There was a particular office block just off Trafalgar Square which was notable for two reasons. First, its facade was undergoing refurbishment that required scaffolds all the way up to the roof. Second, it was directly across a very narrow street from the Portrait Gallery of London. The two neighbouring roofs were both a mess of skylights, air conditioning units, antennas, and—as of a few minutes ago—a zip-line across the narrow gap between them.
John Clay had elected to run this job lean. Erin Baird was handling transportation; she and her car awaited his return on the street below. To deal with the gallery’s security system, he’d hired Jay Moriarty—presently eyeing the zip-line with a dubious air.
“You said you weren’t afraid of heights,” Clay reminded him.
“I’m not,” Moriarty replied. “I’m afraid of falling to my death from a dodgy zip-line.”
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