The Extraordinary Adventures of Alfred Kropp (Alfred Kropp #1)(10)

“No, just the power to the security system. Power goes out every now and then.”

“There’s no backup?”

“You can override it. If it stays down over ten minutes, though, a call automatically goes to police headquarters.”

I thought about it. “Okay, so we have ten minutes from the time you cut the power till the cops know.”

“Yeah. But it’s maybe another five, ten minutes before a cop gets there.”

“How do you know?”

“We’ve run drills before, Alfred.” He sighed, and his head went shake-shake-shake again.

“Okay. Let’s say a terminal window of no more than fifteen minutes.”

“ ‘Terminal window’? You’ve been watching too many movies, Alfred.”

“What if someone shows up downstairs while we’re in Mr. Samson’s office?”

“While you’re in Samson’s office.”

“Me?”

“Well, I can’t do it, Alfred. Why do you think you’re here? I’ve got to provide cover downstairs. I’ll get you in, you get the sword, and then we get out. Then I call Myers and we swap the sword for another cool half-mil.”

We drove in silence for a while. Samson Towers loomed ahead, silhouetted against the night sky.

Uncle Farrell said, “Now, stay right here in the car, Alfred.” He pulled into the underground parking lot. “I’ll come back and get you once the shift’s changed.”

So he left me there, hunkered in the front seat. My watch read 10:45. I have to admit, even though this deal seemed awfully fishy to me, I was excited. It was kind of like a spy movie, only we weren’t spies and this wasn’t a movie. So maybe it wasn’t like a spy movie but more like a fifteen-year-old kid and his uncle trying to steal a sword that may or may not belong to a guy who was paying them a truckload of money to steal it.

Uncle Farrell came back downstairs and I got out of the car.

“All clear,” he whispered. “I’ve already cut the power to the system. Hurry, Alfred!”

He popped the trunk and pulled out a beat-up old duffel bag.

“What’s that for?” I whispered. The garage was empty and I wasn’t sure why we were whispering.

“You want to be seen lugging a big sword into our apartment building, do you? Here.” He handed the bag to me.

We took the elevator from the garage to the main floor, where the fountain spattered and gurgled and our footfalls echoed eerily in the great empty space.

I followed him to the guard station with the bank of surveillance monitors. They were all dark. I noticed tiny dots of sweat beaded on his forehead.

“Okay, Alfred, let’s go.”

We got into the elevator and Uncle Farrell pulled out the key for the executive suite. He was sweating pretty bad by that point. I was sweating too, and my tongue felt very thick in my mouth. We didn’t say anything. Secretly I was hoping our quest would come up a big fat zero. That way we could tell Mr. Myers we couldn’t find it and be half a million dollars richer without actually taking anything that wasn’t ours and that might not even be his.

The elevator doors opened and we stepped out. I could feel my heart slamming in my chest and it actually hurt to breathe. I inhaled shallower and shallower, to lessen the pain.

The double doors leading into Mr. Samson’s office suite were directly ahead of us. Uncle Farrell looked at his watch. I had already checked mine.

“Okay, four minutes down; we’re fine,” he said.

He slipped the key into the lock and the doors opened silently. I felt for the light switch.

“No lights,” Uncle Farrell hissed. He pulled the flashlight from his belt.

“Somebody could see that too,” I said.

“Well, gee, Alfred, I left my infrared night-vision goggles at home, so I guess we don’t have much choice.”

He clicked on the flashlight and the beam of light glanced off the dark mahogany of the secretary’s desk.

“Where is it?” I asked.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“But I don’t think it would be out here.”

He pulled a pair of rubber gloves from his pocket.

“Aren’t those for washing dishes?” I asked.

“I got ’em from the janitor’s closet. Here, put them on.”

“Where are yours?” I asked.

“I work here, Al,” he reminded me. “My fingerprints won’t mean anything.”

“But won’t the cops wonder why your fingerprints are all over Mr. Samson’s things?”

He stared at me for a second. “We only got one pair.”

I pulled off the left glove and handed it to him.

“I’m right-handed,” he said.

“So am I,” I said.

We stared at each other for a second.

“What?” he asked. “I can’t be expected to think of everything.”

I sighed, and put the glove back on. He swung his flashlight toward the left, where it glinted on the gold-plated doorknob of the door leading to Samson’s office.

“If it’s anywhere in this place,” he breathed, “it would be in there. Hold the light, Al.”

I shone the flashlight on Uncle Farrell’s key ring as his shaking fingers searched for the right key. I tried to check my watch, but it was too dark and Uncle Farrell needed the light.