The wind was howling and rain spattered on the loading dock--it should
have been protected, but you can't do everything--as Mannheim briskly
made his way up the metal steps. The large sliding door was locked, but
he still had the magnetized card that clicked it open. A button on the
wall started it moving along the rollers . . . just enough to slide
through . . . there, he was in.
Inside was a long hallway cluttered with various crates-- either just
delivered or ready to be removed, he was not sure --and he had to feel
his way along, not wanting to risk turning on the lights.
For an instant, as he stumbled among the sharp corners, he really felt
his age. This was not something for a retired engineering professor to
be muddling with. He should be back in Cambridge growing orchids in his
greenhouse. What in blazes was he doing . . . ?
Then he noticed the light emerging from under one of the doors, and as
he stepped closer, he heard two voices. One of them belonged to the man
who had saved him, Michael Vance. The other . . . the other had to be
one of the terrorists. Now what?