Point Blank

GOING DOWN

    MICHAEL J. ROSCOE was a careful man.
    The car that drove him to work at quarter past seven each morning was a custom-made Mercedes with reinforced steel plates and bulletproof windows. His driver, a retired FBI agent, carried a Beretta subcompact automatic pistol and knew how to use it. There were just five steps from the point where the car stopped to the entrance of Roscoe Tower on New York’s Fifth Avenue, but closed-circuit television cameras followed him every inch of the way. Once the automatic doors had slid shut behind him, a uniformed guard—also armed—watched as he crossed the foyer and entered his own private elevator.
    The elevator had white marble walls, a blue carpet, a silver handrail, and no buttons. Roscoe pressed his hand against a small glass panel. A sensor read his fingerprints, verified them, and activated the elevator. The doors slid shut and the elevator rose to the sixtieth floor without stopping. Nobody else ever used it. Nor did it ever stop at any of the other floors in the building. At the same time it was traveling up, the receptionist in the lobby was on the telephone, letting his staff know that Mr. Roscoe was on his way.
    Everyone who worked in Roscoe’s private office had been handpicked and thoroughly vetted. It was impossible to see him without an appointment. Getting an appointment could take three months.
    When you’re rich, you have to be careful. There are cranks, kidnappers, terrorists—the desperate and the dispossessed. Michael J. Roscoe was the chairman of Roscoe Electronics and the ninth or tenth richest man in the world—and he was very careful indeed. Ever since his face had appeared on the front cover of Time magazine (‚The Electronics King‛), he knew that he had become a visible target. When in public he walked quickly, with his head bent. His glasses had been chosen to hide as much as possible of his round, handsome face. His suits were expensive but anonymous. If he went to the theater or to dinner, he always arrived at the last minute, preferring not to hang around. There were dozens of different security systems in his life, and although they had once annoyed him, he had allowed them to become routine.
    But ask any spy or security agent. Routine is the one thing that can get you killed. It tells the enemy where you’re going and when you’re going to be there. Routine was going to kill Michael J. Roscoe, and this was the day death had chosen to come calling.
    Of course, Roscoe had no idea of this as he stepped out of the elevator that opened directly into his private office, a huge room occupying the corner of the building with floor-to-ceiling windows giving views in two directions: Fifth Avenue to the east, Central Park just a few blocks south. The two remaining walls contained a door, a low book shelf, and a single oil painting—a vase of flowers by Vincent van Gogh.
    The black glass surface of his desk was equally uncluttered: a computer, a leather notebook, a telephone, and a framed photograph of a fourteen-year-old boy. As he took off his jacket and sat down, Roscoe found himself looking at the picture of the boy. Blond hair, blue eyes, and freckles. Paul Roscoe looked remarkably like his father had thirty years ago. Michael Roscoe was now fifty-two and beginning to show his age despite his year-round tan. His son was almost as tall as he was. The picture had been taken the summer before, on Long Island. They had spent the day sailing. Then they’d had a barbecue on the beach. It had been one of the few happy days they’d ever spent together.
    The door opened and his secretary came in. Helen Bosworth was English. She had left her home and, indeed, her husband to come and work in New York, and still loved every minute of it. She had been working in this office for eleven years, and in all that time she had never forgotten a detail or made a mistake.
    ‚Good morning, Mr. Roscoe,‛ she said.
    ‚Good morning, Helen.‛
    She put a folder on his desk. ‚The latest figures from Singapore. Costings on the R- 15
    Organizer. You have lunch with Senator Andrews at half past twelve. I’ve booked The Ivy.‛
    ‚Did you remember to call London?‛ Roscoe asked.
    Helen Bosworth blinked. She never forgot anything, so why had he asked? ‚I’ve spoke to Alan Blunt’s office yesterday afternoon,‛ she said. Afternoon in New York would have been evening in London. ‚Mr. Blunt was not available, but I’ve arranged a person-to-person call