A signboard advertised that Gary Clark Jr. was playing that evening. The dirt lot was packed with cars snaking up and down the alleys. Parking spilled into two adjacent fields. She circled twice, settling for a spot at the far corner between an oak tree and an old VW van.
She locked the car and started toward the restaurant. Around her the last arrivals were making their way to the outdoor amphitheater behind the restaurant. Music from a blues band filled the air. She felt stiff and overdressed, wildly out of place. She had no idea what she was thinking, carrying a sidearm. She slowed, then stopped altogether. She looked at the entrance to the restaurant a hundred feet ahead and tried to work out what she was going to say. Nothing came to her. She turned and looked back at her car as the band kicked into an up-tempo number. The music gave her a little ’tude. She continued toward the café. She’d think of something when she got inside.
—
The black Ford F-250 pickup rumbled into the parking lot a minute after Mary had arrived. The driver was a big man with broad shoulders, skin the color of milk coffee, and a weathered USMC garrison cap on his head. He put his foot on the brake and scanned the lot, his eyes quickly locating the blond woman in business attire, staying with her as she picked up her gait and entered the café.
“Hello, Miss Mary.”
Shanks put the truck into gear and cruised the lot until he found a spot with a clear line of sight to the entrance. He raised a hand in the shape of a gun and took aim at the door. Give him his old Remington sniper’s rifle and one round. From this distance it would be like shooting fish in a barrel.
He put down his imaginary rifle and placed a call. “She’s here.”
“Of course she is,” said Peter Briggs. “Do this and you can count on a promotion.”
Shanks opened the center console and removed a brass cigarette case. He had some time to kill and didn’t know a better way. A flick of his thumb opened the case. He selected a slim, tightly rolled spliff and lit it. Shanks didn’t touch alcohol or most drugs, but he did allow himself a taste of some fine kush now and then. He took a drag and flicked the cherry out the window. He held the smoke in his lungs, feeling his eyes water, his chest expand, his head grow warm and fuzzy. This particular strain was called Triple A, for “awake, alert, and aware.” It got you mellow, took the edge off things, but gave you a little kick in the ass so you could remain sharp, on point.
He exhaled.
“Oh yeah,” he said, seeing a rainbow arc across his vision. He blinked and the colors vanished. “That’s the ticket.”
Shanks considered taking another hit, then thought better of it. One was more than enough. He didn’t know what Joseph Grant had wanted with Mr. Prince. He imagined it had had something to do with the Merriweather deal last winter. It had been a stressful time for everyone at the company. Mr. Prince had ridden the troops hard to make sure ONE completed the acquisition. And Briggs had ridden his boys in security harder. There was lots of B&E work, strong-arming, that type of thing. It was around then that the Mole had started making his creepy Vines.
Since then Shanks had moved steadily up the ladder. Briggs made it clear that it was his job to protect Mr. Prince and his company. He talked about ONE as if it were a country, not a corporation. Shanks liked that just fine. He was a man who gave his allegiance wholly, and ONE represented everything he admired. It was powerful, influential, admired, and, best of all, color-blind. ONE was a meritocracy. It was all about ability.
If his job called for him to shoot a federal agent, fine. He looked at it as killing the enemy, a task no different from taking out an insurgent in Iraq. You were either with ONE or against it. Besides, Shanks had suffered at the hands of the FBI. To him, the job was a chance for some payback—to balance the scales of justice, so to speak. And if his job called for him to take care of another kind of problem, he was fine with that, too.
He checked the time and noted that the Grant woman had been inside the café for an hour. This was not a positive development. He had an educated idea of what she was doing in there, and he was certain Mr. Briggs would not be happy when he learned of it.
Shanks opened his glove box to check for his real gun, a Beretta 9mm, ten-shot clip plus one in the barrel, modified Python ammo. He didn’t need a rifle tonight. This job would be up close and personal.
He closed the glove box and settled down to wait.
He was already rehearsing what he was going to say to Mary Grant before he killed her.
59
“My name is Mary Grant. FBI. I’d like to speak with the manager.”
The hostess glanced at Mary’s badge. “Yes, ma’am. Please wait right here while I find him.”
“Thank you.”
The hostess disappeared into the back of the café. Mary kept her hands at her sides, her posture its best, as she waited. If this was the kind of response a badge got, she planned on carrying it more often.
A minute later a tall, thickset African-American man of about fifty wearing a denim shirt approached. “Cal Miller.”
Mary introduced herself and presented Joe’s badge. “Is there somewhere quiet we can speak?”
“Can I ask what this is about?”
“Two days ago an agent was shot and killed at the Flying V Ranch up the road. The agent ate here just before. I’d like your help in finding out who he may have been with.”
“My office is in the back.”
Miller led the way to the rear of the restaurant, through a door marked Private and into a cluttered office the size of a broom closet. Posters of past acts covered the wall: Vince Gill, Bruce Hornsby, and Willie Nelson. Miller wedged himself behind his desk while Mary moved a stuffed armadillo off an armchair. As she sat, she unbuttoned her jacket just enough to allow him a glimpse of Joe’s Glock. It was only then that she noticed he was wearing a sidearm beneath his shirt, too, something very big and very shiny.
She handed him the receipt she’d found in Joe’s wallet. “Is the server here? I’d like to ask her a few questions.”
“That’s Mindy. She pulls a double Mondays and Thursdays. Let me get her.”
Miller left the office. Mary took a breath and tried to relax. She’d passed the bullshit test. All she had to do now was keep calm and authoritative and act like Joe.
Miller returned, trailed by Mindy, the waitress. She was a short, curvy redhead approaching middle age, with too much makeup and boobs spilling out of a tight black tank top.
“How do you do?” Mindy said, offering a hand. “Cal told me why you’re here. I’m real sorry ’bout what happened to your friend. Do you have a picture of him? It might help.”
“Yes,” said Mary. “Of course.”
Mistake one. She didn’t have a picture ready at all.
She fumbled for her phone and embarked on a search for a picture of Joe to show the waitress. In every one Joe was either with the girls or with Mary. There wasn’t a single snap of him alone. Finally, she selected a picture of Joe with the girls taken at Christmas last year. At least he was wearing a suit, and with a wrenching start, she realized it was the one he’d been wearing two days ago.
“Here he is.”
“Those his daughters? Poor girls. They’re real pretty.”
“Yes, they are,” said Mary, too quickly.
“Burger, fries, and a Coke. I remember him.” She looked up and smirked. “The other guy—he was a piece of work.”
“Go on.”
“He’d just had an operation, something with his heart. He couldn’t eat anything with too much fat or cholesterol. He was worried about how we cook our food. No vegetable oil. No trans fats. You know, all that New York City nonsense. Hello…we ain’t the Four fuckin’ Seasons.”
“How do you know he was from New York?”
“He had an accent, that’s all. He sure as heck wasn’t from around here.”
“Do you recall what he looked like?”
“Fat, red face. Kinda piggy, I guess. Hair combed over. Not someone you’d find
on the cover of GQ. But the other one, the one in the picture, he was a dish.”
“He’s married,” said Mary.
“I noticed,” said Mindy, as if the fact didn’t mean a thing to her or her lusty ambitions. “Is there anything else? I’ve got five tables that are probably having a conniption fit about now.”
“That should cover it.”
“I’m sorry about your friend. I can see you’re real torn up.” Mindy stepped closer and put a hand on Mary’s arm. “Guess you didn’t care he was married either.”
“I was his—” Mary cut herself off. She had no reason to say anything more.
“Boots,” said Mindy, halfway out the door.
“Excuse me?” said Mary.
“The good-looking guy called the fat one Boots. They looked like they were friends. Just sayin’.”
Mindy closed the door behind her.
“Anything else I can help you with?” asked Cal Miller.
“There is.” But Mary didn’t know what. There had to be something. She hadn’t driven twenty-five miles just to find out that Joe had eaten his last lunch with a fat FBI agent nicknamed “Boots” with a heart condition and a New York accent. Unfortunately, she didn’t have a clue who Boots might be, and she didn’t think Don Bennett, Randy Bell, or anyone else at the FBI would appreciate her asking. Certainly not Edward Mason. Not after her promise to keep her nose out of Joe’s business and his none-too-subtle threat to jail her if she didn’t. Besides, she didn’t want to jeopardize the nation’s security.
National security. The twenty-four-carat unimpeachable excuse for any and all government actions. Question at your peril.
“Ma’am?”
Mary sighed and stood up, knowing that she was forgetting something but not knowing what. “Thank you,” she said finally as she squeezed past the stuffed armadillo and the desk.
Cal Miller opened the door. “If you’re hungry, I’ll be happy to get you whatever you’d like. On the house. We’re famous for our chicken fried steak.”
National security. And then it came to her. What about the Nutty Brown Cafe’s security?
“Cameras,” she blurted. “You have security cameras, don’t you?”
Miller nodded. “Like everybody else, but I’m not sure they’ll be any help.”
“How many do you deploy?”
“Deploy?” said Miller. “We’ve got twenty-five cameras on the premises. The insurance company demands that we keep every square foot of the place covered.”
“So there’s a camera inside the restaurant?”
“Two. On the front door and the cash register. And of course there are several on the parking lot. That’s where the trouble usually takes place. Fistfights, altercations, the like. The rest of the cameras are over in the outdoor pavilion. But it might be too late. The disk records over itself every two days.”
“I’d like to take a look anyway.”
“All yours.”
“Let’s start inside.”
60
Jessie spotted the headlights pulling into the driveway. Hurriedly she took a last vape from her e-cigarette. “B rt thr,” she texted.
Backpack. Laptop. Pepper spray. Jessie made sure she had everything she needed, then ran downstairs. Grace sat on the sofa, waving the remote. “Can we start now?”
Jessie left her backpack by the front door and plopped down next to her sister. The TV was tuned to Survivor. “I’ve got to go out, mouse.”
“But it’s the finale. We have to see who won.”
“I know, but this is more important.”
“You’re supposed to look after me. Mom left you in charge.”
“Sorry, but I have to. It’s for Dad.”
“Out where?”
“Out out. That’s all you need to know.”
“When will you be back?”
“I’m not sure.”
“More than an hour?”
“Who are you, Mom?”
“I don’t like being here alone. It’s creepy.”
Jessie shifted on the couch. She’d tried to be patient and understanding, but it wasn’t working. Little kids only thought about themselves. “Lock the door and watch TV. Pretend I’m in my room like I always am anyway. Either way, you need to be in bed asleep by the time Mom comes home. You’ll be okay. I promise.”
“But you’re not in your room.”
Jessie stood. “Grace, you’re almost twelve. You’re going into seventh grade in a few weeks. Grow up.”
“You have to at least tell me what you’re doing.”
“I want to figure out how Mom lost Dad’s message. I think someone hacked into her phone. I’m going to talk to my TA to see if he can help.”
Grace considered this. “You going with Garrett?”
Jessie looked out the window. She could see the blond head, the spiky, carelessly combed hair, at the wheel of the old VW bug. Maddeningly, her heart skipped a beat. “Maybe.”
“You’re wearing makeup.”
“Am not.”
“And perfume. You smell like Mom.”
“Stop being a pest. I have to go.”
Grace followed her sister to the front door. “What if I get scared?”
“You won’t. And besides, Mom will be home before you know it.”
“She’ll know you’re not here.”
“How? She’ll look in my room and think I’m asleep.”
“Sometimes she comes in and sits on my bed. What if she does that to you?”
“I’m fifteen. Mom doesn’t come into my room anymore.”
Grace grabbed her sleeve. “If they hacked into Mom’s phone, they might be watching us.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Why would anyone watch us? Dad’s dead.”
“Why would anyone hack into Mom’s phone?”
Jessie crossed her arms and blew out a frustrated breath. She’d asked herself the same question a dozen times and hadn’t been able to come up with an answer. Which made it all the more important for her to figure out who’d done it. You couldn’t know why without first knowing who. “I’m going. If you tell Mom, I’ll kill you.”
“I won’t.”
“Don’t!” Jessie leaned down and gave Grace a peck on the cheek. “Wish me luck, mouse.”
“Good luck, peanut.” Grace watched her sister run down the walk and climb into the car. “For what?” she shouted after her. “The phone or Garrett?”
61
A child’s bedroom.
Morning. Sunlight streaming through a crack in the curtains.
A girl sleeping in her bed. Blond hair fanned across the pillow. Pink cheeks. An angel.
A tattooed hand brings a razor-sharp blade near the child’s face.
The blade passes over the girl’s chin, her nose, her eyes.
As vipers writhe from the skull tattoo.
One mile away, in the parking lot of a minimall that housed a Papa John’s, a 7-Eleven, and a Green Mesquite BBQ, the Mole sat alone inside the command van, watching the Vine he’d made earlier that morning of Grace Grant.
His angel.
A movement on the primary monitor drew his attention and he put down his phone. It was a VW Beetle pulling into the Grants’ driveway. The Mole sat up straighter, watching the older girl run down the walk and jump into the car. Behind them, framed by the foyer’s light, a thin blond girl stood in the doorway.
The Mole zoomed in on the girl. He saw a rustle of blue nightgown, a sheaf of blond hair, and then the door closed.
He leaned back in the chair, his heart pounding, his eyes unable to leave the monitor.
His angel was alone in the house.
62
“Gentlemen, welcome. I congratulate you on the momentous step you’ve taken I’m grateful for the faith you’ve shown in me personally, and for your belief in my vision for the future. Thank you.”
Ian Prince allowed his words to sink in as he looked out over the executives from Israel sitting among his own lieutenants at dining tables running t
he width of the room. Graves Hall was a cavernous space with heavy wood paneling and stained glass windows set high on the walls. Candles burned from wrought iron chandeliers. Life-sized portraits of Cerf, Jobs, Berners-Lee, and, of course, himself, stared down from the walls. To Ian’s eye it was a cathedral, a sacred place for worshipping the great minds who had launched the digital revolution.
“We live in a bold new world,” Ian continued. “A world of opportunity. A world where a beggar in Mozambique has access to the same knowledge, the same expertise, the same compendium of information as a billionaire in Manhattan. We live in the era of the super-empowered individual, in which each of us is capable of unimaginable feats. A doctor in Atlanta can ‘print’ human tissue from a single cell. A scientist in São Paolo can alter DNA to eliminate faulty genes. A husband in Tokyo can speak to his wife in Quebec and not only hear her voice but see her picture…on his watch. It is the stuff of comic books and science fiction novels and old-time radio serials. Every day we reach into the future and harness it to the present. And none of it would be possible without the means to instantaneously access, respond to, and transmit information. All of which are the pylons on which ONE is built.”
Ian paused. The room was so quiet he could hear a microchip drop. Faces looked up at him, eyes lit with ambition.
“Twenty years ago,” he continued, “I had an idea about how to gather information from a nifty new creation called the World Wide Web. That idea turned into something called ONEscape.Back in that medieval time, we called it a web crawler. Today ONEscape is the world’s most popular search engine.”
He smiled, enjoying his colleagues’ laughter.
“I didn’t stop with ONEscape. I moved on to create a company that wrote software, and another that manufactured the hardware that made up the Internet’s backbone. I built a company that designed smartphones and tablets to use that backbone, and most recently I purchased a company that produces content that passes through our hardware to be enjoyed on those smartphones and tablets. Still, that isn’t enough. I have a greater responsibility, and that is to oversee this magnificent organism called the Internet—to guard it on behalf of the beggar in Mozambique and the billionaire in Manhattan. And then one day I discovered Clarus. And I knew at once that Clarus would give me this ability.
Invasion of Privacy: A Novel Page 22
