Chapter 12: The Decryption Key
The deputy escorted Clara to the first-floor lobby, directing her to the large mahogany tables near the breakroom. She methodically unpacked the coffee cups, stalling for time, her eyes darting toward the glass elevator bank that led to the executive suites on the third floor.
Come on, Julian, she prayed silently.
Suddenly, the bright overhead fluorescents flickered and died. The hum of the HVAC system ground to a halt. The lobby was plunged into a dim, eerie twilight, illuminated only by the early morning sun filtering through the front glass doors.
"What the hell?" the deputy muttered, reaching for his radio. "Dispatch, we have a power failure at the foundation building."
Ninety seconds.
"Oh, no," Clara gasped, dropping a stack of plastic lids. They clattered loudly against the marble floor, scattering everywhere. "I'm so sorry, it's so dark in here."
As the deputy instinctively bent down to help her gather the lids, Clara backed away, slipping her shoes off to mute her footsteps. She bolted for the stairwell tucked behind the elevator bank.
Eighty seconds.
She took the stairs two at a time, her lungs burning as she flew past the second-floor landing. The emergency lights cast a sickly yellow glow on the concrete. She burst onto the third floor, sprinting down the carpeted hallway toward the heavy oak doors of Arthur’s office.
Sixty seconds.
She grabbed the brass handle. Without the magnetic lock engaged, the door gave way easily. Arthur's office was immaculate, lined with leather-bound books and smelling faintly of cigar smoke and lemon polish. She rushed to the massive mahogany desk in the center of the room.
Forty seconds.
Arthur had given her explicit instructions. Bottom right drawer. Feel for the false back. Press the small metal divot.
Clara yanked the drawer open, tossing aside manila folders and expensive stationery. She ran her fingers frantically along the smooth wood at the back. Nothing. Just flat wood.
Thirty seconds.
"Come on, come on," she whispered, her hands shaking. She felt higher up, near the top edge of the drawer. Her thumb brushed against a tiny, cold indentation in the wood. She pressed hard.
With a soft click, a thin, hidden panel sprang forward. Nestled inside the shallow cavity was a sleek, silver USB flash drive. She grabbed it, shoving it deep into the pocket of her chef’s coat.
Ten seconds.
She turned to sprint back to the stairwell, but as she reached the center of the room, a sharp, electronic chime echoed through the building. The power surged back on, the overhead lights flooding the office with blinding clarity.
The electronic locks on the doors engaged with a heavy, final thud.
Clara froze. She had missed the window. She was locked inside the executive suite.
Before she could process her next move, the handle of the office door clicked and turned from the outside. Someone with a keycard was entering. Clara darted behind the heavy velvet drapes flanking the floor-to-ceiling windows, holding her breath.
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The door swung open, and the sharp, rhythmic click of high heels echoed against the hardwood floor.
"I don't care if there was a power surge, Brody," a cold, aristocratic voice snapped into a cell phone. Clara squeezed her eyes shut. It was Eleanor Pendelton. "You told me the ledger was destroyed. Now you're telling me Arthur might still be alive? Find that caterer, and find my nephew. If they talk to the feds, we all go to prison."
