“What else?”
“‘Cuff.’ ‘Crystal.’ Something that sounded like ‘Too many dials.’ Something about no hair. Any of it mean anything to you?”
“The attackers may have been bald? I’d better go talk to him myself and see if I can make any sense out of that jumble.”
“You can’t, not until tomorrow. They sedated him for the night right before I left.”
“Damn!” I stood up. “Let’s get out of here, Will.”
“Sure. Want to go get a drink?”
“Yeah. There’s a place near my house. We’ll ditch our cars and walk over.”
“I gotcha.”
“Oh, Will, wait. How did you know I was here?”
“That new receptionist in your office…Jason?”
“Jason Lieberman.”
“Right. He figured you’d be someplace between the elevators and your car, since he didn’t hear it leave.”
Jason had a keen ear and might make a damn fine operative sometime in the future.
10:39 p.m.
Jasmine’s Lounge reminded me of Ellen T’s, my long-vanished watering hole across the way from my long-vanished apartment on Guerrero Street in the Mission. Ellen’s had been a homey place, chock-full of healthy plants and happy customers, Ellen herself a blowsy, overweight woman who was intent on convincing her customers—even the workmen who preferred drinking and playing pool in the back room—to eat often and sensibly. Years later the earth-mother bartender had disappeared from San Francisco. I’d tried to locate her, but I was caught up in my burgeoning career by then, and I hadn’t tried very hard.
Will and I squeezed into one of the smaller booths near the rear of Jasmine’s long space; philodendron branches spiraled down toward us from hanging baskets. He looked around, narrowing his eyes as he studied the crowd pressing close to the bar up front.
“What do you see?” I asked.
“Millennials who are as dumb as I was in my Gen-X stage. Hopefully they’ll outgrow it before something bad happens to them.”
“Such as?”
He sighed. “The usual things that afflict most generations: drug addiction, alcoholism, homelessness, joblessness, inability to afford an education. Bad marriages, financial failures, incorrigible children, incarceration. They seem handsome and prosperous and happy tonight, but somewhere in the future there’s a slippery slope waiting for most of them.”
“My, aren’t you the cheery conversationalist tonight.”
“Sorry. It’s survivor’s guilt creeping out.”
“Why now?
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s just my age. I had a very sheltered life growing up. My father was a university professor, my mother a poet…Well, you know that. There was always enough money for anything reasonable. I got a good education, a good job right out of college. None of this living on hardscrabble land and having to beg Indian Affairs for everything I needed. Now I realize I got off easy. But I also realize that my job’s trivial compared to what other Natives are doing for our people, and as a result the folks I meet when I go to the reserve are wary of me.”
“Maybe you should have a heart-to-heart talk with Saskia. She seems to have a good grasp of cultural conflicts such as yours.”
“Have you ever talked to her about yours?”
“A few times. When I first found out about my heritage, I was devastated—not by who I was, but because of the lies that had been told to me. But I’d always felt different—as if I was straddling two worlds but didn’t understand why—so it was easier to make my peace with the people who were misguidedly trying to protect me.”
“Protect you from yourself?”
Unwilling to talk about it any more, I bared my teeth at him. “I’m a very dangerous woman.”
He held up his hands in mock horror. “I won’t cross you.”
“Okay,” I said after our drinks had been served, “suppose we discuss what’s on my mind right now: misdirection.”
“Misdirection?”
I quoted the gist of what I’d read in Hints. “Why does that seem relevant to this whole megillah?”
Will laughed.
“What?” I asked.
“A Shoshone who grew up thinking she was white with a touch of the Indian paintbrush speaking Yiddish slang.”
I laughed too. “So I’m multicultural. Anyway, misdirection. Are all these threatening acts that seem to be directed at me and my family just the usual racist crap? Or are they designed to mask another motive?”
“Such as what?”
“Good question. One I can’t answer.”
He said, “This misdirection—is it deliberately created by the people you’re investigating? Or is it inadvertently created by the investigator?”
“You mean are they steering me wrong, or are my preconceptions steering me wrong?”
“Either.”
“Or maybe it’s a combination of the two?”
“I’ve thought of that. Let’s consider the ad biz: the client wants one message to get across to one customer base; you want to broaden the market for their product. So you alter their message, but not enough to upset them. And they alter your alteration, but not enough to reject your ideas. And then you bring in another alteration that basically is what you proposed in the first place. You’ve got them confused, but suddenly they like the concept. And then you’ve got a successful campaign.”
I considered what he’d said. “Now I think you’ve misdirected me.”
“That was my aim.” He yawned loudly and stood up. “Sleep on it, symbolic cousin.”
We held hands as we weaved along to my place.
11:57 p.m.
I slipped into the dream as easily as I would have into the pilot’s seat of our Cessna, then sped in the wrong direction on a runway that seemed to go on endlessly. And when the plane started bumping the way they do when they’re ready to fly, I decreased rather than increased the throttle and had to pull off and taxi around again.
When I was finally airborne after a clumsy takeoff, a heavy mist enveloped the plane. I scanned the ground for landmarks, kept an eye out for approaching aircraft, but the mist was impenetrable. The radio did me no good: all the towers and UNICOM stations within range were dead silent.
The words of my now-deceased flight instructor, Matty Wildress, echoed in my mind:
Always have a landing place fully fixed in your head, and consider alternatives as well. Accidents can happen. They will happen. Planning and forward thinking can save your life.
Well, Matty, that’s all fine and good, but what am I supposed to do when the weather and all systems fail me?
They won’t.
Oh yeah?
Because there’s another system that you’ve got going for yourself. One you failed to mention.
What system?
Your instincts. Use them!
I used them and not only landed the Cessna unscathed, but returned from the dream to my own bed.
Now, what the hell did all that mean? I wondered, propping my head up on my pillow.
More psychic hints pushing me toward the concept of misdirection. In the dream I’d been fooled by my instincts and the lack of the landmarks we use to set our VFR courses. Also fooled by the lack of chatter from a control tower or UNICOM.
Envelopment in mist: flying blind. Necessary to get my vision back.
Matty’s message: it’s all instinctual.
Yes, right. Three truths to think about, here in the midnight darkness.
WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 27
10:19 a.m.
Elwood wasn’t fully awake when I tiptoed into his room, although the nurse had told me he soon would be. “Yesterday he took to raising his bed and waiting for his meals,” she said. “Then he eats like he hasn’t been fed for a week. And then he’s ready for another. Remarkable.”
Even more so, I thought, considering he’s eating hospital food.
She left me, probably to hurry along the food cart, and I sat down and listened to his rhy
thmic breathing. Such a strong man—I was grateful to him for passing on his genes to me. I’d been stabbed, shot, put into a coma, nearly drowned, and almost killed in a plane crash, but had eventually emerged from those situations reasonably unharmed.
I sat there listening to the early-morning hospital sounds: the scurrying of rubber-soled shoes, greetings and faint laughter from the nursing station, carts being wheeled back and forth, pagers and heart monitors beeping. All of this brought back memories that weren’t unpleasant in retrospect. I’d been reassured and well cared for on my long road to recovery.
Elwood mumbled something. I strained to hear, but he didn’t repeat it. I moved my chair closer to the bed and murmured his name.
“Wah…wah…wah…”
Nonsense syllables.
“Watch!” he said suddenly, emphatically.
Another silence. Was he waking up or just dreaming? After half a minute or so: “Daughter…”
At least half-awake, I thought. “I’m right here.”
“Blue green.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Cuff. No hair.”
“Who has no hair? One of the men who attacked you?”
More silence. His face twitched as if in frustration.
“What are you trying to tell me, Father?”
“Cuff…”
“Cuff?”
“Titanium. Expansion. Stomp…foot.”
Titanium?
“Too many dials.”
“What kind of dials?”
“Stomp foot. Crystal.”
I waited, but he didn’t say anything more. “Too many dials,” I prompted. “Stomp foot. Crystal.”
Still no response.
I tried the other phrase he’d spoken to Will Camphouse. “Special ops.”
Again no response. He’d fallen asleep.
I remained by his bed for quite a while, hoping he’d wake up. But he didn’t.
11:20 a.m.
The offices were quiet when I arrived, everyone going about their middle-of-the-week business. I waved to Jason Lieberman and Kendra, who were conferring at the reception desk, and went directly to my office. Then I sat down and tried to put meaning to my father’s seemingly meaningless mumblings.
Expansion.
Titanium.
Too many dials.
Blue green.
No hair.
Special ops.
Cuff.
Stomp foot.
Crystal.
An odd assortment of words and phrases. He’d said them to both Will and me, so they must connect somehow, have some meaning. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t fit them together so they made any sense.
I gave it up for the time being, swiveled around, and booted up my computer.
Only nothing happened. The screen stayed dark.
“Come on, you wretched machine,” I said aloud and tried again. Still nothing. “Don’t tell me you’ve died,” I told it. “You’re top of the line, almost new. You can’t give up on me.”
A hubbub started in the hallway, people scurrying around. Seconds later Ted rushed in.
“Your computer working?” he said.
“No. What’s going on?”
“Nothing good.”
Now I heard excited voices babbling. Derek, Julia, the entire staff. And Mick, shouting, “Calm down! Everybody calm down!”
Now I was alarmed too. “What the hell’s going on?” I asked Ted.
“Don’t know. Try powering up again.”
Still nothing.
“Damn!” Ted said. “Major problem here—”
Derek burst in without bothering to knock. “We’ve been hacked,” he said angrily. “Malware’s locked up all of M&R’s computers. Not just here, across the nation; I just took a call from New York. Mick’s checking with the branch offices in other countries. They’re bound to have been affected too.”
“But why, for God’s sake?”
Mick entered my office. “That’s not clear yet, but whoever did it has some kind of agenda. Remember the Russian hackers and how they affected the last election? Whoever infected us with this virus has skills equal to theirs to get past the firewalls we installed. Probably used some sort of sophisticated pop-up device, or an e-mail that somebody in one of our offices opened, thinking it was genuine.”
“So what do we do about it? Call the cops?”
Mick snorted. “They couldn’t figure out what the problem is, much less solve it. We’ve got to contact the feds—Homeland Security, it’s their jurisdiction because of the threat to government systems. They—”
He broke off because now something else was happening. My computer was still switched on, and the screen suddenly lit up. Almost immediately I heard the familiar bonking noise that indicated an incoming message. I clicked the e-mail icon and the message appeared.
TO: Sharon McCone/personal & confidential
RE: Your files
They are locked. We will restore your acess to them when you agree with our terms. If you do not agree, we will step up our personal attacks on you, your family, and your asociates. We guaranty that at least one of these new attacks will be fatal.
$3,000,000 from your personal and corporate accounts you will wire-transfer to a bank of our choice in the Cayman Islands no later then 6:00 PST tomorrow. Instructions will follow.
WE WILL BE WATCHING YOU. OUR SPIES ARE EVERYWHERE.
Do not claim you cannot acess and give us this sum. We know the exact amount and location of your asets. Do not contact the police or feds. Do not try to trace this message, it will be beyond your capabilities. If you do not do exactly as we tell you, we will shut down negotiations and immediately give retaliation. FATAL RETALIATION.
Instructions for the wire transfer will be our final communication. Once we have received the $3,000,000, you will never hear from us again.
I gripped the arms of my chair, so furious I felt like screaming. I had to force myself to speak in a seminormal voice. “So that’s what that son of a bitch Rolle really wants. Money.”
“But why?” Mick asked. “He’s got plenty of his own.”
“Not three million in ready, tax-free cash.”
“Yeah, but are we sure he’s the one behind this?”
“Who the hell else?”
“Dean Abbot. If he was capable of breaching the security system on your house, he’s capable of shutting us down.”
“He may be a computer genius,” I said, “but I don’t see him devising a crazy scheme like this. He’s a follower, not a leader. And he’s not stupid or semiliterate. Read that extortion demand again. Unoriginal, trite, like something out of a bad TV movie. Words misused, misspelled. Just the sort of thing an out-of-control nutcase like Rolle Ferguson would dream up and write.”
A pause as Mick reread the message. “Yeah, I see what you mean. Can we raise that much?”
I calculated. “Not unless we want to go into chapter eleven. It’s an impossible amount. And we’re sure as hell not going to pay.”
“So we should let Homeland Security handle it?”
“Not entirely. Derek, you get in touch with them, tell them we’ll cooperate fully. Mick, round up everybody for a staff meeting in the conference room.”
After I’d finished telling everybody what had happened and what we were up against, I asked Roberta to check out the Divisidero Street condo on the chance that the bunch was holed up there now. Then I spoke with a Homeland Security agent Derek had on the phone. And then I took Mick aside.
“I’m going out,” I said. “Keep things here as organized as you can.”
“Where’re you going?”
“After Dean Abbot.”
“Not alone, Shar. He’s likely to be dangerous. Let me come along as backup.”
“No, I need you here.”
“Derek, then—”
“Dammit, no! Just do what I told you. And don’t worry, I won’t take any unnecessary risks.”
“Famous last words.”
Mick meant well, but I was tired of people, especially men, being so solicitous of me. Was my age showing? Did I seem feeble? Forgetful? Unsure? I didn’t feel that way. I didn’t look that way either—not unless I had a very defective mirror. But sometimes I was afraid I was joining the ranks of women—and men too, I supposed—whom no one actually saw any more.
3:50 p.m.
Clouds were drifting in toward Piedmont from the north, indicating that the predicted storm or at least heavy fog were soon to follow. The little house on the hilltop looked battened down for the duration of the bad weather, but lights in the back of the first floor indicated someone was there. I rang the bell, keeping my finger on the buzzer longer than was necessary. My other hand was inside my purse, curled around the handle of the .38.
Heavy footsteps approached, the door opened partway, and Quentin Zane looked out.
“You again!” he exclaimed.
“Me again. Is Dean here?”
“No.”
“I need to talk to him right away. Where is he?”
“I don’t know. He left early last night and he hasn’t come back.”
“Did he take a computer with him?”
“He had his laptop case, yes. And an overnight bag.”
“He didn’t give you any idea where he was going?”
“No.”
“You’d better not be lying to me, Quentin. Your roommate is involved in a scheme that can do harm to a number of highly placed individuals. If you’re in on it too, you’re looking at prison time.”
Quentin’s face turned white. “No! I didn’t have anything to do with the whole ugly thing.”
“But you know about it.”
“Go away, leave me alone.”
He started to close the door, but I stuck my foot in the way and then pushed inside. He backpedaled, his eyes wide and scared. “You can’t come in here—”
“I’m already in.”
I shut the door, looked around. The room was spacious, with yards and yards of white carpet that looked to be of good quality. On it sat an assortment of furnishings that reminded me of what young, affluent people had aspired to in the late twentieth century: Danish modern or Norwegian woods or Swedish something-of-that-sort; spoon-shaped chairs that swiveled and rocked; an orange-patterned couch that I knew would be impossibly hard because it had no springs, just a wooden platform with cushions tossed on top. And on the walls, framed displays consisting of collages of New Yorker covers. For a person who was supposed to be on the cutting edge of high tech, Dean Abbot was as retro as they come.
The Color of Fear Page 15
