Man in the Middle

by Ken Morris

  And he hoped his plan did become necessary.

  Just before Peter had left the co-op, he patted his jogging outfit. No transmitters sewn into the clothing, he had convinced himself. He then examined his running shoes, first picking up the right one and searching for a slit around its soles. Finding nothing suspicious, he bent the shoe, thinking something might become evident. Again, nothing.

  He ran his index finger down the top of the shoe tongue, to the back, and a spot hidden by thick laces. He felt something small, hard. He held the opening to the light and discovered a disc—similar to the one in his jacket collar—attached to the tiny spot between the tongue and the shoe-top. He never would have seen or felt its presence once the shoe was on. He did not remove the transmitter. He then repeated the process with the left shoe. Nothing.

  Peter poured a cavernous bowl of dry cat-food for Henry. He leaned over, stroked the cat’s back, and whispered, “I know you don’t like dry, old man, but I may be gone for a while.” He then took a large bowl from above the sink and filled it with a half-gallon of water.

  Peter bolted his front door on the way out and began a slow jog that built to a run. He churned up a hill that led north, through the central business district, pushing himself at a five-minute mile clip—fast enough to ditch anyone following on foot. He then cut through several dead-end street barriers, blocking any car that might be trailing.

  Ending a confusing two-mile route, he stopped and removed the right shoe. He reached in and ripped the bug from its hiding place. He placed the circle on the pavement and stepped hard, crushing the insect-sized device. Putting his shoe back on, he took off again, this time at an even more rapid pace. He veered towards Rancho Santa Fe, a three-mile run up hills and over trails.

  A mile later, outside the men’s room at a mini-mall already decorated for Christmas, he stopped at a payphone to call Drew Franklin. Despite being hidden from view, he remained alert to anything or anyone unusual. He watched as wide-eyed kids dragged their tired parents to toy and electronics stores. A small line formed outside a Radio Shack as someone extolled the wonders of some video-game gadget. Capitalism at its finest, he thought. Despite the innocence of the scene, Peter kept all senses on alert. This qualified as prudence, not paranoia, he assured himself.

  After Drew answered, Peter tried to explain things, then instructed his friend, “Meet me downtown Rancho Santa Fe. In the back of that nursery off the main road. I’ll need to talk to Ayers, so give me an hour and a half.”

  “Why not meet you outside Ayers’ house?” Drew asked.

  “I’m not certain I can trust the guy. If he calls whoever is so interested in following me, I don’t know what might happen. This way, I’ll take off, no matter what.”

  Before agreeing, Drew asked, “Does this have something to do with your current employment?”

  “I hope not, but probably. And if it does have a connection, I may be up shit creek for more reasons than just Mom’s papers.”

  “I hate to ask.”

  “I’ve done some trades that aren’t exactly legal.”

  “You broke securities laws? I can’t believe that, White Bread.” Peter was grateful Drew didn’t sound judgmental.

  “Everybody in this end of the business is guilty—you get non-public information, you do a trade based on that information. It’s impossible to turn the fact-faucet off—brokers, corporate management, even politicians spoon-feed non-public tidbits to us all day long. Most times, we don’t even ask for it.”

  “If these people call and volunteer information, you mean to tell me it’s illegal to use?” Drew sounded bewildered. “Doesn’t sound criminal to me.”

  “That’s what I told myself, and even believed was true—I didn’t realize until later . . .” Peter heard the dinging of a garbage truck backing up. “That’s all bullshit,” he said. “I don’t have a good rationale for what I did. But I know for damn sure I need to be more careful from here on out. I think I’m capable of making good money based on legitimately obtained information.”

  “It sounds confusing,” Drew said. “I think I’ll stick to blocked arteries and aneurysms.”

  “That’s not all, either. I’ve got an ex-SEC agent after my ass. I’m in the middle of something ugly, and I don’t know how to get out.”

  “I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

  “Thanks, Drew. I love you, man.”

  “Me, Monica, and soon-to-be baby Hannah love you too. And, Bread?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You got the number of my voice mail at the hospital?”

  “Memorized.”

  “I’m gonna give you the password. That way we can give each other messages, then retrieve them without someone listening in.”

  “Thanks. Mind if I give the number to my buddy Stuart at work? If this gets any hairier, I may need to talk to him on the QT.”

  “Do what you have to do, Bread,” Drew said.

  Finishing, Peter hung up. He gave a final look around, then began to jog, still considering which route to take.

  The wind blew briskly with the air temperature in the low sixties. “Perfect weather for a run,” he told himself.

  He decided to take side roads until he got to the Rancho Santa Fe trails. At the trails, he legged his way east, keeping out of sight. His collar lay flat, so he pulled it high and angled his Padre baseball cap, allowing it to shield his neck and face. Fifteen minutes later, he arrived at the outskirts of Rancho Santa Fe, sucking oxygen into his burning lungs. Shadows from skyscraping trees cast a chill over his dripping sweatshirt. He shivered. Bounding forward at a steady pace, he squinted at a street sign and continued farther east. A couple of minutes later, he arrived at the lonely stretch of road that wound down a steep hill to Jason Ayers’ estate.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  THE SEVEN-FOOT GRANITE WALL HAD JUST ENOUGH DEPTH BETWEEN boulders to make scaling possible, and the green wrought-iron that ran along the top of the wall looked more intimidating than it actually was. Once he caught his breath, Peter conquered both obstacles in less than a minute. He chose a corner of the property hidden from the road by trees. No neighbor—if you could call someone an eighth of a mile away a neighbor—could see him entering. A lawn mower buzzed from the back of the house, behind a hedge dividing the three acres of front from the five acres of back. The gardener had parked his truck alongside the six-car garage in a space the size of a basketball court.

  Peter hunched over and worked his way towards the front door. He passed a picture window with the drapes drawn. Overhead, a helicopter chopped at a low altitude. The word NewsEight ran across its underbelly. Foolishly, while the copter’s shadow raced across Ayers’ furthest front acre, he ducked even lower, as if hiding from a cameraman.

  “Get a grip,” he whispered, feeling like a thief.

  Just then a cloud blew across the sun, darkening the sky and cooling the air. The wind responded with a force that threatened to dislodge his cap. Peter pressed the brim more securely over his eyebrows and ventured another ten steps. A canvas doormat rested on the slate stoop leading to the main entrance.

  At least twelve feet high, the double front doors had arched, etched glass mounted in a cedar frame. Peter remained out of view, shielding his approach behind dense brush running across the face of the house. This monolith of a place not only reeked money, but also defied architectural classification. Dark wood beams framed white stucco walls. The red-tiled roof gave the home a Mediterranean appearance that, taken as a whole, looked flawless from where Peter stood, gaping.

  When he reached the entranceway, Peter at first knocked, then rang the doorbell—a chime that echoed. “Time to get some answers, Mr. Ayers,” he said, crossing his fingers and hoping this was a good move.

  Tapping his foot, he counted to ten. “Don’t tell me nobody’s home. Come on, dammit, come on.”

  A minute passed, and he rang the bell a second time. A few seconds later, he turned to retreat, disgusted with himself for having failed
even this simple task. The wind picked up again. A few minutes earlier, his body had worked hard to produce enough perspiration to cool him down. Now, sweat turned cold, pasting his shirt to his skin. Involuntarily, he shook like a dog after a bath.

  Peter, now tired of waiting, ducked back into the shadows. But the moment he did so, the door opened. Suddenly losing his nerve, he pressed his back against the wall, as if he hadn’t planned this meeting in the first place. From where he hid, deep in the brush, he couldn’t see the front door, nor could he be seen.

  While he stood, as silently as a mute’s whisper, he came up with a hundred reasons to abandon his plan. Ayers wouldn’t help anyway, he speculated, or, worse, the attorney might turn on him. Or, maybe, he had overblown concerns and simply needed to go into therapy.

  “Hello,” Kate said, wiping out Peter’s resolve to flee. “Is somebody there?”

  Katie Ayers’ unexpected voice surprised him as much as snow in June. He froze. The door slammed shut before he could get any words through his lockjawed mouth. After a moment’s further hesitation, he stumbled forward, the branches splashing against his face, noisy and vicious. He tripped over a sprinkler head, just catching his balance after brushing against red bougainvillea twined up a dark column. He dragged forward and punched the doorbell hard enough to bow his pointer finger.

  Please, please, don’t slam the door in my face. With the Ayers’ meeting a thousand miles removed from his consciousness, Peter watched the door open.

  They stared. Kate, her hair damp from having just showered, looked as if she might flash a smile. The impulse must have soured in a split second because ice replaced fire in her eyes. Her lips turned down.

  “I’m engaged,” were the first words either of them spoke.

  Despite already knowing, the sentence pierced Peter like a poison dart, dispensing venom to his heart. “I know,” Peter said. “Your father told me. Congratulations.”

  “You don’t sound like you mean it.”

  “I don’t. I feel sick.”

  “You have no right showing up like this.”

  “I didn’t know you were . . .” Peter stood erect. He couldn’t steer his gaze from her face.

  “Even if sleeping together didn’t mean anything to you, I thought we could at least be friends,” she said.

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Leave.” She started to close the door.

  Peter stuck a foot inside. “I need to talk to you.”

  “How did you know I was here? Father hates you, so I know he didn’t tell you I was home.”

  “Your father hates me?”

  “He was right. Money did change you—or maybe you were always an ass.”

  Peter recoiled. Hadn’t Jason Ayers gone to a great deal of bother to issue him a warning?

  “Peter, what are you doing here?”

  “I came to see your father.”

  “Father? Why not just pick up the phone and call? Are you insane, or did something just pop into your head in the middle of a run?”

  “I think I’m in trouble.”

  “You think? How can you not know something as basic as that?”

  “You tell me. Somebody, I think Morgan or one of her associates, bugged my clothing and wired my car and my condo. At least that’s what Agent Dawson says. My running shoe had a transmitter attached to it.”

  “Okay, now that we’ve determined it’s insanity, keep talking. When you get to the part about aliens inhabiting bodies, I’ll call a good shrink I know.”

  “Please, Kate. You don’t have to believe me—I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t—but don’t make fun of me. This is serious. I may not be a good boyfriend—or even a good run-of-the-mill friend—but this isn’t a joke.”

  Kate pulled the door wide open. “Fine, Peter. I won’t make fun of you. And I’ll even listen for a while, at least until Father comes back. But when he does, I’ll let him take over. I’m sure he’ll be able to set the record straight and sort out whatever mess you think you’ve gotten yourself into.”

  Peter mumbled a thank-you and stumbled in. Later that day, trying to visualize the home’s palatial interior, he would draw a blank. He didn’t notice the marble floor, the spiral staircase, the million-foot ceiling hovering over the entrance hallway, or the chandelier dripping crystal daggers and refracting light. A French provincial sofa and an inlaid mahogany sideboard could have been vegetable crates for all the notice he paid them. A mantel clock echoed off Spanish tile, but Peter’s thoughts drowned out the sound. He saw and heard nothing, or whatever he saw and heard never passed into long-term memory. Passionate Kate blanketed his senses, even overshadowing some of his fears.

  “I did intend to call,” he said as he trailed her into the main part of the house. “I wanted to see you. I don’t have a good reason for not phoning. I don’t even have a made-up bad reason.” He restrained a desire to reach out and touch her. “I missed you.”

  “You’ve missed me?” Kate violently spun around, driving an exclamation point to her incredulity. “We sleep together, though I engineered that. But then you say nice, sweet things, like all that blather about us seeing where our relationship goes. We exchange a couple of emails, then you stop writing. I call, invite you to some parties. You’re too busy with work. Okay, I think to myself, that happens. You still sound interested. But that’s only because you’re too much of a coward to tell me to butt-out—”

  “No. That’s—”

  “Then, I call. The phone might just as well have been a gun, put to my head. Bang. Then bang, bang, bang. I keep firing, only I’m not a good enough marksman to hit my teeny-tiny brain. I leave messages. You know how many messages?”

  Peter didn’t make a move.

  “No, of course you don’t. Ten. I left ten messages. At first I worried you’d been hurt. Then, foolishly, I asked myself: why would a nice guy, with manners and charm, who seemed to like me, not return a simple phone call? I didn’t have an answer then, and I don’t have an answer now. Maybe it’s because I was wrong, and you aren’t a nice guy. There. That’s my summation, Peter.”

  “I’m a fool.”

  “Guilty as charged,” she said, heading towards her father’s library. Peter followed.

  Speaking to her back, he said, “When I heard you’d gotten engaged, it hit me. I didn’t realize how dumb I was.”

  “Why are you trying to hurt me?”

  “I’m not. And maybe you should marry this professor-book person. I’m in no position to offer an opinion. But I’ve learned one thing from all this.”

  “And what’s that?” she asked.

  “That sometimes the heart is the last to learn. I realize I’ve done something really, really stupid.”

  Kate turned and her face softened, but for only a fraction of a fraction of a second. “Stop it, Peter. I don’t want to hear any of this. I’m going to marry a kind man.”

  “I understand. I just wanted you to know I’m sorry.”

  “Let’s skip my problems. Do you need an attorney?”

  “You volunteering?”

  “Maybe. Let’s hear.”

  Peter hoped the reference to her “problems” meant she had second thoughts about marriage, and he filed the thought away. “I realize this sounds idiotic,” said Peter, “but your dad knows things that might help me understand how deep I’m in.”

  For the next hour, Peter replayed events. He mentioned photos from the sports bar, the intimation that his mother’s death may not have been an accident, her letter to him, and the registered envelopes.

  Kate fit her attorney cap over her emotions and pretended to be detached, interested in the plight of a potential client-in-need. She listened and then explained that “registered mail is the poor man’s copyright. The date of delivery and the seal prove that a document is original. If someone, after that date, claims a document as their own—that is, tries to steal someone’s intellectual property—the registered envelope proves the creator’s prior claim.”
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br />   “That’s what Mom meant then—that leaving the envelopes unopened should prove I hadn’t seen or copied the contents.”

  “What’s in those envelopes?”

  “Don’t know and don’t want to know.”

  “What else can you tell me?”

  Peter highlighted recent trading activities—those he participated in and those he knew of secondhand. He recounted the meeting with her father the other day and the surprise confrontation with Agent Oliver Dawson. When he finished, Kate stopped for a long minute. Finally, she said, “My father warned you not to rock the boat? What do you think he meant?”

  “At work, to just do my job.”

  “Was he suggesting you break any securities laws?”

  “No. In fact, he said I should be careful not to. But in the same breath, he tried to explain away all those other situations. Breaking the Indonesian bank. Brazil. Even how paying for information in certain cultures or countries is a necessity. I already told you how we use non-public information to make easy money. You think I’ve broken any laws?”

  “Probably. But it sounds rampant.”

  “Why does Dawson need me then? With so much illegal activity, why not just come in and clean house?”

  “Even if what you say is true, it’s nearly impossible to prove. What and when someone knew something, as well as their intentions, are difficult or impossible to prove without internal, corroborating testimony. The fact-patterns you’ve detailed are easily explained away. It sounds as if my father did an effective job explaining away most of these situations the other day.”

  “You’re right,” agreed Peter. “His arguments did sound convincing.”

  “And records. Obtaining records is impossible if the accounts are domiciled in the right sovereignties. Having said all that, though, did you ever consider that what my father said may be true? That this is nothing more than aggressive risk-taking? After all, you’re not a lawyer.”

  “I hoped that was the case. But if it’s all so innocent, why am I under such close scrutiny all of a sudden? I open my fat mouth about finding a letter and some sealed papers, and I’ve got the world’s biggest shadow following me everywhere I go. And then there’s backtrading? I don’t believe it has anything to do with correcting errors. I believe Stuart Grimes told me straight. This is about moving money. Big money.”