"Does it have GPS?" Seth asked just as he found it listed under, "BMW Assist."
"Yes indeed. And we'll activate your Assist program, our compliments, for one year and couple your cell phone right now if you wish."
Meek looked up, his mind clicking through possibilities. "No need. It's a gift. I'll have them come in and activate it… to make it more personal. Or will it automatically connect to my phone?"
"Absolutely no problem at all, and no… I mean the system is very easy to use, but it won't connect to your telephone without you… takes about a minute is all."
“Big trunk?” Seth asked as he climbed out of the vehicle, simultaneously side–stepping the conversation.
The salesman popped it, and silently the chasm opened, “Big enough for a D.C. ego Mr….” he held out his hand.
“Meek, Seth Meek.”
Recognition dawned, the man hesitated.
“When can you have it ready? It’s a gift after all,” Seth ended the discomfort.
“Sir, I can have you on the road in less than an hour. Someone is going to be very happy with this car.”
Seth considered that. Probably not.
* * *
The next stop was only marginally less expensive. At least at the computer store Seth had some idea of what he was talking about. He’d run just about every operating system that ever was, created several of his own, and worked out the kinks in some that most people would never even know existed. He’d spent time on the giant Crays and had the chance to work with the sleek black boxes that the NSA was so proud of now. Computers could be counted on to be reliable. Not that they wouldn’t break, but when they did, a guy like him could always, always, find out why. It was just a new twist on applying the math that you learned in high school. Things either worked or they didn’t, but you could always figure out why.
By the time he was done, he had nearly filled the trunk with four big Macintosh computers, a couple of monitors, another laptop, a heavy spool of Cat–5 wire, several routers, and a suite of cameras and lights. There were enough extras to spill over into the back seat. On any other day it would have been fun.
He stopped a few more times that day, once at a pet store, once to meet one of Whit’s bruisers and pick up a set of keys, and again to get a handful of new cell phones from different providers. The cell phone stop bothered him, but he couldn't make sense of just why. He wasn’t hungry in any way, but the grocery store had a few things that he thought he might need as well.
The day had been hard on his bank account; by the time the sun was fading against the Capitol skyline, he’d gone through just under a quarter of a million dollars, a light day for Washington, but an insane day for Seth. But then, that’s what this was all about wasn’t it? At six he pulled off the Beltway and up to the west end of a little strip mall called the Elkhorn. It was a first look at the office that Whit had tracked down for him. There was a shipping and receiving door, and this Seth unlocked first in order to pull the car out of sight. He shut the thing down and stepped out in the narrow garage bay. The car was perfect, the only minor defect was the missing satellite fin. (The one he'd removed inside a carwash about ten minutes after leaving the lot.) He didn't want to risk a thing, and the words Global Positioning System rang like a gong in his mind. Honestly, he didn't think that anyone could track him, but it eased his mind to check possibilities off of his list. He looked up at the roof and wondered for the thousandth time what else he'd missed…. it would only take one thing.
The main floor of the office space, about a thousand square feet of worn wood slats, was completely useless for his purposes. A half dozen folding chairs were stacked amongst a pile of other refuse, either too invaluable, or too heavy to be carted off of the property before it closed. Fifty or so heavy wooden shelves and a pile of wire spaghetti were shoved against the north wall. He tore the Space Available/For Lease sign out of the window and flipped it over. OPENING SOON, he wrote in neat block letters. He replaced the sign, and then neatly papered over every open inch of glass. The locks on the doors were the next project. Instead of changing them all, he simply added large deadbolts.
Only then did he turn on the lights.
Access to the basement was via a door that pulled up out of the floor. It would have been tough to spot were the carpeting not frayed along the edges. A dozen steps down led to a storage area in the 200 square foot range, about ten feet by twenty of bare, dry concrete with fluorescent lighting. For some reason it smelled of eucalyptus. Not for long. He found the Internet connections just has he’d hoped; Whit hadn’t missed a thing.
Over the space of the next two hours, Seth unloaded everything from the car and laid it out across the floor like a giant pocket watch that he’d disassembled. He catalogued it all in his mind, and backed it up on paper making certain that he’d missed nothing. Satisfied, he began to set up.
He uncoiled the spool of bright orange Cat–5 cable and strung it along the wall so that he could have a connection in the basement where he’d be doing all of his work. Likewise, he ran four extension cords from the various outlets around the room and fed them down the basement trapdoor. It was simple work, nothing that he hadn’t done hundreds of times, but he found himself sweating. For a moment he paused, wiped at his forehead, and again, caught a glimpse of himself reflected in the window. His face itched, his split lip particularly, and while the swelling had gone down a bit, he still looked as if he’d had a bout of unsuccessful plastic surgery. He watched himself, a slight figure with rolled up sleeves, disheveled hair, and a coil of electrical cord clutched in one hand. It wasn’t a menacing image. Certainly not one that would inspire his enemies to simply throw up their hands and surrender en mass. His fear told him to look away, to get back to work and put his faith in something else, maybe the system. Maybe the police. Just let them do what they do. Seth had rarely even bent the law. He’d never had a speeding ticket, never cut corners on his taxes. Never been late on a payment. All of his life he’d worked like a demon to keep ahead of the law by adhering to it so that when the time came, he’d be absolutely blameless to the employer who would, undoubtedly, sift through his records and compare him to the other famous Meek. Early on, he’d understood that the successful computer guys were not the renegades that populated the movies, the brazen hackers that challenged everyone and everything. The guys who made it were the ones who could be trusted. He’d cultivated that image. He’d become that image.
His rage, however, told him something else. It begged him to keep staring at the reflection, to see the weakness and recognize it as strength. To trust that when the time came, it would be there for him. He had no tears, felt no self–pity. No… mercy. It’s not about your fear, it’s about their fear. It’s about doing what’s right and making it count.
He stared.
Seth was insignificant, and he knew it. A coward, and a failure, but he listened to his rage. He was so thoroughly insignificant that they would never expect him, and certainly never fear him. Rage told him that he could get in close, that he could make patience pay off, and then exact his revenge. And more.
He tossed the remainder of the extension cord into the basement, and went back to work.
It would count.
Someone would pay attention.
Chapter Twenty
Interdict
Saul and his new dog spent the evening on a different corner. He only sold about two grams, but the other areas that Vesper had put under his control did better, so he wasn’t going to sweat the little shit for now. He’d decided to keep Bolo completely out of sight, so he took a spot farther back inside the neighborhood. That meant dealing with locals, the addicts and guys he knew from the hood. The same guys that would try to bargain with you, beg a hit off you. Steal. Bolo was good for that kind of thing–literally like having a trained dog. Saul looked feeble alone which could be good on the busier streets, but with Bolo sitting on the steps behind him, most people would think twice before getting up in his face. He knew
he’d take a hit working back here, the money would never be as good, but it would be okay. On a couple of the boarder streets, the ones that ran along the edge of the neighborhood, the suburban kids would come charging through in their hot rides, with their sweet–ass girls. It was lots better there. They’d pay and be on their way back into the heavy traffic in a matter of a few seconds, slap, slap. So, business was down, but Bolo was out of sight. And unusually quiet.
Saul didn’t mind. Tomorrow night he’d do the same thing. At least until Vesper told him differently. So he stood his corner, and concentrated on selling his rocks, and tried not to remember all of the screaming.
Chapter Twenty–One
Illegitimatus Non Carborundum Est
Seth sat in the back seat of the BMW with his new laptop and a bottle of water.
He had some time now. Not a great deal, and he wouldn’t relax, but he didn’t want to rush either. Not this part. He worried about the police a little. They were, like most cops, sharp folks who tended to be driven. And while he didn’t really know much about how cops thought, he’d covered his bases as best as he could.
The media had reported, if not actually concluded, that he had flown off to Africa, so those hounds were off of the scent at least temporarily. The cops might have chewed on that little bit of misinformation as well, but he had to assume that they were still looking here closer to home. It seemed like every third car in D.C. was a BMW and his didn’t have, never would have, license plates, so this would help. Besides, this car would only be out once more, and only in the evening.
He just needed a couple of days.
Seth pulled up his web browser and typed in, “+Washington +D.C. + gangs." It was that simple. He didn’t have enough information to find everything here, but he didn’t need to perform a surgery, he only needed to get into the operating room. As expected, there was an unwieldy amount of initial information. He refined the search, adding the spray painted numbers that dripped down the walls of a home that he would never see again. More results, more clutter.
Washington gangs. Washington D.C. gangs 19137.
“19,137,” he said aloud. “1, 9, 1, 3, 7. 1, 91, 37.” Certainly it wasn’t an address and he doubted that it was a quantity. It read like a locker combination. Maybe it corresponded to street numbers, block numbers? Were they pissing on the wall to mark their territory?
“No…” he said again. It’s a calling card.
He typed out the alphabet and then began trying combinations.
Nothing over twenty–six.
1,9, 1, 3, 7 1, 9, 13, 7 19, 13, 7 19, 1, 3, 7
A I A C G A I M G S M G S A C G
He paused and added the letters to each search. Nothing. He went back to a previous link and searched for a listing of D.C. gangs. Several links were 404… defunct, but there was an east coast link that contained a dense paragraph pertaining to “Washington, D.C. Crews.” He scanned the list… the SMG Crew. 19. 13. 7. Twenty minutes later he knew where to find the operating room, it was just a matter of reading. It was nothing more than a start, a sixteen block area in the nation’s capitol that held thousands of people, but all he had to do was get close enough to verify that this was the right area. From there, it was only a matter of money. Beyond that… well, he didn't know much about the law, but he knew enough.
So that was it, wasn’t it? Tomorrow he’d just drive down there. He wondered if the navigation system in the BMW would revolt with a built in self–defense mechanism: Caution, caution… you’re entering a designated red zone.
He lay down on the seat, turned on his side and stared at the computer screen.
It would either work, or not.
He closed his eyes and examined his fear. It was there, lurking in some cortex or another, waiting to be unleashed and make him into a sniveling child again, but another entity was making the rounds as well. It would shore up the walls that held back the fear. Rage was here for him.
It wasn’t what Seth had expected. There was no more tunnel vision, no more trembling. It didn’t make him sweat or slobber or scream. It was just there, urging him to continue using his strengths: logic, organization, planning… intelligence; use these things, it promised, and I’ll do the rest. Rage, he realized, provided hope. It warmed him, kept him alive. Kept him sane even during his march toward madness. It had taken him captive, but promised to make his prison bearable until the end. There was no escape, no parole…. But if you did what it said, you might find release.
It would either work, or not…. But if it did, what? Would he leave the world a better place? Not really. He’d leave it a different place maybe. Either way he’d be leaving it.
He curled up on the leather and realized that he was more than alright with leaving it, just not until he’d given rage a fair shot, and certainly not until he’d found release.
Chapter Twenty–Two
Inutile
Ray arrived at the office at 6:30, almost two full hours later than usual, to find that his desk was gone. Or rather, replaced. He stood before the new beast and wondered if he’d stepped off of the elevator a floor too early. Weather–beaten and etched with ancient graffiti just like his previous desk, the dust had been wiped away only where the movers had touched it. The thing was enormous. It came complete with an equally dusty lamp sans bulb, a telephone with someone else’s extension crossed out and Ray’s written in, a cigar box full of pencils, and a couple of crayons. Sitting under the lamp was a bright red rotary telephone upon which was scrawled in magic marker, New Delhi – Direct Line. In the top drawer was a telephone book from 1971, and in the bottom drawer was a box of cherry donuts that were still warm to the touch. There was also a well–worn, but deliciously comfortable, high–backed leather chair.
Finn and Tonic were nowhere to be seen.
He wiped the rest of the dust away, found a bulb for the lamp, and got to work.
By noon he’d run down Seth Meek’s credit card purchases for the last six months. He’d meant to get only a week’s worth, but found that the credit card companies were almost too helpful in this regard. It took less time for him to obtain the records after identifying himself as “with D.C.P.D.” and handing over the identification code, than it did to get through the automated menus in the first place. It was pretty routine stuff, and his purchases were the same – right up until yesterday. Ray had never looked at data in quite this way, but it was quickly obvious that “unusual purchases” were not all that hard to sort out. More than forty thousand dollars blown at a computer store. The American Express customer support guy had been very clear that they had made it a point to call Mr. Meek when the purchases had come to their attention because they were concerned that the card had been stolen but he had assured them that all was well, and this was certainly within Mr. Meek’s credit limit. Ray didn’t ask what limit that might be.
Meek’s bank account showed the same kind of activity. Sudden and decidedly non–thrifty. The check for 50k had cleared, and financing had been cleared through the bank and then set up through another company for the purchase of a new vehicle via Beltway Autoplex. Not much of it made sense, but Ray took it all down.
Getting any kind of medical information turned out to be next to impossible so Ray ended up burning up his lunch hour talking to a kid at the computer store. He seemed far more interested in playing the game that could be heard in the background than answering questions so Ray dropped his pseudo–police credentials and he got serious.
He’d only helped with the sale, and went on to explain how this meant that he’d initially talked with the guy, but that his boss had quickly taken over when it became clear just how big of a purchase was going to be made. He was clearly pissed about the whole commission issue.
“What did the gentleman look like?” Ray inquired. This kid made him feel like taking notes with his two new crayons.
“His face was all messed up. White shirt. Jeans I think. But holy shit, he was beat up. Said he fell. Tipped me a hundred bucks for loading his ca
r.”
Ray circled beat up in his notes without any real conviction. “What kind of car was it, do you know?”
“This guy in trouble? My boss was talking about him being on the news or something. And I think the police already talked to him too, man.”
“Oh yeah? Well this is just routine work, I’m not sure if it’s connected to anything your boss saw or not.” Ray thought that was sufficiently vague for not knowing if he needed to be crafty. “Do you remember his car?”
“Yeah. It was a big black one, dark windows. Rich guy’s car.”
“Do you know what kind it was?”
“Not really, sorry.”
Ray thanked the kid and asked him to have his boss call when he got back from lunch. There might have been a security camera in the store or in the lot, and that was worth knowing. He wondered who had been talking to the kid’s boss already, and added it to his list of things to check.
Meek’s boss was out of the office, but Ray was able to talk to the Brenda woman once again who, aside from sounding genuinely broken–up over the turn of events, offered little in the way of actual information regarding Seth’s work. She did mention that his cubicle was taped off.
“Is his computer still there?” Ray had asked impulsively.
“No, they came and took it this morning.”
“Who?”
Again, she became quiet, and this seemed like a fairly clear indication of just who “they” were. He thanked her for all of her help and asked her to call if she had any further information. Again, doubtful… but worth a shot.
Ray stood and stretched, eyed the donut drawer, and considered lunch. This whole detective thing was entertaining, and he was caught up enough to overstep his bounds a little bit, but he also had to wonder why they were giving him so much to do. His supervisor wasn’t pestering him about other tech work, and now he had a new desk. Ray decided that he’d hit the vending machines out in the hall right after he made a call to check in with the detectives, wherever they were. Probably still eating ribs. His stomach growled.
Jury of Peers Page 12
