Отто BLOOM UNROLLED THE soiled plat on the dining room table of the Park Avenue dwelling and pinned down the corners with lead weights. Three of his sandhogs looked on, dressed in work clothes and exceedingly ill at ease in the opulent surroundings. Bloom himself felt intimidated by the extreme wealth, as well as the way Alphonse Billington threw around huge sums of money for all kinds of crazy things.
“Well,” he said, glancing up at his new employer, who was examining the plat with glittering eyes, “this is quite some plan of yours. I have to warn you: there will be rats.”
“They are practically Manhattan’s mascot.”
“I’m talking about a lot of rats. When we unseal the reservoir of the old Collect Pond here, and its water floods the underground tunnels, the rats are going to flee in the only direction left to them—up.”
“How interesting,” said Billington.
Bloom shook his head. He wondered again what he’d gotten himself into, tangled up with this strange, pale man and his peculiar tasks. But the pay was high, and the work was preferable to the brutal and dangerous caissons of the Brooklyn Bridge, where dozens of his comrades had died. He was keenly aware that Billington had not told him all, or even most, of what he was doing, nor had he explained the spiritual gobbledygook that motivated his brother, whom Billington had mentioned but Bloom had yet to meet. Yet despite all the secrecy and unfathomable dealings, Bloom’s instincts told him that Billington was a person of goodwill and integrity—and had ways to ensure the work they did, lawful or not, would appear to be so.
“Are you confident, Mr. Billington, that there’s no one down in those old tunnels? Once the water comes, they won’t be able to escape. I don’t want to be responsible for … you know, drowning anyone.”
“Bloom, the truth is there is probably one person, perhaps two, down there. But you can trust me when I tell you they are guilty of heinous crimes against humanity. A side effect of this operation is, in fact, to rid the world of their presence.”
Bloom nodded. He did trust the man—although he didn’t know exactly why. His men seemed to, as well.
Billington rubbed his hands together. “Now, Bloom, please tell me the plan you’ve devised.”
Bloom smoothed down the plat with his calloused palms. “Just to warn you, sir: it was difficult to get this plat, and I’m not sure it’s entirely accurate. The Collect Pond was drained and filled in about sixty years ago, but much of the water remains trapped in these reservoir canals, kept filled by underground springs. To stop the water from spreading, these holding canals were sealed off from the rest of the old aqueduct complex, which is now free of water. That’s what we’re going to flood—these tunnels, here and here. There may be—in fact, there certainly are—other tunnels and abandoned spaces down there, not recorded on the plat, that may also be flooded.”
“I hope to flood them all. But is there any danger the water might rise above ground level?”
“No. The water won’t rise farther than its natural level, which is well below the street and most of the current basements in the area.”
“Where will you put your charges?”
“The way I’ve worked it out, my men will enter at these access points. Three charges will be set: here, here, and here, each timed to detonate more or less simultaneously. Once these connections have been blown, the water will issue from these transverse aqueducts, meet in the middle, then spread out to flood the rest of the old reservoir tunnels.”
“Excellent. And how long do you estimate this will take?”
“Not long at all. Ten minutes, perhaps.” He glanced at the three men, who were eyeing the plat with furrowed brows. “These are reliable men, and they’ve been thoroughly briefed.”
The men shuffled awkwardly at the praise. Billington straightened up and turned to them. “You’re clear on what to do?”
“Yes, sir,” they said.
“You will all be handsomely rewarded.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“It goes without saying,” Billington went on, “that everything we do here, as at Smee’s Alley, is totally confidential. The consequences of idle chatter, barroom bragging, and so forth would be severe, if not fatal.”
None of Bloom’s men were under any illusion that this work was ordinary, or even legal, and they all nodded their understanding.
Billington withdrew a gold watch, glanced at it, then turned to Bloom. “Midnight is approaching. Mr. Bloom, I wait upon your leisure.”