Matt Reilly Stories Read online

  Dominating the immediate area was the colossal Chrysler Building. It loomed above them to the east, 77 storeys high, across the wide chasm of Lexington Avenue.

  Hood gazed at the top of the Chrysler Building.

  That was where they wanted to go, he thought. It was the only building in this area that was high enough to allow for the final leg of their journey…

  ‘All right, LJ, we don’t have much time,’ he said, breathing hard. ‘You said you had the route figured out from here.’

  ‘This way,’ Little John said.

  Behind Grand Central, a new tower was under construction. It was basically just the shell of a building—all scaffolding, gantry elevators and unfinished concrete floors. It didn’t even have windows yet, so you could see all the way through.

  It also—Hood saw—had a crane mounted all the way up on its roof, from which hung an extra-long cable and hook.

  Little John, he saw, had already been here. The crane’s cable was stretched out to the west at a steep angle, tied to one of the middle floors of the structure.

  They raced for the nearest gantry elevator, stepped inside it and whistled up toward the floor with the crane’s hook tied to it.

  The SEALs chasing them must have radioed their companions, because no sooner was the elevator moving than the three Seahawk helicopters arrived on the scene and the whole construction site was pummelled with gunfire.

  The elevator came to the 10th floor and Little John flung open its metal grill and led Hood across the exposed concrete floor to the tied-down hook at its edge. No sooner were they off the elevator, than it headed straight back down to the SEALs down below.

  They were coming.

  Through the exposed sides of the open-air level, Hood and Little John saw the Navy choppers circling the building, searching for them like bloodhounds. They’d have them in ten seconds…

  They came to the crane’s hook. The way Little John had secured it, it was ready for a big swing—a long pendulum-like arc that would carry them eastward, alongside their unfinished building’s southern side, then over Lexington, right up to the steeland-glass superstructure of the Chrysler Building’s tenth or eleventh floor.

  ‘I’ll hold the hook,’ Little John said, ‘you hold me. Just make sure you’re ready with a suction cup by the time we reach the Chrysler.’

  ‘Got it,’ Robin Hood said.

  Little John untied the hook. Hood grabbed the bigger man’s belt—while keeping a suction cup gripped in one hand.

  Then, without any further ceremony—just as the first SEALs arrived on their level in the gantry elevator—Hood and Little John jumped off the edge of the dusty concrete floor and swung.

  THE CHRYSLER

  It was a spectacular swing.

  Two tiny figures, suspended from a building-mounted crane, flanked by three Navy helicopters, swinging in a beautiful flat arc, high over Lexington Avenue.

  They swung fast—swooping downwards, across the face of the ugly unfinished tower—then they shot out into the open air above Lexington, reaching the bottom of their arc…and then they came back up again, up and up and up, zeroing in on the shiny vertical side of the Chrysler Building.

  They came to a window, hit it hard—and stopped, thanks to the suction cup in Hood’s hand, now affixed to the exterior of the great structure.

  Within seconds, the adjoining window was broken and they were inside, heading for the nearest elevator.

  Bing!

  A minute later, the elevator arrived at the 75th floor of the Chrysler Building.

  Hood and Little John charged out of the lift, blasted a security lock, stepped into a partitioned office area.

  ‘Jumpers off,’ Hood said.

  They wrenched off their jumpers as they hustled across the floor, heading for the eastern windows.

  The removal of their bulky woollen jumpers revealed small packs on their backs—as well as, in Hood’s case, the chest-pack containing the coveted document.

  They came to the eastern wall of the building, saw the world beyond it—the tops of buildings, the East River, and right next to the East River, their destination…

  ‘You ready for the rollercoaster ride?’ Hood said.

  ‘Are you kidding? This is what I’ve been waiting for,’ Little John said.

  ‘Then let’s do it.’

  Firing as he ran, Hood blasted the eastern windows to hell and then, without so much as a second thought, he and Little John sped up and launched themselves out through the exploded-open window and plummeted down through the sky.

  Although our two nations have traded indirect blows in this burgeoning conflict, the United States is not yet a formal part of this war. Our entry into it, however, need not occur at all.

  THE FINAL LEG

  The backpacks, of course, held parachutes.

  But these were no ordinary parachutes.

  Hood and Little John had known the Americans would send choppers. Likewise, they had known that getting to their final target would require at least one parachute jump.

  The only problem: parachute’s tend to hang in the air a long time.

  And so they were using stunt chutes—high-speed, high-performance chutes that dropped fast due to perforations in their canopies, but which also were capable of tight control. After all, they were still three blocks from their target building, which was why the Chrysler had been the only option: it was high enough to allow them to parachute—fast and low, without any hovering—through three blocks of street canyons and onto the roof of their target destination.

  The choppers saw them as soon as their twin parachutes blossomed.

  And took off in pursuit.

  The stunt chutes worked well.

  Hood and Little John shot downwards through the air like twin bullets, falling fast but flat, in dead-straight trajectories. They swung around onto 43rd St, banking like race cars, now heading due east.

  And for the first time that day, they saw their destination.

  It loomed before them at the end of 43rd St, two blocks away—a medium-sized square-shaped building made of glass and grey concrete, with an endless line of fluttering international flags stretched across its top.

  The UN Building.

  Fronting onto 1st Avenue.

  Hood and Little John were losing altitude every second— fifty storeys…forty-eight…forty-six…

  The choppers swung into the canyon behind them, rotors thumping, the lead helicopter trying to give the SEALs in its side doors a clear shot.

  It was going to be close.

  The two thieves shot through an intersection, descending quickly, flying fast.

  Forty storeys…thirty-eight…

  Shooting forward, the windows on either side of the street blurred with motion.

  They came to 1st Avenue, blasting out of the chasms of New York City, shooting high over the street, soaring over the wide paved forecourt of the UN’s headquarters.

  The choppers boomed out of the canyon system a second later, chasing desperately.

  But they were too late.

  The two parachutes sailed over the top of the UN Building, pulled up sharply, and landed deftly on its roof.

  The moment Hood and Little J landed, they jettisoned their stunt chutes and took off at a run, disappearing inside a rooftop elevator shack just as security personnel appeared from the fire stairs.

  The three choppers lurched to a halt in front of the imposing international structure, stopping in mid-air, their race lost.

  The usual bank of TV crews out the front of the building caught sight of the two parachutes, a couple of them actually raising their cameras in time to get footage of the two daredevils.

  Hood didn’t mind. In fact, it was exactly what he wanted.

  It was the nicest touch of all that they had painted some symbols onto their stunt chutes: anti-nuclear slogans berating the French for their continued nuclear testing in the South Pacific.

  It was reported on the news that night as just anot
her publicity stunt by guerilla environmentalists.

  Once inside the UN Building, Hood and Little John attached clip-on ties to their collars, and assumed the walk of regular bureaucrats.

  Owing to the labyrinth of national offices inside the building, the Americans would never know into which mission the two thieves walked—would never know which country’s high-pressure release valve was used to open the mysterious Grauss case.

  In this vein, Herr Fuhrer, I propose an alliance between our two great nations—between Germany and the United States of America—that will supercede any previous treaties my country may be party to.

  I await your reply. In the meantime, I remain,

  Yours sincerely,

  Franklin Delano Roosevelt

  President of the United States of America

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  OFFICIAL STAMP 046-24 --DOCUMENT NOT DELIVERED

  (7 DECEMBER, 1941) --DESTROY ALL COPIES --DESTROY ALL COPIES

  –-DESTROY ALL COPIES –-DESTROY ALL COPIES

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  THE BENEFITS OF LEVERAGE

  Two days after the theft, the President of the United States gave an impromptu press conference during which he announced that tariffs preventing Australian meat products from entering the United States—tariffs which for years had unfairly protected American farmers from open-market competition—would be abolished.

  He also issued a statement saying that aggressive US tactics toward the Euro and the European economy would cease. Some economic commentators noted that several currencies that were ‘tied’ to the Euro would benefit immensely from such an action, one of which was the beleaguered Australian dollar.

  When questioned about the sudden changes of policy, the President denied that it had been the result of a recent meeting at UN Headquarters with top-level Australian diplomats.

  In fact, he said, relations between the two nations were stronger than ever. Why, just next week, US SEAL teams were to engage in exercises with crack troops from the elite Australian SAS…

  ________________

  THE ROCK PRINCESS

  AND THE THRILLER WRITER

  _____________________________

  They met in a hotel in New York City. She was a hip young rock star from LA—newly discovered and heavily promoted—on a sixteen-city tour of the States selling her new album.

  He was also on tour, but it was a wholly different kind of promotional trip.

  She went on Letterman.

  He did interviews on local cable channels.

  She went on Howard Stern.

  He did a syndicated late-night radio show—a midnight-till-dawn sit-in.

  She had stretch limos to take her around.

  He took cabs.

  She had an army of publicists and managers and record company execs who insisted on doing everything for her.

  He had a chain-smoking in-house publicist from his publishing house.

  Her songs were all Rock-the-System, Rage-Against-Capitalism stuff. She wrote them herself. Her image was petite girl-genius: lead guitar, baggy jeans, and big doe eyes.

  He was published around the world by a gigantic publishing conglomerate.

  She did a lunchtime in-store appearance at the Virgin Megastore on Times Squares. The 3,000-strong crowd flowed out onto the street, causing a traffic jam.

  The Rock Princess & the Thriller Writer His in-store gig that day attracted 76 people. His publicist (cigarette in mouth) was absolutely thrilled. ‘Mark, this is awesome! When Grisham did this place the first time, only four people turned up!’

  At the Radisson on Lexington, she was in the top-floor Grand Executive Suite.

  He was in a room overlooking a back alley.

  She was a rock princess.

  He was a thriller writer.

  They met in the restaurant of the hotel.

  It was late. Each had had a long day. Except for the two of them, the restaurant was empty.

  He was seated alone in a corner booth, eating a club sandwich with one hand and reading a book with the other, like he always did.

  She was also sitting by herself, but not by choice.

  She was dressed up, made up: lipstick, eye shadow, blush.

  The whole catastrophe.

  And a catastrophe it surely was.

  Her boyfriend hadn’t shown for dinner. He was sold as the classic Serious Young Musician, but in reality he was just another wannabe Kurt Cobain clone. Their relationship—rock princess and Serious Music Dude—was something that he and his army of publicists never failed to exploit.

  Her cell phone rang. It was Serious Music Dude. Cancelling.

  ‘Sorry, babe, but there’s a party on at the Blackwater and Chad says I just have to be seen there.’

  She hung up, and alone at her table she softly started to cry.

  The quiet sobbing made him glance up from his book.

  He saw her sitting two tables away, all dressed up, dabbing

  The Rock Princess & the Thriller Writer at her eyes with a handkerchief.

  ‘Excuse me, miss. But are you okay?’

  She looked up.

  It was obvious from his earnest expression that (a) he had no idea who she was, and (b) his concern was genuine.

  And so in that darkened restaurant, they started talking.

  Music wasn’t his strong suit.

  He didn’t know the Foo Fighters from the Goo Goo Dolls.

  But he knew what he liked.

  And while at first he didn’t know who she was, he’d heard her latest single on the radio. ‘That’s yours? Hey, I like that song. Good fast drumbeat.’

  She asked him what other music he listened to.

  ‘These days, mainly singles. I don’t buy albums much anymore. I just like songs I can tap my toes to—like Robbie Williams’ Rock DJ, or anything by Smash Mouth. You know,

  “Hey now, you’re a rock star…”’

  In other circumstances, this would have been like telling an anti-globalisation protestor that you adored McDonald’s, but she could see that he was—truly, really, totally unselfconsciously—speaking honestly.

  And she liked that.

  ‘So, do you have an album out?’ he asked.

  It was currently No.4 on Billboard.

  ‘Er, yes.’

  ‘Cool. I’ll buy it. I always bring my Discman with me when I’m touring and now that I’ve met you in person, I’ll definitely check out your other songs.’

  ‘Great,’ she said. ‘So what do you do that brings you to New York?’

  ‘Oh, I write books. I’m here on an author tour. Do the East Coast first, then hopscotch across the country to LA.

  Then The Rock Princess & the Thriller Writer back to Australia.’

  ‘What kind of books?’ He looked kind of young to be a novelist.

  ‘I write thrillers. Big blockbuster action adventure novels.’

  She read a little. Perhaps she’d heard of him. ‘Titles?’ she asked.

  ‘The first was called Ice Mission. It was the one that got me my break. Then The Curse of the Incan Temple.’

  She shook her head. ‘Sorry. I haven’t heard of them.

  Besides, they don’t really sound like my kind of book.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ he said, shrugging. ‘Different people read different books. Some people like romances, others like prize-winners. Different worlds for different tastes. Sometimes inhabitants of one world never even know the other worlds exist.’

  She liked the way he talked.

  He seemed relaxed, content, happy with who he was. Which was rare in her world. She thought of Serious Music Dude. If he met someone who hadn’t heard of him, he would simply turn away, ending the conversation.

  But then suddenly, to her dismay, he said that he had to go.

  ‘I’m really sorry, but I have to be up early in the morning. Got to catch the 5 a.m. train to Philadelphia.’

  S
he was also heading off the next day. But at the more civilised hour of 10 a.m., flying first-class to Chicago.

  He wished her well on her tour and said good night. And then he was gone.

  She looked at her watch.

  It was 2.30 a.m. They’d been talking for four hours.

  The next morning, as she was waiting in the foyer for her people to settle the bill and take her bags to the waiting limo, she overheard one of the desk girls talking to the female The Rock Princess & the Thriller Writer concierge.

  ‘I’d heard he was young, but I didn’t know he was so cute,’ the desk girl was saying. ‘That’s the funny thing about authors, you never know what they look like. Anyway, I recognised his name on the computer when he checked out and asked if he was Mark Ridley, the author. He said yes he was, and I said that I was huge fan. Then I just stammered and stuttered and I felt like such a doofus, but he was so sweet. He even had a spare book in his bag and he gave it to me. Signed it and everything. Look!’

  What struck the Rock Princess most of all was that this was a girl talking. When she’d chatted with Author Guy the previous evening, his novels had sounded like boys’ books, and (she had to admit) she’d dismissed them as stories for Rambo-loving men.

  As she headed for the limo, she was joined by one of her back-up singers, a voluptuous sort named Vanessa—all big hips, short skirts and a whole lot of Wonderbra.

  ‘Did you hear about that writer who was staying here?’

  Vanessa said.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Young honey from Australia. Get this. Seven million books sold around the world, in 15 different languages. Movie version of his first book comes out next summer—he sold it to Paramount for a bomb. Starring Brad Pitt. Just signed a new book deal worth 14 million dollars. They say he’s on tour, too, parallelling us across the country.’ Vanessa adjusted her bra, positioned her breasts for maximum impact. ‘Have to make sure I’m ready in case we bump into that young fella again.’

  They headed for the airport.