by David Lyons
What he gathered was that the cloud was like some kind of a remote database that you could access from any computer but you didn’t keep the data on the hard drive. That meant you didn’t have to worry about your computer being stolen, only about the cloud being hacked. But that seemed like a good thing in his position. Boucher was about to access the cloud when the new cell phone rang.
“Hello?”
“This is Bob,” the caller said. “I see you got the package. I’ve been tracking it on the Internet. How are you doing?”
“I was about to go online.”
“You can do that in a minute. I wanted to tell you about your phone. We’ve installed a few apps.”
“A few what?”
“Applications. Programs. Listen to me carefully. First, any call to or from this phone is secure. You don’t need to worry about that. But don’t call any of Perry’s or Rexcon’s numbers with it, and don’t make any calls with it from inside their offices. They’ll know it’s enhanced. Now, it has what I’ll call a combination camera, laser measuring device, and CAD software program. To start the program you press the icon that looks like an eye and put the phone in your shirt pocket. You need to take off your jacket for it to see. It sticks up just above the seam of your shirt pocket. The camera is at the top. There are a couple floors I want you to walk—”
“Wait a minute. What does it do?”
“It makes floor plans.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Do I sound like I’m kidding?”
“Why do you want floor plans of executive offices?”
“First, to know where you are in case there’s a problem.”
“That’s taken care of,” Boucher said. The disk Fitch gave him was at that moment taped under the insert in his shoe.
“Yeah, right. You’ve got a GPS locator in your shoe. I knew that when you answered the phone. That’s so James Bond. With this system we know not only precisely where you are but everything that’s around you: desks, cabinets . . . we even see hardware in the walls. But that’s not all. When you walk their laboratories—”
“What laboratories? It’s an executive office building.”
“They’re going to take you to their laboratories. When they see what I send you, they will take you to their hearts, clasp you to their bosoms, and—”
“You’re coming unglued.” He could hear Palmetto laughing. “And you’re off the reservation,” Boucher said. “I’m looking for evidence of criminal activity, not trade secrets. And where did you get this spy-phone?”
“It was augmented by a guy here at the Institute. We call him Squeeze because of what he can compress into a cellular phone.”
“What is an oceanographic institute doing making cellular surveillance equipment?”
“You of all people know how important communications are to every one of the Institute’s missions. This is just an adaption of applications they use every day. You take care of this phone. It just might save your life. Okay, it’s time to get you into the cloud. Open your laptop. Let’s get you started.”
CHAPTER 23
BOUCHER ARRIVED AT REXCON’S offices early next morning, parking in a public lot two blocks from the office tower. At eight-thirty when he arrived things were already under way. Dawn had his coffee ready and he had documents for her. He asked that they be transmitted to Bert Cantrell. Sitting alone at an obviously expensive desk, he took his phone from his pocket, held it below desk level, and stared at it, half expecting Palmetto to appear on the screen and say howdy. That didn’t happen and he sat there with nothing whatsoever to do, feeling somewhat foolish. Dawn came in, refreshed his coffee, and said that Mr. Cantrell would be in to see him as soon as he’d finished reviewing the documents. Midmorning, Cantrell burst into the office.
“Brilliant,” he exclaimed, papers clutched in his hand. “Have you read this stuff?”
“I have,” Boucher said. “It looked to me like a simple and inexpensive solution to a complex problem.” Palmetto had coached him to say that.
Cantrell sat on the edge of a chair across from the desk and leaned forward. “The separation and storage of CO2—it’s incredible. This process also makes for a safer transmission of methane. If his cost projections are accurate, this process can compete with onshore natural gas production. Outstanding.” He stopped, remembering that although on his own turf, he wasn’t necessarily talking to a member of his own team. He stood up. “It’s a good start, but there are gaps.”
“There’ll be more tomorrow,” Boucher said. “But with the next installment, my audition is over. Our deal goes firm.”
“Let’s see what you bring us next,” Cantrell said, “then we’ll decide.” He started to leave.
“I have a question,” Boucher said.
“Yes?”
“Where’s the executive washroom?”
“I’ll show you the layout of the floor,” Cantrell said, “so you know your way around.”
“Thanks,” Boucher said. He took off his sport coat and draped its shoulders over the back of his chair.
He was given the tour. They even stuck their heads into Perry’s office. He wasn’t there. Jock returned to his own office and was putting his sport coat back on when Dawn entered.
“Can I get you anything?” she asked.
“I’m done for the day. You know, I don’t think I’m going to be keeping you very busy. I hope you have other things to do.”
“There’s always something,” she said, collecting the cup and saucer from his desk. “Till tomorrow, then?”
“Till tomorrow.”
The moment he got in his truck, the phone in his shirt pocket rang and vibrated, tickling his chest.
“Works great,” Palmetto said. “I’m looking at a copy of the floor plans right now.”
“I can’t imagine why,” Boucher said. “There’s nothing of interest on that floor.”
“You don’t know that. Your phone’s sensors tell me that Perry has a very large safe built into the wall of his office. It’s behind the bar; quite a piece of work. I don’t think he had it built to keep his gold watch in. Cantrell keeps a lockbox in his desk. It’s not made of tin. There’s something I want you to do tomorrow. Your desk is too close to the window. Ask that it be moved closer to the door.”
“Why?”
“There’s a jamming system built into the exterior walls and windows of the building to protect against eavesdropping. It’s interfering with your phone. If you’re sitting closer to the center of the building, I think we can get it working better. It has a range of fifty feet, so get within that distance of your target and we’ll do the rest.”
“Could you please tell me what you are talking about?”
“Everybody there has a cell phone,” Palmetto said. “The men keep theirs in their shirt or jacket pocket and the women keep them in their purses. We can use your phone to turn every cell phone on that floor into a microphone, without its owner knowing. We can adjust their phones’ settings to silent ring and automatic answer, then just call them and we’ve got a remote listening device. Just stay away from the walls and windows. Now go on home, and, by the way, take the battery out of your old phone when you get there. They can do to you what we’re about to do to them.”
“So I can’t use my personal cell phone? I have a friend; that’s the way she contacts me.”
“You can’t use it till this is over. It won’t be too long. Now move. You’re in a public parking lot and you look suspicious just sitting there in your truck.”
“You know where I am now?”
“I do and I know it’s going to cost you fifteen dollars to get out of that lot if you don’t move in the next three minutes. Get on home. I just saved you five bucks.”
“One more question.”
“Yeah?”
“What’s my blood pressure?”
“One-twenty over seventy. Pulse seventy-five. You’re good.”
“I’ll be damned,” Boucher said. “I was only ki
dding.”
“Like I told you, we’ve got apps for everything.”
He wouldn’t be calling Malika, and now she couldn’t call him—at least not on his own cell phone. But she knew his home number. She could call him there. He went home and spent the afternoon conversing with Palmetto on their super cells. It wasn’t so much a conversation as it was a science class. The information he would be handing over tomorrow was pretty much Palmetto’s pride and joy, his raison d’être in life. He had developed a system for recovery, collection, storage, and transportation of methane hydrate using materials never employed in the energy industry. He took pains preparing his protégé.
“They’re the same principles we’ve been using for the last hundred years,” Palmetto said. “There’s almost always gas associated with oil. GOSPs—gas/oil separating plants—are used in the production of oil to remove contaminants and to capture the associated gas for commercial use. That’s what I did, I just did it underwater; very deep underwater. And I’m separating gases from gases, not from petroleum. Otherwise, it’s much the same. Oil at the wellhead is under pressure; methane hydrate at the bottom of the ocean is under pressure. You already know that the bathysphere is the best design for deep-sea pressure, but obviously we can’t use titanium for every aspect of underwater production, it’s far too expensive. What I’ve been working on for the past twenty years are components that can withstand those extreme pressures. You with me?” he asked.
“So far,” Boucher said.
“I started experimenting with carbon fiber. You know what that is?”
“They use it to make race cars.”
“Racing, aerospace—it’s used in many industries. It’s strong under high pressure, it’s light, which is an advantage transporting it over the open ocean, and it’s even useful in filtration of certain gases. I have developed carbon fiber with various polymers to be used at different depths and for different purposes: pipes for transmission, bathysphere-shaped chambers for depressurization and processing. I can build an entire underwater plant from carbon fiber and polymers. When we’re finished with a site, we can pack up and move on without leaving so much as a footprint on the ocean floor. In a nutshell, Jock, the variety of carbon-fiber-based components is the essence of my process.”
“Is that what they were trying to get from you in that lawsuit?”
“Twenty years ago I was just getting started. I’ve done a lot of work since then. But yes; that’s what got Dexter Jessup killed.”
“Now you’re just going to give it to them?”
“I’m going to give them just enough to whet their appetite. Anyway, you are going to put them out of business before they can use it.”
“I thank you for your vote of confidence but you know this is no sure thing.”
“I don’t want to hear you say that again,” Palmetto said. “Think positive and we’ll make it happen. Always remember, you are not alone.”
“I’m never alone with that damn phone in my pocket.” He hung up and looked at his watch. Evening was nigh. He’d spent the whole afternoon at home and his landline had not rung. Not once.
As much as they love the Quarter, residents of New Orleans sometimes prefer to relax in more subtle surroundings, and when they do, the Garden District is the locale of choice. It was an old plantation till the 1830s. Wealthy Anglos bought homes there because they didn’t want to live with the French and the Creoles in the Quarter. Originally there were two homes per block, each with large gardens, hence the name. It still has one of the largest collections of antebellum southern mansions in the entire country. At the end of the nineteenth century, many of the lots were subdivided, and Victorian homes were built between the older residences.
Boucher needed to get away from home and the phone that did not ring and wanted a different ambience. He drove up St. Charles Avenue to the Columns Hotel, where the bar catered to those seeking sedate sophistication—and could claim one of the best bartenders anywhere. It was officially called the Victorian Lounge. One entered the room through twelve-foot, three-hundred-pound mahogany doors. The former dining room of the original owners of the mansion, it offered a mahogany bar, and fifteen-foot ceilings from which hung the original German stained-glass chandelier. Queen Anne–inspired wood panels adorned the ceiling and an ancient-Greek-inspired frescoed frieze covered the wall. This was no ordinary bar.
Though not a regular, he was recognized by the bartender and greeted as he took a seat.
“Haven’t seen you in a while, Judge,” the bartender said. “How’s it goin’?”
“Can’t complain, Mike. How are things with you?”
“I don’t owe my bookie; figure I’m ahead of the game. What can I get you?”
“How about a bourbon with a splash of bitters?”
“Brand?”
“Maker’s Mark will be fine, thanks.”
The best bartenders have two things in common: one, a good pour, and two, knowing when a customer wants to talk and when he doesn’t. Judge Boucher wanted to chat and Mike was just about to oblige but then stepped back and moved to the far end of the bar. Boucher noticed this and, as he sipped his drink, sensed someone standing next to the bar stool on his right. He did not look.
“Good evening, Judge.” The woman’s voice addressing him was familiar. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you in here.”
He turned to face her. “Dawn. It’s nice . . .” Not another word came out. She was standing close to him and it was like being poked with a cattle prod. The way she looked, from twenty feet away she would have had the same effect. Dressed for evening, she was stunning, wearing the simplest of black cocktail dresses, a diamond necklace and pavé diamond earrings, no watch, and a platinum ring with a huge pearl set in diamonds. Her hair looked softer in the subdued lighting, a strand falling down her forehead, just begging to be put in place. He refrained, the temptation almost too much.
“Yes,” she said. “This is a nice place. It’s my favorite, though I don’t hang around in bars all that much. Do I, Mike?” she asked the bartender.
Mike saw an invitation being extended and approached them. “You don’t come by often enough for me, Miss Fallon. You know Judge Boucher?”
“We’ve recently met,” she said, “though not in social circumstances. He doesn’t seem to recognize me out of uniform, so I guess I’d better order my own drink.”
Boucher snapped to her none too subtle hint. “No, please. What would you like? Would you care to sit down?”
“I’m sorry,” she said, “but I’ve never mastered the art of mounting and dismounting bar stools in form-fitting evening wear. How about a table?”
The lounge was not crowded and there were several tables available. Dawn ordered a champagne cocktail and they moved from the bar. He pulled out a chair for her, then seated himself. The bartender brought their glasses.
“I went to a gallery opening of an artist I like,” she said as if answering a question—or addressing a speculation—“and was on my way home. I live nearby. I am not spying on you. I’m not supposed to begin that assignment until tomorrow. What brings you to my neighborhood?”
“You live nearby?” Boucher asked, flustered and unable to string more than five words together.
“I live in a mausoleum my family has owned since 1895. It’s a few blocks from here.” She sipped her champagne. “You?”
“I have a place in the Quarter. My home is old too.” He sipped his bourbon for courage. “But I love it. I love places with history.”
“Well, mine certainly has that. It was a bordello before my family bought it; the fanciest house in the Garden District. I’ve gotten rather obsessed with it, I’m afraid. Other than the kitchen, bathrooms, and essential electricity, I’ve kept everything faithful to the period. All the furniture is authentic. I’ve restored it as a stately home, not a turn-of-the-century cathouse.”
Boucher chuckled and took a hard hit from his glass to settle himself. “How long have you worked for Rexcon?” It
was a question he didn’t want to ask, but trying to avoid it made it all-consuming.
“Next month will be my tenth anniversary. I started with them after graduating from Wharton, and I went to business school right out of college. Before you try to guess my age I have to tell you I received advance placement and finished Tulane in two years.”
He did the math in his head.
“I’m thirty-four,” she said before he had concluded his calculations. “Never married, not even close; I’m an old maid. And you? Are your bones starting to creak yet?”
“So far everything seems to be in working order. I know I’m getting old, though, because I only know the names of a few current movie stars and none of the new recording artists.”
That led to a discussion of favorite music, and the next time he glanced at his watch, an hour had passed. “Have you had dinner?” he asked.
“No, and I’m famished.”
“Do you have a favorite restaurant?”
“Commander’s Palace,” she said without hesitation.
Another talent of top bartenders: they know when their clients are ready for their check. Mike was walking toward them with the bill before Boucher even turned around to call him. He paid and they made their exit, Dawn slipping her arm in his as if out of habit. Walking along St. Charles Avenue, Dawn pointed out architectural details that gave the old homes their character.
