by Nick Petrie
“You are creeping me out.”
He watched as her mind leaped ahead. Leo had found her through the Web, a Facebook friend of a Facebook friend. The perfect apartment at the perfect time. He’d even come down on the rent to get her in there.
“That sonofabitch!” She was past scared and getting pissed, which was good, Peter thought. “He got my trust by solving my hacker problem two years ago. I let him do all my tech support after that. He probably put all kinds of shit on my old laptop.” She thought hard. “Did he have time to put anything on my new laptop?”
“You’re asking the wrong guy,” said Peter. “But even the paranoid have enemies. Maybe it’s time to learn a little more about your quirky landlord.”
“I am going to beat that boy like a rented mule.”
Peter checked the time on his phone and put his hand on her arm. “I gotta go.”
“What? Now? With this shit in my head?”
“If Nicolet sees me getting out of a Honda minivan, he’ll never believe I work for the government.”
32
Peter walked around the corner of the big YMCA building and found a spot out of the wind. The rain was spotty but still coming down. He’d left the truck driver’s .357 in the car. He didn’t have a holster for it, and it would be obvious in the topcoat. He’d also put the medical boot back on, because his leg was getting sore. If Jean-Pierre Nicolet tried to run, Peter couldn’t chase him or shoot him.
But he didn’t think either would be necessary. Nicolet was a high-level attorney, probably very confident that the law existed primarily to serve his interests.
He came out of the YMCA at a brisk walk, wearing a tan trench coat open over a charcoal pinstripe suit, no briefcase or gym bag. Mid-forties, he was average height but whippet-lean, with a pale face, a receding hairline, and frameless glasses. He smiled into the damp wind, which probably felt good after an hour of racquetball and a quick steam.
Peter stepped into the man’s path.
“Mr. Nicolet. I’m your one forty-five meeting.”
Nicolet looked at Peter in his plain black suit and black raincoat. “You’re not from Paul Allen.” Despite the French name, he had no discernible accent. His company bio said he’d been born in Montreal and had kept his Canadian citizenship.
“I apologize for the ruse,” said Peter. “I’m with a certain agency. We work closely with the tech industry.”
Nicolet looked amused. “You people. May I see some ID?”
“No.” Peter had met a lot of spooks overseas, but he hadn’t met many who actually admitted who he worked for. Not without a lot of liquor, anyway. “We have some information we need you to verify. A national security issue. Your assistance would be very much appreciated.”
“And the topic?”
“Hazel Cassidy. She’s dead.”
“So I understand. I saw her obituary in the Mercury-News.” Nicolet smiled pleasantly. “Come to my office with identification I can verify. Bring a letter from your superior stating the information desired, the national security interest involved, and a compelling need as to why I should violate attorney-client confidentiality. I’ll speak with my partners in the firm. Then, perhaps, we’ll talk.”
“That’s not necessary. Please understand, I’m trying to help you and your firm avoid a full national security probe. I only need to know who asked you to negotiate with Cassidy for the purchase of the algorithm.”
Nicolet’s smile remained pleasant, although his voice acquired a distinct edge. “That’s also privileged information, I’m afraid. Without verifiable standing, you have no authority. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m due back at work.”
Peter put his right hand around Nicolet’s upper arm. The man was thin, but not soft. All that racquetball. “You’re not a U.S. citizen,” he said. “And my authority is quite flexible. My associates are around the corner in a black van. Give me the name.”
Nicolet’s smile widened, became genuine. His teeth were white and even. “Really? You’re going to take me off the street? Beat me with a rubber hose?”
“I’d prefer not to,” said Peter. “This is absolutely confidential. There would be no way to trace it back to you.”
Nicolet laughed. “You are either lying or naïve. Either way, you’re not with the NSA. Take your hand off me or I’ll call the police.”
Peter didn’t let go. Instead he stepped closer, as if he were about to whisper something into the attorney’s ear. But his left fist was cocked low, held in tension by his cupped right hand. Then he let his right hand slip and released his left in a short hard pop to the other man’s solar plexus.
It happened so quickly and at such proximity that an onlooker would have been uncertain what he’d seen unless he was standing right beside them.
Nicolet bent double, gasping, glasses hanging from one ear. Peter leaned over him, a hand on his shoulder, the picture of sympathy.
“Take a minute to get your breath back. Then I’ll need that name.”
Nicolet wheezed, elbows braced on his knees, and Peter was afraid for a moment that he’d hit the other man harder than he’d intended.
Then he realized that the attorney was laughing.
Even with the sucker punch to the gut, gasping for breath, he was laughing.
“Go fuck yourself,” he coughed. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”
“You think they won’t kill you to protect themselves?” asked Peter.
Nicolet levered himself upright by sheer force of will and adjusted his glasses, still wheezing in laughter. “I’m too useful,” he said. “I’ve also taken certain precautions. But they’re probably watching us right now.”
Peter turned his head, counting the surveillance cameras in view. “Who’s watching?” he asked. “How do they get into those systems?”
Nicolet didn’t bother looking. He shook off Peter’s hand. “I’m pretty sure they can do anything they want.”
Peter left him there, and went around the corner for the car.
By the time he pulled around the block to the bus shelter to pick up June, the attorney was gone.
33
SHEPARD
Shepard watched the tall man and the girl walk out of Nordstrom and through traffic to the green minivan. Now Shepard knew why they’d been in there so long. The man wore a crisp new black suit under an open black topcoat.
He looks good, thought Shepard. Although he could use a haircut.
The girl was light on her feet, like a dancer in hiking boots. The tall man, her protector, was moving better than he had on the hospital security video. Even with the medical boot on his left leg, his movements were fluid, his superb conditioning clearly evident.
Shepard was still amazed at the toughness of that nurse practitioner and the tired-eyed ER doctor with the crazy hair. They’d looked at his Homeland ID and pretended to be helpful and apologetic, but they hadn’t told him a thing. Patient confidentiality, federal law, of course you understand. Call the hospital attorney in the morning, now if you’ll excuse us, we have patients to attend to.
He was frustrated, but he wasn’t an animal. He wouldn’t hurt them just because they’d treated two injured patients. There were limits, even for Shepard.
And his face was all over their security system.
It occurred to him now that he might have gotten further without the government ID. Clearly some Oregonians liked to do things their own way. Maybe it had something to do with hippies and legal marijuana, he wasn’t sure. That was well outside his own experience. But he respected it. Shepard liked to do things his own way, too. Driving out of town, he found himself drawn to certain neighborhoods. The soil must be very good in Eugene. The yards had big gardens, overflowing with life.
Perhaps his trip to Oregon was another signal. Preparation for his next life.
The girl’s home base should hav
e been extremely difficult to locate. Her social media made it clear that she lived primarily in Seattle, but there were remarkably few other available clues. Her bills went to a secure PO box, and the salesman’s technology people had been unable to find any accounts or tax information with another address. For an amateur, the girl had done a capable job of hiding.
But Chip’s client had already taken ownership of her laptop, which allowed the salesman to triangulate her cell modem’s brief ping. As long as her laptop remained on and in her possession, he could track the girl’s location in real time.
The fact that she’d stopped using the laptop might have been a problem, too, but Chip’s client had also provided her home address. The salesman, drawn to wealth and power like a moth to a flame, had bragged to Shepard about the depth of the client’s resources.
Shepard didn’t mention that he’d already had the information. Overall, he felt it was better for the salesman not to know the depth of Shepard’s own resources. The complexity of the situation would become clear to the salesman before long.
He had found the girl’s garage apartment a few minutes before she arrived home from a run in the rain. She wore a light jacket and baseball hat and running tights, and it was clear that the file photo and the security video had failed to capture something essential about her. The grace and strength, the sheer energy of the woman. Shepard felt something profound, watching her. She was captivating.
And she had poor situational awareness, not watching her surroundings, her earbuds blocking out all ambient sound. He could have taken her right then. But he didn’t.
He could have shot the tall man from forty yards while he was loading the van with what looked like camping gear, and taken the girl after.
But he hadn’t done that, either. Shepard had multiple clients, with multiple priorities. He was experiencing a conflict of interest. He was awaiting further information.
And there was something else. Something in the hospital security video, something about the girl and her protector, that he couldn’t quite pin down. He needed to learn more. He wanted to get closer.
So he followed them.
They drove from the girl’s apartment to a busy street, where they found a parking spot and walked a block to a coffee place with a black awning.
Coffee sounded good to Shepard, too.
He left his car at a hydrant and walked quickly to catch up.
Perhaps this was unwise. No, he knew it was unwise, getting this close, ten paces behind them on the sidewalk, now five, now following them into Caffe Ladro.
Shepard was highly attuned to the capacity for violence in others, and from this distance he could see it in the tall man like a phosphorous grenade on a moonless night, the killing he’d done.
The tall man was different from Shepard’s usual civilian targets. Not soft, not weak.
More like Shepard’s mirror image. A twin brother who’d taken a different path.
This wasn’t about gathering tactical information, not really.
Now Shepard was inside the crowded coffee shop, one step behind them in line, close enough to smell the girl’s shampoo. She spoke brightly to the tattooed person behind the register, placing their order while the tall man stood with his back to the counter and looked restlessly around the room. They stood close to each other, and from time to time she would glance up at him, would touch his hand with hers. They had some kind of personal relationship. Whoever he was, he was not just hired security. She was concerned about him.
Shepard wanted to know them somehow, the girl and the tall man both. How it was done, to walk through the world with another person. To have someone touch your hand, to have it mean something. He told himself it was research, for his retirement. Maybe that was it. Maybe it was something else. Another deep signal from within.
He wondered if it was possible for him to live a different way than he did now, so separate from other human beings. Where his only moments of true human contact were with those whose lives he ended. This tug he felt, this urge for connection, to get inside another’s mind in a profound way, did other people feel it, too? If so, how did they accomplish those connections?
Now he noticed that the tall man was different inside the coffee shop. Like a dog with his hackles up. Shepard wondered if the man had the same radar that Shepard had so carefully cultivated, the ability to feel someone watching, someone behind him.
The tall man definitely felt something. He was on high alert, looking carefully around the room with a behavior that Shepard recognized in himself. Checking the exits, the lines of fire, each person and their positions and where their attention was directed. The tall man was following old habits, perhaps compulsively. But he didn’t look at Shepard longer than anyone else, didn’t appear to have identified Shepard as the source of his unease. Shepard was good at being invisible.
When it was Shepard’s turn in line, he ordered a simple coffee, because it would be faster than the tall man’s double espresso and the girl’s triple tall mocha. He killed time fussing with the cream and sugar so that he could walk out of the place right behind them.
He saw when it happened, in the open air. The tall man’s shoulders dropped and the slight flush fell from his face. He was still watchful outside, still ready for whatever might come, but he didn’t seem threatened in the busy urban environment, even though it had many more possible dangers. Even though Shepard was right behind him.
The man had felt threatened indoors.
That could be useful.
The couple walked back toward their car, Shepard just a few steps behind them. The man did have a slight limp in the medical boot, but Shepard noticed something else, too. He was left-handed, and obviously wanted that hand free, likely because he was carrying a weapon within easy reach. But holding his coffee in his right hand, he carried himself a little differently. Shepard could see it, the slight protection of the right side. Some injury there, a wound or pulled muscle.
Shepard felt an odd sense of relief.
Having seen the tall man close up, seen how he moved, how he assessed the room, Shepard knew he was extremely dangerous. Every bit as dangerous as Shepard.
But the tall man wasn’t at full strength.
They got back in the green minivan, and Shepard made his way more quickly to his own car.
He followed them downtown to Nordstrom. When they went inside, he took the opportunity to attach a small magnetized GPS beacon to the underside of their car.
It would simplify finding them again when necessary.
34
PETER
So Nicolet didn’t tell you anything?”
“Just that I’m in over my head,” he said. “Which I already knew.”
On a side street four blocks from the YMCA, Peter was trading license plates with an identical minivan while June watched for police cars. Most people didn’t even know their own plate number, so he figured it would be a while before the owner of the other van noticed his plates were wrong. With all the cameras, he and June were losing invisibility by the minute, and he didn’t want to buy another vehicle. He liked the Honda.
“At least you got to hit an attorney,” said June. “Check that off your life list.”
Peter shook his head as he screwed the stolen plate to their rear bumper. “I kind of liked him, actually. He was pretty tough.”
“I don’t think you get to Nicolet’s level without being tough.”
Peter stood and walked around to the passenger side. “Who’s first?”
Their next chore was to search the houses of the dead men.
“Alvarez is closest,” June said, and stepped on the gas. It was after three.
According to June’s research, the hunters’ driver’s licenses had their most recent addresses.
As June pushed the minivan down the narrow streets, she said, “Why would they use their own driver’s l
icenses? Why even carry them on an operation like that? Wouldn’t they at least have good fake ID?”
“They were ex-military,” said Peter. “Their prints would be on file with the feds, so it would be easy for the police to identify them. For that matter, the military keeps everyone’s DNA records, too, for identifying the dead in combat. That’s not supposed to be available for any other reason, but you know how that works.”
June nodded. “The rule of power. If it can be done, it will be done. They couldn’t really hide, so it was simpler to be themselves.”
Peter had another thought. “Or maybe they actually were from the government, like we talked about, and they had protection from higher up. So their identities were their protection.”
She shook her head. “Let’s not go down that rabbit hole just yet. Let’s find the people behind these guys.”
Before they find us, thought Peter.
• • •
MARTIN ALVAREZ OWNED a small slate-gray house in West Seattle. It had started out even smaller, but someone had put a modest addition on the back, and had done a pretty nice job of it, paying attention to the details of the siding and the rooflines. But he wasn’t living large, not here. He was saving for a rainy day.
June parked the van out front.
They walked through a gate in a sturdy picket fence. A dog began to bark somewhere inside. The yard was a mix of shrubs and perennials, messy but blooming in the spring weather. The porch was new cedar, the front door painted bright yellow. The dog got louder. A girl, maybe fifteen or sixteen, opened the door a crack before Peter could knock.
“What do you want?” She kept the security chain on and spoke through the gap.
Good girl, thought Peter. He could see a sliver of long brown hair, caramel-colored skin, and worry lines on her forehead. She looked more than a little like the man who’d been thrown from the Suburban and bashed in his head with a rock on landing.
