds, blackmail negatives, ledger books, and the recorded debts of three hundred prominent city officials.
Whoever held Box 001 held the city by the throat.
Adrien parked the stolen truck in an alley two blocks away.
The rain had turned to sleet.
The street lamps wore halos of yellow ice.
Five black luxury sedans were parked along the curb outside the bank's private executive entrance.
Mercer's security detail was stationed beneath the granite archway.
Four men in dark overcoats, submachine guns concealed under their arms.
"How do we get in?" Isabella asked.
Her eyes were fixed on the armed guards.
"The executive entrance is suicide."
"I don't use executive entrances," Adrien said.
He led her down the narrow alleyway behind an old fish market.
A steel coal chute door was set into the foundation wall of the bank.
Adrien pulled the heavy brass estate key from his pocket.
The key Isabella had left on the side table that morning.
He inserted it into a hidden keyhole disguised behind a bronze water valve.
He turned it hard to the left.
A heavy hydraulic click echoed within the stone wall.
The iron chute swung outward, revealing a narrow brick staircase descending into blackness.
"The servants' passage," Isabella murmured.
"My father built it so he could enter without being seen by the directors," Adrien said.
He took the shotgun in his right hand and held out his left to her.
"Stay behind me."
They descended into the cold, damp dark.
The air smelled of limestone and hundred-year-old dust.
The stairs wound down past water pipes and steam conduits.
Faint voices drifted down from above.
Deep.
Echoing.
A man was speaking with booming authority.
Daniel Mercer.
"...the Voss era is over. Adrien's car was destroyed on Route One. His body is in the marsh."
A murmur of agreement followed.
Old men.
The Syndicate Council.
Adrien and Isabella reached a heavy wrought-iron grille that looked directly into the Sub-Vault chamber.
The room was vast, lined with polished brass safe deposit boxes from floor to ceiling.
In the center stood a ten-ton circular vault door, open three inches on massive oiled hinges.
Around a polished mahogany table sat eight men in tailored suits.
Daniel Mercer stood at the head of the table.
In his hand, he held a sleek black leather folder.
"The debt ledgers belong to the council now," Mercer declared.
"We renegotiate every dock contract tomorrow morning."
An elderly man with silver hair leaned forward.
Councilman Ross.
"You need both keys, Daniel. You have Adrien's signature card, but without the silver archive key, the inner lock will trigger the thermite fail-safe."
Mercer smiled.
A confident, predatory grin.
He pulled a small silver object from his pocket and held it up under the chandelier.
It caught the light.
Isabella gasped softly beside Adrien.
It was a silver key.
"Where did he get that?" she whispered.
Adrien reached into his own pocket.
His fingers touched the cool metal of the silver key Isabella had given him in the train.
They were identical.
"A duplicate," Adrien realized.
"My father made two."
May you like
"One for his safe."
"And one for his trap."
