the electronic equipment from outside the door.
It was half past two in the morning. The street was wet and deserted. My odds of following a resident inside, or of waiting for someone to emerge from the underground car park, were slimmer than my chances of zigzagging through the slanted rain without being hit by a single drop.
I raised my head and water sluiced down my forehead into my eyes. The second-floor window was still unlit. The blind was still closed. I had no way of knowing what I might find up there and no safe way to satisfy my curiosity. The sensible thing would have been to go home. To put it all down as a bad experience and try to move on. But I wasn’t good at sensible. Never have been. And I was determined to get inside.
There were a couple of options available to me. There always are. The simplest thing would be to smash one of the glass panels in the door. A couple of swift blows with the heel of my shoe would do the job. But it would be noisy. It could draw unwanted attention. And it was undeniably crass.
My other option was crass, too. It was hardly the most covert of approaches. But it had worked for me in the past, and I was confident it would work again tonight.
I pushed away from the tree and approached the entrance. It was set back in a well-lit alcove, and I was pleased to step in out of the rain. I was less pleased when I saw the security camera that was pointing at me from behind the glass doors. I turned sideways and raised my arm to cover my face. Too late to do much good, but better than holding up my ID and shouting my address.
An intercom panel was set flush into the wall. There was a camera there, too, fitted behind a small square of thickened glass. I placed my hand over the lens and buzzed a random apartment.
The buzz was loud out on the street. I guessed it would be a good deal louder inside a silent apartment in the middle of the night. Loud enough to disrupt somebody’s sleep. And irritating enough to draw them out of bed if I kept buzzing. Which I did. Insistently. Relentlessly. For more than a minute.
I took a break. The break lasted a couple of seconds. Then I pressed the buzzer again.
I held it for a long time. Long enough for my finger to begin to quiver. Maybe the apartment was empty. Or maybe I’d picked a really heavy sleeper.
I decided to play a tune, just to be sure. A tune could be truly annoying. If I did it right, even the most stubborn person would be bound to come and investigate. The tune itself didn’t really matter. I could have gone with anything, I suppose. But I chose the British national anthem. “God Save the Queen.” I’d been working on Her Majesty’s behalf earlier in the evening, so I guessed it was only appropriate.
I was just finishing “Happy and glorious” and was about to embark upon “Long to reign over us” when I finally got a response. It sounded more like a bark.
“Wer ist da?” asked a short-tempered male voice.
“Martin, it’s Johnny,” I slurred. “Lost my key card. Very drunk.”
There was a pause. A strained wait.
“Martin, it’s Johnny,” I mumbled again. “Lemme in. Drunk. ”
A sharp exhalation crackled through the speaker. “You have the wrong apartment.”
And with that, the speaker fell silent.
But I didn’t.
I pressed the buzzer again. No need for a tune this time. Just a series of short, intermittent bursts would do the trick.
The response came in less than five seconds. There was no speaking. No communication. Just another kind of buzz. A long, flat droning. And a sudden clunk. It was the very noise I’d been waiting for. The sound of the lock disengaging.
“Thanks, Marty,” I drawled. “You’re a legend.”
I snatched at the door, swaying for the sake of appearances, and staggered toward the elevator. Once I was sure I was beyond the scope of any camera lenses, I veered toward the stairs, wiping the rain from my face with my coat sleeve and reaching inside my pocket for my customized
It was half past two in the morning. The street was wet and deserted. My odds of following a resident inside, or of waiting for someone to emerge from the underground car park, were slimmer than my chances of zigzagging through the slanted rain without being hit by a single drop.
I raised my head and water sluiced down my forehead into my eyes. The second-floor window was still unlit. The blind was still closed. I had no way of knowing what I might find up there and no safe way to satisfy my curiosity. The sensible thing would have been to go home. To put it all down as a bad experience and try to move on. But I wasn’t good at sensible. Never have been. And I was determined to get inside.
There were a couple of options available to me. There always are. The simplest thing would be to smash one of the glass panels in the door. A couple of swift blows with the heel of my shoe would do the job. But it would be noisy. It could draw unwanted attention. And it was undeniably crass.
My other option was crass, too. It was hardly the most covert of approaches. But it had worked for me in the past, and I was confident it would work again tonight.
I pushed away from the tree and approached the entrance. It was set back in a well-lit alcove, and I was pleased to step in out of the rain. I was less pleased when I saw the security camera that was pointing at me from behind the glass doors. I turned sideways and raised my arm to cover my face. Too late to do much good, but better than holding up my ID and shouting my address.
An intercom panel was set flush into the wall. There was a camera there, too, fitted behind a small square of thickened glass. I placed my hand over the lens and buzzed a random apartment.
The buzz was loud out on the street. I guessed it would be a good deal louder inside a silent apartment in the middle of the night. Loud enough to disrupt somebody’s sleep. And irritating enough to draw them out of bed if I kept buzzing. Which I did. Insistently. Relentlessly. For more than a minute.
I took a break. The break lasted a couple of seconds. Then I pressed the buzzer again.
I held it for a long time. Long enough for my finger to begin to quiver. Maybe the apartment was empty. Or maybe I’d picked a really heavy sleeper.
I decided to play a tune, just to be sure. A tune could be truly annoying. If I did it right, even the most stubborn person would be bound to come and investigate. The tune itself didn’t really matter. I could have gone with anything, I suppose. But I chose the British national anthem. “God Save the Queen.” I’d been working on Her Majesty’s behalf earlier in the evening, so I guessed it was only appropriate.
I was just finishing “Happy and glorious” and was about to embark upon “Long to reign over us” when I finally got a response. It sounded more like a bark.
“Wer ist da?” asked a short-tempered male voice.
“Martin, it’s Johnny,” I slurred. “Lost my key card. Very drunk.”
There was a pause. A strained wait.
“Martin, it’s Johnny,” I mumbled again. “Lemme in. Drunk. ”
A sharp exhalation crackled through the speaker. “You have the wrong apartment.”
And with that, the speaker fell silent.
But I didn’t.
I pressed the buzzer again. No need for a tune this time. Just a series of short, intermittent bursts would do the trick.
The response came in less than five seconds. There was no speaking. No communication. Just another kind of buzz. A long, flat droning. And a sudden clunk. It was the very noise I’d been waiting for. The sound of the lock disengaging.
“Thanks, Marty,” I drawled. “You’re a legend.”
I snatched at the door, swaying for the sake of appearances, and staggered toward the elevator. Once I was sure I was beyond the scope of any camera lenses, I veered toward the stairs, wiping the rain from my face with my coat sleeve and reaching inside my pocket for my customized
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