02 The Secret on Ararat by Tim Lahaye Page B

one.”
    The bird gave a trill, cocked its head once, and flew off. The man moved silently to one of the large windows and removed a handful of tools from a backpack. First he held up what looked like a TV remote, pointed it at the window, and pressed a series of buttons. After a fewseconds a red light winked on and a single beep told him the alarm system had been neutralized.
    Next, he applied a suction cup to the window and attached an arm with a glass cutter.
    Putting pressure on the glass cutter, he made an arcing circle around the suction cup, then tapped the circle once with a gloved hand and the glass popped out with the suction cup still attached. He set it on the ground, put away his tools, and slipped through the hole in the glass.
    On the third floor of the building, another security guard methodically checked the doors as he walked down the corridor. So far everything was secure. Nothing out of place. Another quiet night.
    He worried that maybe it was too quiet. He’d been experiencing problems with his hearing recently—his wife swore she had to shout to get his attention—and when he found himself wrapped in total silence, he couldn’t be sure that he simply wasn’t registering low-level noise. The kind of noise that could be significant in his line of work.
    That faint grunting sound, for instance, gone as quickly as it had come. Did he imagine that? Or was it actually a shout—another guard in trouble somewhere in the building—and he should be rushing to his assistance, calling for backup, every lost second a matter of life and death?
    He stopped. A thud. Definitely a thud. Like a bag of flour hitting the floor. Followed by more silence. But the silence was somehow eerier this time.
    He quickly unlocked the door to one of the offices, slipped inside, and crossed to the window overlooking 5th Street. Nothing out of place. Still, better safe than sorry. He radioed to Thielman on the roof.
    No reply.
    Not good. He felt his skin go clammy. Then he punched more numbers into his walkie-talkie.
    “This is Robertson to Caldwell. What’s your location?”
    “This is Caldwell. I’m in the basement.”
    “Okay. I’m going to the roof and see why Thielman isn’t answering. Why don’t you work your way up and join me?”
    “I’m on my way.”
    Robertson headed for the stairs. But slowly. He’d give Caldwell plenty of time to catch up. No point taking more chances than he had to.
    Talon heard the door to the basement open and quickly slipped into the shadows next to the stairwell. A few seconds later Caldwell jogged past him. Talon was momentarily startled by the security guard’s speed. In his experience these rent-a-cops took their time over everything—especially investigating suspicious situations—but this one seemed determined to get to the source of trouble as quickly as he could.
    In which case, Talon really ought to point out that he was heading in the wrong direction.
    “Excuse me, sir.”
    Caldwell spun around, his hand instinctively going to the automatic on his hip.
    “I seem to be a little lost.”
    Caldwell approached cautiously, unable to make out the features of the man lurking in the stairwell. “You certainly are, sir. Can you come out into the light, please?”
    “Of course,” Talon said, stepping smartly forward while simultaneously sweeping his right arm across Caldwell’s throat. Before Caldwell could react, his larynx was severed, along with both carotid arteries. He slumped to the floor as twin fountains of blood painted the wall a garish red.
    Talon carefully wiped the blood off his artificial index finger onto Caldwell’s jacket and smiled. “Thanks for your help. I think I can find my own way now.”
    When Robertson reached the roof, Thielman was nowhere to be found. He walked over to the corner overlooking 5th Street and Milford. All was quiet except for a green Jeep parked across the street. As he walked along the Milford side of the roof, his flashlight illuminated