The two-inch braided steel cable screamed across the bronze sheaves at thirty feet per second.
A spray of freezing grease and salt water whipped off the spinning drum, spattering the mahogany floorboards of Level Four.
The mechanical room smelled of scorched hemp, graphite, and Atlantic brine.
Looking down through the open hatchway, Julian could see the steel cage of the marine lift hurtling into the Atlantic fog.
Director Evelyn Cross stood inside the descending car, clutching the black vulcanized rubber Admiralty Dispatch Case to her chest.
One hundred feet below. One hundred and fifty feet.
The dark silhouette of the car was shrinking against the churning grey surf.
At that speed, the car would hit the foam-slicked deck of the waiting stealth-tug in less than eight seconds.
