by Andrew Grant
WHAT A WASTE OF TIME, worrying about people’s feelings, I thought, getting back into my car exactly forty-six minutes after we were due to have met. Talk about an exercise in futility. Because not one of my friends had shown up. And not one had called to cancel. They’d just left me to sit on my own at our usual corner table, trying to deflect the waitress’s pity and avoid eye contact with the smirking twenty-somethings at the bar.
None of my friends had taken my calls, either. I had to make do with a muddle-headed text from Sally-Anne trying to convince me they’d thought I wouldn’t want to meet, following what had happened with AmeriTel. I didn’t know which was worse—being stood up, or realizing that my problems had become nothing more than grist for the local rumor mill.
——
THE EIGHTIES CHANNEL PROVED a much better companion on the drive home than any number of fair weather friends, and by the time I pulled into my driveway I was feeling a lot more focused. Work was what I needed next. Something to reconcentrate my mind. But ironically, I was dependent on something else that wasn’t there. My computer. Either of my computers, in fact. I was tempted to head into the city and buy another one—you can never have too many—when I spotted a business card wedged between my front door and the frame. I went to investigate, hoping it would be from the messenger who had my delivery from AmeriTel. But instead, it was from the police. On the back there was a handwritten message, signed by Detective Hayes:
Mr. Bowman—please call me ASAP re yr computer.
Important!!! Thx.
I took the card inside with me and tried to call the detective, but was routed through to an administrative assistant who wanted to schedule a time for me to come down to the station house in person. She claimed not to know if I’d be able to take the computer home with me afterward, but her tone was evasive. My inner cynic was alerted, and when I hung up I was left with no confidence I’d be getting my hands on my property any time soon. So, unless I fancied a long drive to the store, my only other option was to try AmeriTel again.
I called the same sequence of phone numbers as yesterday, and with each failed attempt I felt a little more of my newfound enthusiasm drain away, only to be replaced with frustration and anger. The final straw was the conversation I had with an idiot on the IT helpdesk who insisted my things had already been delivered. I didn’t actually beat my head on the desk at the end of the call, but believe me, I was close.
I really wasn’t looking forward to schlepping all the way to the city, parking, and dealing with the crowds and the salespeople and everything else that computer shopping entails, but I didn’t see that I had a choice. Not unless I wanted to be unemployed for the rest of my life, or remain trapped in the AmeriTel/police department’s telephonic equivalent of Groundhog Day.
I grabbed my jacket and made my way back down the hallway, but stopped when I drew level with the dining room door. A tempting thought had popped into my head. I didn’t need to go to a store to buy a computer. Why not just order one on my phone? And if I didn’t have to drive anywhere, it wouldn’t matter if I had a little something to drink. You could argue it was a little early in the afternoon to really cut loose, but these were special circumstances. And it had to be after five somewhere in the world …
I crossed to the liquor cabinet and reached for the Patrón. A second bottle of tequila. A second day without Carolyn. That seemed like a reasonable ratio. Until I started wondering where she was. Because that opened the floodgates to a cascade of darker questions. Who was she with? What she was doing? And had she only betrayed me for a paycheck? Or for personal reasons, too?
I pulled the fancy presentation box from its shelf, but when I tried to open it I saw the seal at the top had already been broken. It had been hacked through, clumsily, by a small, thin blade. And inside I heard something rattle, metal against glass.
I carried the box to the table, holding it at arm’s length as if it might explode at any second, and cautiously opened the lid. The bottle of tequila was still there. It was still full. And, lying next to its neck, jammed up against the cardboard wall, was my key ring. The door key was still attached. So was the second memory stick. And so was the little Swiss Army knife Carolyn had given me two nights ago at the restaurant, before she disappeared.
Seeing the knife triggered a few other memories. I’d done more than just think about this second bottle, after Carolyn had left. I’d gone as far as opening the box, using the new penknife to cut my way in. Not the most efficient tool for the job, judging by the result. And having struggled through such a simple task, discretion had proved the better part of valor. I’d decided on an honorable retreat. I’d closed the box and shoved it back in the cupboard, where it belonged. But, it would seem, without realizing I’d dropped my keys inside.
For what must have been the second time, I returned the box to its shelf without opening the bottle. On this occasion, though, I held on to the key ring. I let it swing from my index finger for a moment, like a hypnotist’s charm. Then I closed my fist around it while I thought things through. Its presence seemed significant. It meant I’d lied—albeit unintentionally—to the police, because it clearly hadn’t been stolen, after all. And I’d lied to Homeland Security. It meant I’d suffered the expense and inconvenience of changing the front door lock for no good reason. But it also meant I still had test data to work with. On the memory stick. Only half as much as I’d originally had, but enough for the time being.
The next question was, what to do about it? Should I call the detectives, and set the record straight? I could. But what would be the point? They hadn’t been burning much rubber since they’d interviewed me. If they heard that the only tangible item I’d claimed to have lost in the break-in wasn’t missing, after all, they’d take it as vindication for their low-energy approach to the investigation. Plus, the way they’d treated me so far, they’d probably arrest me for wasting their time.
I could try Agent McKenna, at Homeland Security. He’d said he was above the detectives in the pecking order. He’d been more dynamic, grabbing me off the street and sweeping my house clean of bugs. He had more manpower on display. And he’d made me promise to tell him if any more data came to light. Something to do with his ongoing investigation into AmeriTel. Which meant calling McKenna could conceivably derail some kind of terrorist activity. It could possibly save lives. And, perhaps, land Roger LeBrock and his backstabbing cronies in hot water.
Maybe calling McKenna was the way to go?
The payback would be sweet. Especially in LeBrock’s moment of triumph. But don’t they say the best revenge is massive success? And Homeland Security would confiscate the data. McKenna would take the memory stick away for examination. I was stymied without it. Losing it the first time was a blow. I couldn’t face it a second time, especially if I was the one handing it over and watching it being taken away in an evidence bag. I didn’t want to undermine the government’s case, whatever it might be, but I honestly couldn’t see what information was on that memory stick that McKenna wouldn’t be able to get his hands on from somewhere else.
Plus there was my second Lichtenstein to think about. The one I wouldn’t be able to buy if I didn’t finish my new product ahead of whoever had stolen my prototype.
What about a compromise? McKenna needed the data. I needed the data. Why not share it? He wouldn’t agree—if he knew. So why not share it without him knowing? All I’d have to do was copy the files, then call him and volunteer to hand over the original memory stick. Everyone would win. Except perhaps that bastard LeBrock. And I wasn’t about to shed any tears over him. Or Carolyn. Perhaps the experience would help her. Show her that picking her job over her husband hadn’t been her smartest move. Assuming that was all she’d done …
The afternoon was shaping up much more productively than if I’d dived into that bottle of tequila. A plan was coming into focus. First, hide the memory stick. I didn’t want it lying around in plain sight in case the detectives showed their faces again. That would
be embarrassing, not to mention hard to explain. Second, order a new computer. I couldn’t copy the data files without one. And finally, put the rest of the day to good use. Call a few of the people I’d need on board further down the line, as the project built momentum. Finance guys. Marketing. Public relations. And Intellectual Property lawyers, given that the prototype had been stolen.
My so-called friends had been reluctant to be associated with me recently.
But it would be different with the people whose pockets I crammed with cash.
Wednesday. Afternoon.
I’D KEPT THE PHONE PRESSED TO MY EAR FOR MORE THAN THREE hours, whetting people’s appetites and furthering my plans for world domination. But when I heard tires on the gravel outside, I was on my feet in an instant.
Carolyn?
I ran to the window and saw—a UPS van. A guy in a brown uniform climbed out and after ducking into the cargo bay for a couple of minutes he started toward the front of the house, wheeling a heavily taped movers’ box behind him on a little trolley. I opened the door for him and he asked me to confirm my name, and that I was expecting a delivery from AmeriTel. Satisfied, he held out a little touch-screen device and gestured for me to sign. But when I reached out to take it he grabbed my hand and bent it back on itself, twisting my wrist and forcing me to spin around. Then he bundled me along the hallway and into the living room. Red-hot needles shot through my shoulder and into my neck. I pushed back and yelled for him to stop but he just wrenched my arm harder and kept on shoving until he had me down on my knees.
My first thought was that I was being robbed again. It must be the same people from a couple of nights ago. Dissatisfied with their haul, they were back for more. But now they’d chosen a time when I was home. And awake. They’d even confirmed who I was. There must be something specific they were looking for. Something they were sure I was hiding. Something they were confident I could get for them. But would they believe I didn’t have a secret stash of valuables? And how far would they go to get what they wanted?
“Homeland Security.” The man maintained the pressure on my arm. “Marc Bowman, do you have any weapons on you? Or concealed anywhere in the room?”
Not this again, I thought, after a moment of stunned relief. Do these idiots not talk to one another? Why have they come back? And then I was filled with dread. Maybe they knew about the data? That I was holding out on them? I should have reported it straightaway. Keeping it made me look guilty. But that was crazy, surely. The memory stick was still where I’d hidden it, under the section of countertop in the kitchen that had been loosened years ago when Carolyn dropped her mother’s old stand mixer on it. There was no way Homeland Security could have found out about that. I was being paranoid again.
“Is Agent McKenna here?” The sound of blood rushing in my ears subsided a little and I realized I could hear other people moving around the room.
“Weapons?” The guy twisted my arm even harder. “Yes or no.”
“No. No weapons. But who are you? And what the hell do you want?”
“I’m going to release your arm now. You can slide up onto the sofa, but you must remain sitting. Make no attempt to stand. And keep your hands where I can see them. Understand?”
I nodded, the guy let go, and as I wriggled around and slithered into a sitting position I got my first good look at him. His UPS uniform seemed genuine enough, but on closer inspection I noticed the buttons across his chest were struggling to remain fastened and the pants were maybe an inch too short. Another man was standing behind him, next to Carolyn’s hideous antique jardinière, near the doorway. He was wearing a suit—dark gray—with an identity card clipped to his breast pocket. And he had a gun in his hand. I was still struggling to reconcile all this when the two detectives from yesterday walked in. Hayes was first, looking worried. Wagner followed, and she just looked pissed off.
“You’re from Homeland Security?” I studied the strangers’ unfriendly faces, trying to read their intentions. “Where’s Agent McKenna? Have you spoken to him? What’s this all about?”
The guy in the UPS uniform leaned down till his face almost touched mine, and he stared at me as if he were examining an object in a museum to see if it was a fake.
“You think we came all this way to answer your questions? Are you new? You better get with the program, pronto, or we’re going to drag your pampered ass out of here, away from your comfy house and your fancy car, and introduce you to a whole other world. One so different from what you’re used to, you can’t even imagine it.”
“OK.” I raised my hands. “I hear you. And I’m happy to cooperate. Just as long as you are who you say you are. Could I see your ID, please?”
The guy sighed, then pulled out a leather wallet and thrust it at me. The card inside was blue. It showed his photo, his name—Agent Daniel Peever—an eagle, some arrows, the Homeland Security logo, and all the other identifiers I’d seen on McKenna’s.
“Satisfied?”
“I can’t tell.” I handed the wallet back. “It looks like the other agent’s one, but—”
“What other agent?”
“Jordan McKenna. He was here, yesterday. Don’t you people coordinate at all?”
“You’re sure he was an agent?”
“Absolutely.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“He had ID. And, I don’t know. The way he behaved.”
“You’re an expert in the way Homeland Security agents behave?”
“Well, no. But he was … professional. And respectful. He didn’t barge into my home and throw me on the floor. He asked for my help.”
“With what?”
“An investigation.”
“What kind of investigation?”
“I don’t know if I should say. Maybe I should call him? Clear it with him?”
“Go ahead. I’d very much like to talk to Agent McKenna myself.”
“His card’s in my pocket. Is anyone going to shoot me if I get it?”
Peever shook his head, so I dug out McKenna’s card and dialed his number on my cell.
“Put it on speaker,” Peever ordered. “This I want to hear.”
For thirty seconds the five of us were silent, transfixed by the harsh amplified ringtone that filled the room. Then the call dropped into voicemail.
“This is Jordan McKenna, Department of Homeland Security.” The recorded voice was a little distorted, but definitely McKenna’s. “I can’t take your call right now. If you are personally in physical danger at this time, hang up and dial 911 immediately. Otherwise, leave a message and I’ll get back to you when operational circumstances allow.”
I turned to Peever in triumph, but he only gestured for me to leave a message.
“Uh, Agent McKenna? This is Marc Bowman. I have some urgent information regarding the matter we were discussing. If you could call me back ASAP, that would be great. Thanks.”
“Good.” Peever was scowling. “Let’s hope he calls back soon. And while we wait, tell me more about him. He just showed up on your doorstep, yesterday, flashing a badge and asking for your help?”
“No. I was driving. Heading back here, actually. He and the other agents intercepted me.”
“These agents pulled you over?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“How did they make you bring them here? To your house?”
“McKenna offered to come. I was grateful, actually.”
“Why’s that?”
“He asked if I’d changed my locks after losing my keys. I said no, and I was worried about the burglars coming back—a weird guy in an Infiniti had been following me that morning—so McKenna came to check the place out for me. And it’s a good thing he did.”
“Why? Had the burglars come back?”
“No. But he found out how they knew about my work. Which is more than some people have done.”
Wagner shot me a look so sharp it could have sliced the leather I was leaning against.
“W
hat did he find?” Peever’s expression was equally uninviting.
“Bugs. Listening devices. Someone had planted them in my study. They’d been watching me while I worked.”
“Who had?”
“We don’t know yet. One bug was too generic to be any help, apparently, but McKenna took another one with him, hoping to trace it.”
“Where were they planted?”
“One was in the—”
“No.” Peever took a step back. “Show me.”
I WAITED FOR PEEVER’S ATTENTION to return to me from the Lichtenstein, then I pointed to the filing cabinet in the corner of the study.
“The first was over there. In the phone.”
“And the others?”
“One other.” I gestured toward the bookcase. “Second shelf down, roughly in the center.”
Peever stepped in front of me and picked up the phone.
“In the battery compartment?” He turned it over in his hands a couple of times.
I nodded.
He slid the cover off and probed the cavity in the back of the handset with his fingers, just like McKenna’s guy had done. After a few seconds he pulled his hand back. He was holding something. A tiny silver disc. A double of the one I’d seen removed from that same phone, yesterday.
How could there have been two? And how could McKenna’s guy have missed one of them?
