Page 122 of The Devil's Advocate

‘Propylene,’ said Berlin.

Bloch swore, closed her eyes. If a tank full of propylene erupted it would cause a BLEVE – boiling liquid expanding vapor explosion. There was one every few years around the world. Most people wouldn’t know about them, and they rarely made the news, but chemistry professors, like Gruber, would know. A BLEVE explosion of a propylene tank could wipe out a city block.

In Manhattan.

Berlin held the phone to his ear, but he was looking at Bloch as he spoke, as if he were addressing both of them.

‘Edwards has been radicalized, but not by the far left. He’s been taken in by the White Camelia. They’ve targeted him, indoctrinated him, and then destroyed his life systematically. A man who has a grudge, a cause and nothing to live for is highly dangerous. Francis is going to blow himself up. I have no doubt of that. The only question is who is he going to take with him.’

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

HARRY

Harry Ford put down his empty glass of bourbon on the bar and called for a refill. Eddie had gone out to try and get some sandwiches and bottled water. Either he was taking his time or the good folk of Buckstown were being their usual helpful selves. The bartender at The Chanterelle was a young man who probably wasn’t old enough to buy himself a drink and appeared happy about it. As he poured another bourbon for Harry, he gave him a look that was usually worn on the faces of those parishioners who were in the front row for eight o’clock mass on Sunday morning and knew in their hearts they were simply better people than the rest of the congregation behind them.

‘The next one will make it six bourbons in a row,’ said the bartender.

Harry studied the boy, said, ‘How old are you?’

‘Old enough to pour you a drink,’ said the bartender.

‘Fair enough. As long as you keep pouring, you and I will get on famously.’

‘How many are you planning to have?’

‘As many as it takes, kid. Why?’

‘No reason, it’s not good to get so drunk, you know?’

Harry leaned back in his bar stool, as if getting further away from the bartender might improve the situation.

‘You would be the first bartender I’ve ever met who doesn’t believe in getting people drunk. I hate to break it to you, kid, but you might not be cut out for this business.’

The bartender poured the bourbon, slid the glass to Harry and went about polishing a beer glass with his cloth.

The small bar in The Chanterelle had one round table, behind Harry, and then a set of double doors leading to the reception. A glass pane was set in the wall beside the double doors so the bartender always had a view of the receptionist. To Harry’s left the wall was covered in photographs of old Hollywood stars – Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Brigitte Bardot, Audrey Hepburn, and more. Harry noticed there were no pictures of Sammy Davis Jnr. To his right a window looked onto the street.

It was this window that Harry kept an eye on. It was open, and anyone coming into the hotel, or pulling up outside, Harry would hear. There was no TV or music in the bar. It was like an airport lounge, only with less atmosphere.

A semi-truck pulled up outside, rather suddenly. The engine was revving too high when it pulled in, and the airbrakes screamed. He craned his neck, got a look at the driver.

It was dark out, but in the light from the dash Harry made out a familiar face.

Francis Edwards.

The skin on his face was redder than usual, sweat had stuck his hair down flat and he was breathing hard. He had a cell phone in his hand. The screen lit up. He tapped at the screen, looked at the hotel, looked back at the screen then tapped some more. Then he held the phone to his ear.

Harry heard a phone ringing. He swiveled the bar stool around and took a sip of his bourbon. The ringing died when the receptionist picked up the phone. Harry couldn’t make her out, but he assumed she was giving the normal telephone greeting for the hotel, in the same dead-man’s tone she seemed to do everything else.

Her expression changed. She looked out toward the front door.

The receptionist had a deeper tan than anyone Harry had ever met before. She had a face like a walnut, and just as hard, but right then Harry swore he saw her become paler. She slammed down the phone, looked left and right, her hands outstretched, palm up. She was talking to herself.

Checking the window, Harry saw Francis put the phone down and lean toward the wheel for a better look at the front of the hotel.

‘What the hell is she doing?’ said the bartender.

He had stopped polishing glasses and was now staring over Harry’s shoulder through the glass pane at reception. Following his incredulous look, Harry saw the receptionist waving at the bartender, her arms beckoning him to her, and then flailing in the air, like she was desperately trying to land an airplane.