They're Watching Page 34

  “No, thank you,” he said. As she withdrew, he winked at me and reached into the minibar. “Forty-two years. You know the secret?”

  “No,” I said. “I don’t.”

  “When we’re at an impasse, I admit to being wrong half the time. No more, no less.”

  “I’ve got the being-wrong part down,” I said. The thought of Ariana caught me by surprise here in this lavish suite. I flashed on DeWitt’s broad, handsome face, those arms that barely tapered at the wrists, the shoulders that kept going. And Verrone, of the downturned mustache and the steady, lifeless glare. My wife in the hands of these men. Controlled by them. Breathing only as long as their mood or judgment held.

  “You seem shaken,” he said.

  The time blinked out from the DVD player beneath the wall-mounted flat-screen—11:23 P.M.

  Twelve hours and thirty-seven minutes until Ridgeline would kill my wife.

  I said, “I won’t argue that.”

  He gestured for me to sit. “Would you like a drink?”

  “Very much.”

  He poured two vodkas over ice, handed me mine. “They play dirty pool, our friends over at Festman Gruber. I know their tricks, as they know mine.” He sat sideways at the edge of the secretary desk and crossed his hands over a knee as if waiting for someone to paint his portrait. “It was very much in their interest for this movie not to happen. McDonald’s stopped Supersizing after that documentary. If you can get McDonald’s to do something, hell, sky’s the limit. We needed a star of a certain status for the picture to get the kind of exposure we required. You know how it is. Given our time frame, it was tough to begin with. It’s not like A-listers sit around waiting to be slotted into low-budget whale movies.” He took a sip, squinted into the pleasure of the alcohol.

  I followed suit, the vodka burning my throat, soothing my nerves.

  He used his thumbnail to buff an imaginary spot off the lacquered desktop. “Keith Conner was not as much of a lout as you’d think.”

  “I’m starting to figure that out.”

  “Movie stars aren’t killed quietly,” he mused.

  “They needed something failproof.”

  “And low-tech.” He gestured with his glass. “Golf driver, was it?”

  “I don’t even golf.”

  “Don’t understand the game myself. Seems like an excuse to wear bad pants and drink during the day. I did enough of that in my youth.”

  I looked down into the clear liquid, my hands starting to tremble. After so much menace, the human contact and our quick rapport had caught me off guard. It felt safe in here, which opened me up to what I’d been trying not to feel. The past hours were a jumble, one trauma bleeding into the next. I flashed on Sally, pinwheeling back, mouth open, eruption from her chest. “Someone was shot. Right in front of me. A single mother. There’s a kid who right now is . . . is finding out . . .”

  He sat there, patient as a sniper. I wasn’t sure what I was trying to convey, so I drained my glass and handed him the CD. His eyebrows lifted.

  He took the disc, circled the desk, and popped it into his laptop. He clicked and read. Read some more. I sipped and sat back, cataloging everything I was going to do differently if I got a chance to be with my wife again. That last night we’d been together, my thumb drawing a bead of sweat through the dip between her lovely shoulder blades, the quick urgency of her mouth against my shoulder—what if it was a final memory?

  His voice startled me from my thoughts. “This internal study shows very different results from those that Festman released publicly and put into evidence before Congress. Three hundred and fifty decibels? That’s well into illegal territory.”

  “The figure surprises you?” I asked.

  “Not in the least. We all know it. This just proves that they know it.” A glance back at the screen. “They stole our data, too. We must have a mole. That will be handled.” He was talking to himself; I just happened to be there. His gray eyebrows furrowed, holding an anger he’d so far concealed. “At least they stole accurate data.” He seemed to notice I was there again. “We have a superior product,” he told me. “But innovation takes time. Change is hard. There are alliances. Partnerships. Inertia. We needed to raise awareness, apply the right pressure at the right time. The documentary was a way of doing that. Business can make for strange bedfellows.”

  “And by ‘product’ you mean the sonar system that you’re developing?”

  “More or less. We design transducers and sonar domes for submarines and ship hulls. Just like Festman Gruber.”

  “Why are yours superior? Because they don’t harm whales?”

  He chuckled. “Don’t mistake me for some manatee hugger. We have a lot of motivations. Saving Shamu certainly isn’t at the top of that list. But our system is less disruptive to the environment. That’s a PR benefit, you see. Which makes it good business. And a good advantage to press. How’s your physics?”

  “Paltry.”

  “Okay, here’s the shorthand: Festman Gruber’s is a traditional sonar system. Low frequency but high output power—think of it as high intensity. The high intensity is what screws up whale migrations, blows out their ears, all that Greenpeace stuff. Of course, Festman denies any link.”

  “Like cigarette companies and cancer.”

  “Like smart businessmen. You can’t please shareholders airing your dirty laundry all the time. The key is”—he pointed to the laptop screen—“not to get caught with your pants down.”

  “How can your company’s sonar work in such a low decibel range?”

  “Because North Vector has developed a low-frequency, high-pulse-rate, low-intensity sonar, based on the type used by whispering bats. We overlap signals correlating from multiple sources to increase propagation distance without raising intensity. This offers a huge strategic advantage, because even though it’s active, it’s hard to detect, record, or source, even with specialized acoustic equipment.”

  “And what could a little arts-and-crafts project like that be worth?”

  “About three point nine billion. Annually. For five years.” He uncrossed his hands, held them out like Vanna White. “But can we really put a price tag on the well-being of our seafaring mammals?”

  I wanted to make a smart reply, but I thought of Trista sitting in her bungalow with those autopsy photos, Keith lingering in the shadow of the Golden Gate to rest a hand on the side of that gray whale, and decided to keep my mouth shut.

  He continued, “NSA has an essentially unlimited budget. They need more money, they print it. But they don’t like paying twice for the same thing, not in these amounts. Looks bad to the Senate Appropriations Committee. And Festman, see, is in the middle of a long-term naval sonar contract. So despite all our advantages, we’re next in line. And this document”—another adoring glance at the laptop screen—“or more specifically the threat of this document, is the kind of thing that will accelerate certain processes.”

  “They can’t just say it’s doctored?”

  “It won’t come to that. This battle has to be over before a single shot is fired.”

  “How?”

  “I make sure that the right people in the right positions are aware that if they support Festman, they will be on the losing side. Senators. United States Attorneys. Cabinet members.”

  “How do you do that?”

  “There is no greater power—not bombs, not laws, not parliaments—no greater power than picking up the phone and having the right person on the other end.”

  “Won’t the government push back?”

  “I am the government.”

  I said, “You’re a private company.”

  “Exactly.”

  I nodded slowly. “I keep finding I’m not cynical enough to live in this country.”

  “Try living in other countries,” he said. “It won’t convert you to an optimist.”

  I jabbed a finger in the direction of the laptop. “Can you use that internal study to nail Festman’s hide to the wa
ll?”

  “That’s not what we want.”

  “After what I’ve been through, Mr. Kazakov, I’m not sure you can speak for what I want.”

  “You came to me for a reason, Patrick. I know how to swim in these waters.”

  I tapped the empty glass against my thigh.

  “You never want to humiliate a rival,” he continued. “Because then you don’t get what you want. You flash your hand, give them a way out. Avoidance of shame is a vastly effective and underutilized motivator. We bury the study. Arrange to clear your name for whatever charges they’ve drummed up. It all happens quietly, behind the scenes, and we agree on a headline or two that we can all sell and live with. The higher-ups at Festman Gruber won’t be imprisoned. They’ll just lose. This round.”

  “And you’ll get the defense contract.”

  “How much,” he asked, “do you want for this CD?”

  “I don’t want money. I want my wife.”

  “Then let’s get you your wife.”

  “It’s not that easy.” Standing, I pulled the folded documents from my pocket and tossed them on the desk before him, all those phone bills, wire transactions, bank accounts, and photographs linking Ridgeline to Festman Gruber. “There’s much more at stake. And I’ve got a lot more than just an internal study.”

  I explained to him about Ridgeline and what I’d determined about their relationship with Festman Gruber. When I told him about Ariana’s being taken, his eyes burned with forty-two years of empathy and his hand tightened angrily around the arm of his chair. His wife emerged silently, ostensibly to return the tea service to the counter, but her timing suggested she’d been listening to our conversation. She made sure to catch her husband’s eye, and his expression of marital resignation made clear the decision was no longer in his hands. When she retreated to the bedroom again, he nodded at me weightily.

  “This,” he said, “changes everything.” He sank back, rubbed his temples with his fingertips. His silver goatee looked gray in the glow of the banker’s lamp. “If Ridgeline so much as catches wind of the fact that you’re making a play, they’ll clean up, understand? That’s what they’ve been doing. Cleaning up.”

  I fought off dread, the endless wrong-turn scenarios, the crimescene imagery.

  “I need to know how it works,” I said, “if I’m gonna help my wife. Who’s involved and at what level? Does Festman’s CEO make the call to hire Ridgeline?”

  “The CEO?” He waved a dismissive hand. “The CEO isn’t even aware of this. It’s not like in the movies. He lists corporate priorities. Makes a directive. ‘Stop that fucking Keith Conner documentary.’ That’s all. The rest gets brainstormed and implemented.”

  “By whom?”

  “Security.”

  “Who’s Security report to?”

  “Legal. Insert lawyer joke here. But that’s how it’s done.”

  Kazakov’s neutrality—his casualness—was chilling.

  My voice shook. “So they’re the ones who laid the plan? To fuck with me and my wife? To murder Keith? To frame me and take away my life? Lawyers?”

  “I don’t know that Legal would have come up with the plan. But that’s who would have approved it.”

  “Once they’d hired Ridgeline.”

  “That’s right.”

  “How do I know who’s at the top of this particular food chain?” I asked. “Legal?” I spit the word.

  “You show up with some information and see who comes out to talk to you.”

  “Show up? Aren’t they in Alexandria?”

  “You bet your ass whoever’s running things is on this coast overseeing this little imbroglio.”

  “Won’t they just call the cops on me?”

  “Maybe,” he said. “You’ll be betting that they’ll want to talk to you first.”

  “Betting my life and Ariana’s.”

  “Yes.”

  On the leather blotter rested a satellite cell phone. Distractedly, he reached over and spun it. The Glock was digging into my kidney, so I pulled it free and set it on the coffee table.

  He eyed the pistol, unimpressed. “That’s useless. This is a power and intel game. You’re not going to win it with that. You’ll probably just shoot your kneecap off.”

  I picked up the glass again, as if it had magically refilled with Stoli. “I want Legal to go down. And I want Ridgeline. The business stuff you can handle however you see fit.”

  “You’ve got a long row to hoe.”

  “That’s why I need your help. The only benefit to being stalked by a global defense and technology company is that their rivals are also global defense and technology companies.”

  “That we are. Fire with fire and all that, sure. But what do you expect us to do?”

  “They stitched a tracking device into my wife’s raincoat. They don’t know we know about it. My wife managed to grab her raincoat as they snatched her.”

  “Resourceful woman.”

  “Yes, you two would get along just fine. Is there any way to track that device?”

  “Not unless you had the signature of that particular signal.”

  “Like its characteristics?”

  “Yes, radio frequency, period, bandwidth, amplitude, type of modulation—all the usual suspects.”

  “An acquaintance of mine swept our house for us, and he found the thing using a signal analyzer. Would that have recorded the signature?”

  “Any signal analyzer worth a damn would have saved the signature in its library. Can you get the analyzer?”

  “I have an idea how I might. But I . . . uh, I might need you to offer the guy a job.”

  “He get fired?”

  “Not yet.”

  Kazakov nodded. “I see.”

  “I need to make a call. If I turn on my cell phone, can Ridgeline source where I am?”

  “This isn’t 24. It takes a good amount of time to track a signal. If they’re looking. Keep it to a few minutes and you’ll be fine.” He gestured to the balcony, but his eyes had already moved back to his copied cell-phone bill, the one I’d used to track him down. As I stood, I noticed that his stare had caught on some of the underlined numbers.

  “Whose numbers are those?” I asked.

  “Advocates,” he said, not elaborating. “May I copy this as well?”

  “You can have it.”

  “You’ve done me an enormous service. Now I need to do a bit of damage control.” He gestured to the sliding glass door again, and I left him to his vodka and satellite phone.

  “Help you?” The weak cell-phone connection did nothing to stifle Jerry’s indignation. “Jesus, don’t you learn?”

  “Not quickly.”

  “I’m hanging by a thread over here after Mickelson found out I swept your house. I told you this shit better not come back on me with the studio, and here I am—an ass hair from fired.”

  “You said you wanted to get back to real security anyway. I have a job lined up for you with North Vector.”

  “Everyone’s looking for you, Patrick. Cops, press, not to mention whoever you’re tangled up in. Forget fired. How ’bout aiding and abetting?”

  “You haven’t watched the news today,” I told him. “You don’t know I’m on the run.”

  Beyond the closed sliding glass door, Kazakov sat in his plush white bathrobe, satellite phone tucked between ear and shoulder, gesturing with aggressive precision. I set my hand on the balcony rail, looked out into a tangle of branches. I closed my eyes, breathed in rain and mud, waited for Jerry to decide my wife’s fate.

  “No,” he said slowly. “I guess I haven’t. What kind of job?”

  “You can sit down with the CEO and pick one.”

  “The CEO?” He was breathing hard. “This better not be a ruse.”

  “They have my wife,” I said. “They have Ariana.”

  He was silent. I checked my watch, eager to turn the phone back off.

  “Tell me what you’re asking for.”

  We talked through t
he details, made arrangements, and signed off.

  Immediately after I hung up, an Asian chime sounded. With dread, I clicked to open the cell-phone message.

  BY NOON TOMORROW, YOU WILL LEAVE THE CD WITH THE VALET AT STARBRIGHT PLAZA.

  The screen opened to a live shot of Ariana, bound to a chair. The background was blurry, but it looked like a small room. Her hair was loose and wild, one eye was black, and blood trickled from the edge of her lips. There was no sound, but I could tell she was screaming my name.

  The feed vanished, replaced by block letters: TWELVE HOURS.

  Then darkness.

  I turned off the phone. My mouth was dirt dry, and I had to clutch the balcony rail until I could feel my legs back under me.

  A memory came, vivid and unbidden—that first time I’d met Ariana at the freshman-orientation party at UCLA. Her lively, clever eyes. How I’d approached on nervous legs, gripping that cup of keg beer. My lame line—“You look bored.” And how she’d asked if I was making a proposition, an offer to unbore her.

  I’d said, “Seems like that could be the challenge of a lifetime.”

  “Are you up to it?” she’d asked.

  Yes.

  Out on the balcony, the midnight cold had found its way through my clothes. I was shivering violently. Inside the hotel room, Kazakov set down his satellite phone and beckoned me.

  I pried my hands off the balcony rail and started in.

  Twelve hours.

  CHAPTER 56

  The lobby was spotless and gleaming. Even the marble ashtrays, standing obediently at the elevator doors containing nary a butt, looked as though they’d been polished with a silk handkerchief. It could have been a hotel or a country club or the waiting room of a Beverly Hills dentist. But it wasn’t.

  It was the Long Beach office of Festman Gruber.

  The elevator hummed pleasantly up fifteen levels. A floor-to-ceiling wall of thick glass—probably ballistic—rimmed the lobby, funneling visitors to the bank-teller window of the reception console. The security guard behind the window had a sidearm and an impressive scowl for 8:00 A.M. Behind him was a beehive of offices and conference rooms, also composed of glass walls, with assistants and workers scurrying to and fro. Aside from the dollhouse view, it looked just like any other business, depressing in its sterility. The front barrier muted everything beyond to a perfect silence. All that classified work, taking place right in the soundproofed open.