Bing thinks about it. Im the prime investor, but that doesnt mean I have anything to do with the day-to-day operations. Quite the opposite. Still, I would know if there was anything to be concerned about. Corporate espionage is always a worry, but those types steal information-trade secrets and so on-they dont kill.
But there is something worth stealing?
Absolutely, Bing says, folding his spindly little arms.
So what exactly do they make at QuantaGate? Jack asks, pressing.
Another big, boyish grin as Bing raises his eyes, looks directly at Jack. I could tell you, but then Id have to kill you-sorry, bad joke under the circumstances. The truth is, I dont know or understand the technical specifics, but its public knowledge that the company has an exploratory contract with the Defense Department to develop a new way for computers to communicate over long distances. Joe had a theory about that, which he believed had practical applications. That was the basis for the company, taking one of his ideas and finding a way to make it work.
And did he? Make it work?
Jonny Bing smoothes the thatch of hair away from his eyes, grimacing slightly. No, not yet. There are many difficulties, which is to be expected with a breakthrough technology. To my surprise, the DOD has shown remarkable patience and has continued to fund the project. They seem to understand that theyre dealing with the future, and that it will take a while to get there.
And now that Professor Keener is gone?
The smaller man shrugs. The project continues as long as there is funding. We will continue to work on developing practical applications to Joes theories. Beyond that, I have no way of knowing. Time will tell.
Who gets his share of the company?
Bing winces, looking slightly embarrassed. I was looking into that just before you arrived. The answer is, I dont know, not yet. Voting control of the shares, which are privately held, reverts to the partners. Thats me, mostly. But any income derived will go to his estate.
So you wont benefit financially?
A somber expression adds years to his youthful appearance, making him look closer to forty than thirty. I dont benefit at all, Mr. Delancey. No, no, no. Joe dying is absolutely the worst thing that could happen. If faith in QuantaGate collapses the whole investment is in jeopardy. Bing sighs, fishes a vibrating cell phone out of one of the guayaberas many pockets, checks the screen. Sorry, its been really cool talking with an action dude like you, but I have calls to catch up on. Can you find your way out?
No problem. Jack stands up, shoots his cuffs. Just one thing. You mentioned a concern about corporate espionage. Who handles security for QuantaGate?
The usual rent-a-cops, I suppose, Bing says vaguely, as if he couldnt care less. Sorry, but that kind of day-to-day really isnt my thing. Im a big picture guy.
I can see that, Jack says affably, offering his hand.
Tell Dane to have her people call my people. Joke, joke. She has my number.
Thanks again for your time, Jack says. And have a blast in Bermuda.
Kidder observes the marina from his vehicle, from a carefully chosen location not covered by any of the security cameras hes been able to identify. Most of the cameras are along the shoreline, focused on the floating dock area, which makes sense, and presents a mild level of difficulty. All part of the game. As is the constant awareness that he has an item in the trunk that will be defrosting in the heat, and that must be delivered before it goes bad.
Tick tock.
Watching through his pair of small Nikon binoculars, Kidder sees the lean, athletic man in the sharp suit exiting the big yacht, striding purposefully toward the security gate, obviously leaving the area. This is good. Every inch of the guy says senior investigator, and Kidder doesnt need the complication of dealing with a professional, not when he has to find a way around the security cameras.
Using the Nikons, he follows the sharp dresser to the back of the marina parking lot, and manages to pick up the plate number on the gleaming Lincoln Town Car as it makes the turn. What is the guy, a glorified chauffeur? Would any self-respecting investigator have an uncool ride like that? Maybe hes misread Mr. Sharp, maybe hes an empty suit, but that can all be resolved later, when he runs the plate.
For now, keep to the task at hand. Kidder glasses the big yacht, notes again that its tied to the farthest of the floating piers, just inside the breakwater. Kidder grunts, having arrived at a solution. Theres more than one way to skin a cat-not that hes ever skinned one, he sort of likes cats, cats are killers-and more than one way to board a fat-cat yacht.
One if by land, he thinks, grinning to himself, two if by sea.
Chapter Thirteen
Dane Porter perches at a sidewalk table in downtown D.C., seething. Her arms are firmly crossed, her brow furrowed. She has never been so humiliated. First shes refused entrance to the FBI by a pudgy female with a smug attitude, and then shes ordered to cool her heels-and heels is where the trouble began-at a Five Guys hamburger joint.
As if. A French fry hasnt passed her lips in two birthdays, at least, which is part of how she maintains her lithe and youthful figure and a body mass index of nineteen. Shes in the open air, but every time the restaurant doors open she can feel deep-fried calories exuding through the atmosphere.
Twenty minutes, the voice on the cell had promised, and sure enough in twenty minutes exactly Assistant Director of Counterterrorism Monica Bevins comes striding up the sidewalk, all six foot plus of her, looking in every way formidable. Smart, no-nonsense hairdo, power pantsuit, black executive handbag on a long strap slung from her wide athletic shoulders. Ready to leap tall bureaucracies in a single bound, save the planet, no problem that cant be solved.
Attorney Porter?
Dane stands, formally shakes the big ladys hand, figuring thats what you do with high-ranking feds, you tug the forelock and curtsy, or whatever.
Bevins towers over her.
Lets go inside, shall we?
Dane opens her mouth to demur-she loathes the smell of frying cow-but AD Bevins is already moving through the door. A force-of-nature type, obviously, and used to assuming full command of any given situation. Bevins marches to a recently vacated table in the back of the place, sweeps away the peanut shells, slips into a seat, points Dane to a chair.
You hungry? You want something?
Im good, you?
Id love a dog and fries but Im dieting.
Oh?
Im always dieting. Dieting sucks. You wouldnt know because youve never weighed more than what, a hundred and five?
Dane wants to tell the big lady that she, too, has to watch her weight, but knows from past experience that, given the exquisite petiteness of her figure, nobody wants to hear it. So what are we doing here? Dane asks. I offered to take you to lunch at Cafe Milano. They have lovely salads.
Ambient noise, the big woman intones, lowering her voice. Lots of ambient at Five Guys.
You think we might get bugged?
Bevins smiles and shrugs. Better safe than sorry. Considering who may be involved.
Theres a who? Dane says, bright with excitement. What have you learned?
First, tell me what happened at the checkpoint. All I heard, Naomi Nantzs personal attorney failed to pass security.
My heels, Dane says, showing off her Pampili strap-ons. This horrible woman made me take them off so she could measure. Said the maximum heel length allowed is three-and-a-half inches and mine were five, and Id have to leave them with her if I wanted to enter the building. I said I wasnt going to walk the halls of Justice in my bare feet and that was that.
AD Bevins smiles, her eyes twinkling.
Glad to amuse you, Dane says tartly. These heels cleared Homeland Security at Logan Airport. That should be good enough.
Logan will never be good enough, Bevins responds darkly. Flight 11? Mohamed Atta? Ancient history, but it still rankles. The big woman grimaces and leans forward, her face inches from Danes, as she begins to speak very quietly, almost a murmur that very nearly blends into the bright background noise of the restaurant. Her breath is mouthwash-minty. You first. I understand you bring news of my friend Randall Shane. Whats the latest?
Keeping her voice equally low, Dane says, In the last hour or so we confirmed that his client, Joseph Keener, did indeed have a child, possibly out of wedlock. All evidence of the child had been erased from the crime scene. Well, almost all evidence: one of our investigators found a sandbox under some leaves in the backyard, and a neighbor who will swear to the little boys existence, and to the fact that the mother is Chinese, possibly a Chinese national. Its clear that the victim was secretive about the child, for reasons yet to be determined.
I never doubted it, Bevins says.
That the kid was real?
The big woman nods. Shane wouldnt make that kind of mistake. He can be fooled-we all can, depending on circumstance-but not like that. Not Randall Shane.
Whats your take on the case against him? All the physical evidence indicates he killed the professor.
Crap. His own gun? A bloody shirt? Shane does the deed, then keeps blood evidence? No way.
So you believe hes been set up?
Bevins nods, keeping direct eye contact with Dane. No doubt. There are national security implications I cant discuss with you, and which Im not fully briefed on myself, but you can take it to the bank. Shane is being framed.
By who?
Bevins looks grim. Unknown to me at present.
Why? What possible motive?
Also unknown.
Come on, who took him? You must have some idea. Some theory.
Lots of ideas, no evidence. But Ive been making noise, letting it be known that one of the FBIs own has been detained, and that if hes harmed well be all over it.
Dane sits back. The place is packed, quite noisy, and nobody obvious is listening in to the conversation. Can we speak normally for a bit? I can call you Monica?
Not if you worked for me, but you dont. Monica is fine for civilians. As to the conversation, proceed. Ill stop you if we need to go SV.
SV?
Sotto voce. With a hushed quality.
Got it. Is that FBI lingo now?