Secret Army - Robert Muchamore Page 0,73
arrives.’
The supervisor smiled. ‘I wouldn’t worry about Mr Walden, he’s been dead fifteen years. You’ll find cleaning stuff through the blue door where you came in. Just you make sure it comes back when you’re done.’
‘Brilliant,’ PT nodded. ‘Thank you, sir.’
PT shoved his way back through the women queuing to punch in and found his way into a large cupboard. There was a sink at the back and he part-filled a bucket and grabbed a mop before heading outside.
It was a hundred-metre walk to the offices. The doorman didn’t bat an eye as PT strode into a marble-clad hallway. A line of headless dummies dressed in Walden nightgowns stood guard as he waited for the lift to the third floor.
PT thought getting on to the roof might prove difficult, but the office staff didn’t start until nine. He crossed a deserted typing pool and stepped into an open manager’s office. The large sash window overlooked the factory’s asphalt roof, less than a metre below. As Marc had predicted there was nobody manning the guns or searchlights, though there was a solitary maintenance woman repairing the asphalt on the far side of the roof, more than a hundred metres away.
Satisfied that he’d found the right place to climb on to the roof, PT crossed the typing pool and entered another office on the opposite side. From here he could see Joel standing behind a damaged section of the fence. He opened the window and gave a thumbs-up before dashing downstairs.
Rosie was first into the marble lobby. She was too young to be an employee and the doorman looked up from his counter.
‘You look a little lost,’ he said sympathetically. ‘And rather soggy too.’
PT emerged from the stairwell and pretended to be angry as he came through the double doors. ‘Why don’t you leave me alone?’ PT shouted to Rosie. ‘I don’t owe you anything.’
The doorman was surprised by this, but he stayed put until PT grabbed Rosie by her collar and smacked her around the face.
‘Hey,’ the doorman shouted, as Rosie howled with fake pain. ‘You’re out of order, young man.’
‘What’s it to you?’ PT roared. ‘Keep your nose out, fatty.’
The doorman was past his prime, but he was a big fellow and he bunched his fist. ‘Little hooligan,’ he roared. ‘Do you want a taste?’
PT allowed Rosie to fight herself free, and she backed away as the doorman charged forwards. PT ducked the big fist, then Rosie smashed her palm into the doorman’s temple, knocking him sideways to the ground.
The blow would have knocked most men out, but the doorman hit the polished floor, rolled over and tried getting back up. PT kicked him in the ribs as Marc and Joel ran into the lobby holding lengths of pre-tied rope.
‘Rosie, get the elevator,’ PT shouted, as he jumped on the doorman to try and subdue him.
They hadn’t anticipated such a struggle and everyone was tense. It would take one secretary to arrive for work early and run outside screaming and they’d be totally screwed.
Rosie stood in the door of the lift, holding the metal grilles open so that it couldn’t leave. After a struggle Joel tied the doorman’s hands behind his back. They lifted him off the floor, still kicking and yelling.
As Marc held the doorman by the scruff of his shirt, he craned his neck forwards and sank his teeth into the boy’s wrist. Marc howled in pain and let go. The other two boys couldn’t carry him alone, and the heavy body hit the marble floor. PT had lost his temper and he punched the doorman hard in the solar plexus.
‘Keep still,’ PT yelled. ‘Don’t make me knock you out.’
Eventually they bundled him into the lift. Rosie had to step out as the gates slammed shut and she could hear the doorman yelling all the way as she chased the lift car up the stairs.
*
Nobody paid Luc much notice as he sauntered around the burned-out warehouse. Besides the legitimate trade coming through the customs gate he watched a thriving black market in everything from a trolley stacked with boxes of nails to stolen fruit stuffed inside dockworkers’ pockets. Luc spent a few coins and breakfasted on peanuts and oranges, a fruit he hadn’t tasted since leaving France more than six months earlier.
All the while Luc kept one eye on the Poles. They’d been back to the coach and found a toolkit designed for changing tyres and basic repairs on the engine. They’d met no resistance in climbing the