The Ninth District Page 5

  Steve and Rick were next. They were experienced diggers, brothers who were part of a local construction crew that specialized in digging through the layers of sandstone and limestone for various projects under the city. They were used to spending time underground in tight spaces and handling equipment used for digging. He’d recruited them from a bar in downtown Minneapolis as they sat and watched a woman take off her clothes. He bought the drinks and they talked about being underground, their dreams of the big project allowing them to end this life. Maybe buy a boat on an island and have a dive shop. He knew if he got Rick, Steve would follow. He did.

  He was glad he knew how to pick people, read their feelings and desires. He was glad these three had agreed to join him. If they hadn’t, they wouldn’t have made it back alive from their first journey into the caves.

  Forty-five minutes into the hike, the Governor and his crew reached the site they had been working. To reach it they had passed through a couple more caves and tunnels, traversed a river of sewage, and entered a gate they kept locked and covered with official looking signs describing the fines for trespassing into a posted city construction project. They weren’t the only ones who were exploring the bowels of the city. The underground explorers and adventure seekers, like Dave, were around, but they were like rats; they tried to avoid detection and contact with others.

  The four gathered in the opening where Dave stopped, their headlamps illuminating the walls and equipment and the hoses that ran along the ground into a dark opening in the floor. They were all breathing heavily and had beads of sweat running down their cheeks. After passing around a jug of water, the Governor walked over to the area of the most recent digging.

  “Ok, let’s see what you’ve done.”

  Steve was excited and started, “Boss, we think we’ve hit the old bridge cable-stay pits, just like you said we would.” They were standing forty feet below the traffic that passed overhead, entering and exiting the west end of the Hennepin Avenue Bridge. The current suspension bridge that carried traffic across the Mississippi was modeled after similar suspension bridges that had been built here in the mid to late 1800’s. The pits they had been looking for and discovered had anchored the cables of one of the past bridges.

  He paused for some sort of response, and getting none, he continued. “So that gives us a pretty good idea of where we are, and we know where we’re going, right? We just need to figure out how we’re going to get there.”

  The Governor looked over the site with his hands on his hips, a slight smile spreading across his lips.

  “Gentlemen, this is great. You were right; you did have reason to celebrate.” He clapped his hands together. “From here, we find the shaft on my maps which will get us down to the next chamber and from there it’s about another thirty or forty feet to the target. We’re definitely making progress and we’re right on schedule. Who has the papers?”

  Dave pulled them out of his pocket and handed them to the Governor. He removed the papers from the zip-loc bag, unfolded them, and spread them out on a dry spot on the floor. They all knelt and trained their lights on the drawings, waiting for him to speak. The top sheet was a plan view that showed the street level of the area above them. The Governor folded back that sheet and shone his headlamp on the next. The second page showed the overhead view of the underground. Tunnel locations he and Dave had mapped, old cable-stay pits, forgotten underground foundations, and the black lines where he had drawn in the outline of the Federal Reserve vault.

  The Governor pointed to their location on the map. “We should be about here, just like you said, Steve. Northwest of this location, about one hundred and twenty feet, and about twenty feet lower, is where we’re going. Find a layer of sandstone and we should be able to dig our way there with spoons.” He folded back the page to expose the next. “This is the goal.”

  Steve looked at his brother and then at the Governor. “Can you tell us about it again?”

  The Governor looked at him, then closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall. He was a little light-headed. He didn’t know if it was the pot, the hike in, or the excitement of the moment. He opened his eyes and looked directly at Steve.

  “The Ninth District Federal Reserve vault houses twenty million dollars. It is a nearly impenetrable wall of solid concrete and steel with walls almost two feet thick, with one million pounds of rebar in four mats of number five bars, four inches on-center, staggered one inch per mat. But, there’s an access door from when it was constructed. That’s how we’re going in.”

  Chapter 8

  Jack opened his eyes, but he didn’t move. He stared straight up, taking in the shapes and shadows of the textured ceiling. The only sound he could hear was the beating of his own heart pounding in his ears, so loud he couldn’t go back to sleep if he tried. The light was beginning to filter through the Venetian blinds, illuminating the dust moats floating overhead. He flattened his right hand onto the cotton sheet and slid it to his right, hoping, praying that it would bump into a warm body. All he felt was the coolness of the sheet on the bed next to him. He was alone.

  He thought about sleeping in, a birthday present to himself, but figured it must be about time to get up. Turning his head to look at the alarm clock on the dresser across the room, all he saw was a red blur. Squinting made it a little better. Five something. Reaching for his glasses on the nightstand, his hand ran into last night’s half-full glass of water, tipping it onto the floor.

  He put on his glasses and looked at the clock again. 5:27. It was strange how he always woke up right before the alarm went off.

  He laid his head back down on the pillow, letting it settle into the feathers, and stared at the ceiling. What day was this? His eyes moved around the room. Pictures the kids had drawn at school hung on the wall, and the stripes of light leaking in through the blinds, creating stripes of light and dark across them. Next to them was his FBI Academy diploma. On the dresser, next to the clock were the photos: his parents’ from the 25th anniversary party, the family shot from last summer’s vacation to the Black Hills, Mount Rushmore in the background, the kids’ birthday portraits. Things changed a lot in three months.

  The buzzing started. Jack glanced at the clock. 5:30. Time to get up. He threw off the covers and swung his legs out of bed and walked across the room on knees that crackled with each step, to reach the alarm clock on the dresser. His fingers probed the clock until they found the button to end the noise.

  He turned to face the full-length mirror on the closet door and straightened his back, grimacing as the pain shot through the lower vertebrae, part of his morning ritual.

  “Happy Birthday, Jack,” he mumbled. “Not too bad for 40.” His gut wasn’t too big, he still had some hair, and when he smiled, he wasn’t bad looking. The dimples added something that his crooked nose took away. “Think I could get a date?” He turned sideways to the mirror and sucked in his stomach. Well, not if he was seen in this get up. He stood there in his ratty, old, college football jersey, the outline of number 84 still barely visible, and boxer shorts flaring at the waist with the elastic showing.

  He looked back over at the pictures on the dresser. It would have been nice to have the kids wake him up with their giggles and birthday kisses. And he would have liked to wake up next to Julie too, but he didn’t know if that was going to happen again.

  At the end of the school year, before summer started, Julie had let him know where things had stood. She needed a break and for him to think things over. He hadn’t been surprised that she was unhappy, but he was shocked when she told him she was leaving and taking the kids with her. She was moving out to the western suburbs into her parents’ house. Ten years of being married to an FBI agent had taken its toll. The hours, his being gone for extended periods, the frequent moves to new field offices. She was home now, close to family and old friends, and she didn’t want to leave. She wanted a commitment from Jack. A commitment that he would finish his career in Minneapolis and that they’d stay here to raise their family close to hers, to live a more normal life.

  Jack struggled out of the clothes he wore to bed, put on his running shorts and a t-shirt, sat on the edge of the bed, and put on his socks and running shoes. Another part of his morning ritual. He stood up to stretch, twisted slowly from side to side, and bent over to touch his toes. His fingertips reached just below his knees. He rolled his head a couple of times clock-wise and reversed direction a couple of turns and shook out his arms. He was ready to go.

  When he opened the door, the heat and humidity immediately enveloped him. Better to go out now than later when it really had time to warm up. He slowly jogged towards River Road and the paths along the bluffs of the Mississippi River.

  Jack crossed the paths and scrambled down through the woods to run on the trails that ran next to the river. The bike paths above were nice, but below the bluff was another world. A world removed from the city. Woods, the river, and few noises other than squirrels foraging for food in the grass and leaves on the ground.

  Jack liked to run to think, and running down through the woods along the river brought him even deeper into the recesses of his brain. Jack thought about the day ahead. He dreaded working on his birthday. He wanted to spend it with the kids. They were excited to see him, to give him his gifts, and to sing Happy Birthday. It was all they had talked about on the phone the past two days. If he didn’t have to work, they’d go to Como Zoo to see the polar bears swim or the Minnesota Zoo to see the dolphins. If he could make it through the day, they’d have fun tonight. Maybe this weekend they’d get to the zoo or go bowling. He’d let the kids pick.

  Fifteen minutes into his run, Jack reemerged from the woods and followed the path up to the Ford Parkway Bridge. He was in the zone now, running without thou
ght or effort, autopilot. The sun was peaking up on the east horizon, causing him to squint as he crossed the bridge. Sweat ran down his face and arms as one foot plodded in front of the other. Thirty more minutes and he would be home, ready to shower and face another day.

  Dorow, Douglas

  The Ninth District — A Thriller

  Chapter 9

  The Governor jerked. Startled, he reached out from beneath the blankets and felt around on the nightstand to find the source of the repeated blaring. Finding the alarm clock, he rolled onto his back and brought it to his face while he pushed various buttons, trying to make the sound stop. The numbers glowed silently in front of his eyes, 6:03, while the noise continued. His heart beat hard in his chest.

  “It’s your pants…cell phone,” Sandy mumbled. “Make it stop.” She grabbed the pillow and pulled it down over her head to muffle the noise.

  The Governor got out of bed and grabbed his pants. Sandy had thrown them across the room last night before a long night of unbridled “body exploration,” as she called it. He felt as if he had been explored and conquered. The ringing had stopped before he got the phone out of his pants pocket, but he held it in his hand and sat in a soft chair by the window, waiting for the telltale beep indicating the caller had left a message.

  The phone beeped; the display showed a message was waiting for him. He glanced back at the lump on the bed and debated retrieving the waiting voice message or climbing back under the sheets for some additional needed sleep, his thumb playing with the numbers on the face of the phone while he tried to make a decision.

  The window air-conditioner unit kicked into life to catch up with the rising temperature of the apartment. Sandy snorted and pulled the pillow tighter over her ears.

  Walking into the living room, the Governor looked out the window as he pushed the button to retrieve the message. Waiting for the call to go through, he studied his naked reflection in the window. He was happy with how he looked. At fifty, he was fit, looked good in and out of his clothes, and was able to attract and bed women much younger than himself. His short, black hair was speckled with gray, giving him an air of class. He followed a regimen of yoga and tried to watch what he ate. Sandy had even got him to start running around Lake Calhoun with her.

  The voice in the phone told him to enter his password. Once he completed this, he heard a familiar voice. Listening, he looked out the window at the world coming to life.

  “Damn,” he breathed. He pushed the button to end the call, gathered the rest of his clothes, and got dressed.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and gently pried the pillow from Sandy’s hands to reveal her face. “Princess, I have to go.” He reached out, brushed the stray hairs off her cheek, and tucked them behind her ear.

  Sandy’s eyes opened slightly. “What?” she asked. “What time is it?”

  “A little after six. I have to go. I wish I could stay, but I have to go meet some people. Something’s come up.” He ran his hand down her arm. “How about we meet for lunch? One o’clock, the New French Bakery?”

  She rolled over again. “Sure, one o’clock.”

  Gently rubbing the back of her neck, the Governor tried to recall their conversation from the previous night.

  “What was the name of the agent that questioned you at the bank?”

  “Special Agent Ross Fruen. He was kind of cute,” she teased.

  “Cute. Right.” The Governor squeezed her neck. “I’ll see you at one.”

  After stopping at Caribou Coffee for a badly needed cup of coffee, the Governor continued driving up Hennepin Avenue towards downtown Minneapolis to follow up on the phone call he had received. Hot coffee wasn’t what he really wanted on a morning that was already hot and sticky with the rising sun, but he needed to be alert.

  With the air-conditioner blowing on him as he drove by the Walker Art Center towards the Basilica, he dialed his cell phone and spoke into the hands-free headset he wore. “Vadim, it’s me. Yeah, I know it’s early. Sorry.”

  The Governor signaled and moved over a lane to the right as he listened to what had to be Russian cursing.

  “Listen, Vadim. The Feds are getting a little nosy and I need you to get something done before we meet tonight. What? No, nothing like that,” the Governor said, shaking his head. “Just let your fingers do their keyboard dance and see what we can learn and how you can mess up a life a little so a certain agent has other things to worry about.

  “He’s Special Agent Ross Fruen, late twenties. OK, how long will it take? That’s it? Great. I’ll see you tonight. And bring the information we discussed.” The Governor ended the call and placed the cell phone in the seat next to him. “Welcome to my game, Agent Fruen,” he said to the windshield as he continued towards downtown Minneapolis to take care of his other issue.

  Chapter 10

  The Governor pulled his SUV into the parking lot off West River Road and backed into a parking spot so the tailgate would face the bike path and the woods that ran along the west side of the Mississippi. He sat in his car for a couple of minutes with the newspaper in his hands. The headline of the Metro section, above the fold, was “Who is this man?” over a picture of him from the bank. The story contained details of the bank robbery. The weather info on the back page of the paper confirmed that the heat was here to stay, with rain in the forecast every day for the next week.

  The Governor casually looked around to get a feel for the morning people and car traffic. A biker peddled by. Across the parking lot, an elderly man and his grey-faced lab were walking away from him. Just a couple of people out trying to beat the heat that was sure to get worse in the afternoon. Checking his watch, the Governor grew anxious.

  It was almost 7:00. He had to get to the site, deal with the problem the crew had called him about, get home to shower, and get back Uptown for lunch. When the old man and his dog rounded a bend in the path and were out of sight, the Governor got out of the SUV and grabbed his duffel bag out of the back-end. He took one more glimpse up and down the bike path before crossing it, and headed into the woods and down the bank to the river.

  This was the long way to the site where his crew was digging. Above ground, he was about a half a mile north of the Hennepin Avenue Bridge and the Federal Reserve. That wasn’t bad, but underground it was a maze of passages and turns with no direct route to where his crew was working. It was a longer hike than the mill ruins entrance by the Stone Arch Bridge, but he didn’t dare enter the underground caves from there during the day since the bridge was a popular spot for walkers and bikers.

  He stood in the sand at the edge of the Mississippi and looked across it to the Boom Island landing. Everything was quiet. The river flowed silently by, its surface shimmering in the morning sun. No paddleboats were loading at this time of day to take sightseers down river through the lock and dam and back again.

  The strap of his gear bag dug into his shoulder, reminding him why he was there. He wiped the sweat from his brow and rearranged the strap farther up his shoulder before he turned and continued walking downstream along the bank until he got to the spot he was looking for. The concrete apron for the storm sewer jutted out of the woods, breaking up the wooded shoreline like a scar, an unnatural opening into the earth. It reminded him of an entrance dug by a large underground creature.

  He entered the sewer pipe, more like a cave at this point, and moved far enough in to get out of the light, where he was able to change into his caving gear without being seen from outside. The dark sewer, providing a respite from the heat that had been building since he’d woken up, also offered a transition back into the underground.