After five minutes he reverted to English once more, apparently addressing the original speaker. He wiped his brow and shiny head with a handkerchief. “You better do.”
He disconnected and turned his attention back to Shaw, who suspected that he had not needed to take the call at all but—like with the suit jacket label—it was a show of power. He’d also like to keep people waiting; he had arrived at the Embarcadero fifteen minutes late. “So. The floor is yours.”
“I have something you’re after. I want to negotiate a deal. That’s why I called you, and not Droon or Braxton. I don’t trust them. All of their strong-arm crap. It’s not helpful.”
Devereux was silent for a moment but the pleasure was obvious in his face. “Always good to eliminate the middleman, if possible. Cheaper in the long run.” He added, “Safer too in most instances.”
Shaw continued, “You and the people from BlackBridge broke into a house of my father’s. Alvarez Street.”
The driver glanced in the rearview mirror.
Devereux reassured him with a shake of the head.
To Shaw he said, “That’s not accurate. They were already there. I have no idea how they got in. They invited me to join them. I didn’t know whose house it was.” His fingers were flying, twitchy. It wasn’t a palsy; he could control it. “Not at that time.”
“My family’s in danger.”
Devereux nodded. “I see. You heard us. You were bugging the house.”
“I don’t believe it’s bugging if it’s your house.”
“Well taken. Go on.”
Shaw said, “My mother and sister are safe. But I want to make sure they stay safe. I’ll give you what you want and you call off Droon and Braxton.”
“I’m intrigued. So it was in Gahl’s courier bag.”
“That’s right.”
“And you want a guarantee of your family’s safety for it, of course. But there’s more in it for you. Do you know, Mr. Shaw, that one could argue that money dates back more than forty thousand years—to the Upper Paleolithic era. It took the form of barter but look at it this way: there were undoubtedly humans back then who did not need the flint arrowhead they traded ears of corn for. That makes the arrowhead a form of currency. A stone tuppence, you could say.
“Then there’s the Mesopotamian shekel. I have one from five thousand years ago. That was among the first coins. The first mints were built in the first millennium b.c. They stamped gold and silver coins for the Lydians and Ionians to use to pay for armies.”
“Hobby of yours?”
“Bloody well is!” Devereux blustered. He seemed delighted. “Now, back to business. I get what I want and I’ll write you a check—well, you’ll want a wire transfer, of course—for quite the pretty sum. You can move your family wherever you want. They’ll be completely out of harm’s way. What proof could you give me that you have it?”
Shaw said, “Why don’t I show it to you.” He lifted his backpack to his lap.
The fingers stopped moving, the arms stopped waving. Surprise—what seemed like an alien expression—blossomed in his face, followed by greedy anticipation.
Shaw unzipped the backpack and handed Devereux a thick plastic binder.
Devereux took it and emptied the contents onto his lap. He eagerly began flipping through the sheets of paper inside.
Shaw said, “Of course, these are copies. I have the originals.”
Devereux frowned when he’d finished. “What’s this?”
Shaw was hesitating, a confused look on his face. “It’s what you’re looking for.”
“No, it’s not. I don’t know what this is.”
“It’s what Amos Gahl stole from BlackBridge. What was in the courier bag. Proof about the Urban Improvement Plan. It’s evidence for the police.”
Devereux shook his head. “Where’s the voting tally?”
“What’s that?”
He eyed Shaw closely. “The legal ruling from nineteen oh-six? A single sheet of paper signed by a judge?”
Shaw looked toward the papers in Devereux’s hand. “That’s all that was in the bag. I mean, some magazines and newspapers, some memos, but all dated within the past ten years. I went through every single page. Nothing a hundred years old.” Shaw’s body language skills came into play again, though in reverse. He made certain that now, when he was lying, he kept his mannerisms and expressions unchanged from a moment ago when he’d been telling the truth. “I thought that’s what you wanted. To destroy the evidence about the UIP.”
Devereux sighed. The hands began to twitch again. “I don’t know what the UIP is.”
“Really?”
“No,” he muttered.
“BlackBridge’s Urban Improvement Plan. Seeding drugs into neighborhoods to lower property values. So people like you can buy up the land for cheap.”
The man’s face grew rosier, and not in a good way. His jaw was tight. “I have no knowledge of that whatsoever. I hire BlackBridge to help me identify properties to buy, yes, but I know nothing about any drugs. What a horrific idea.”
“It is. But it’s not my issue. I’m not going on a crusade if it puts my family in danger.”
Devereux would be wondering if Shaw was right. Maybe the courier bag didn’t have the tally in it. But if not, then where was it? His eyes grew cold, and under those small fingers the copies of the UIP documents shivered. He read through them again. “I’ve dealt with enough solicitors and barristers in my day to know this hardly amounts to evidence, Mr. Shaw.”
Silence for a moment as the Rolls climbed California Street and swerved around a cable car, bristling with enthusiastic tourists.
“I don’t think I believe you, Mr. Shaw. You’re playing hard to get. I’m going to assume you found the vote tally certificate. You hid it somewhere. And you’re holding out for more.”
Shaw appeared exasperated. He tried not to overdo it. “Voting about what? Why’s it so important?”
“It just is.” Devereux was growing irritated. Finally the man controlled his pique. “I would be willing to pay seven figures to you, in cash, untraceable, for the certificate. You will never want for anything again.”
Curious phrase, archaic. And an odd concept; Colter Shaw had not wanted for anything for a long time. Maybe since birth, and money had nothing to do with it.
“This tally, whatever it is, wasn’t in the courier bag. What do you want it for?”
The man who would be king . . .
Devereux didn’t answer. He looked out the window. Very few people disappointed Jonathan Stuart Devereux, Shaw supposed. And fewer still did not do what he wished them to.
If this were Ebbitt Droon, of course, Shaw would probably be on his way to a warehouse in a deserted part of the city. Maybe across the Bay Bridge to Oakland, a city where there would be far more industrial spaces practically designed for torture and body disposal.
The Tannery . . .
When they had met once earlier in the month, Droon had tried to extract information by threatening him with a .40 pistol—a big, nasty bullet—targeting joints, which would have the effect of altering them forever. Now, apparently he’d returned to the twisting knife—what he’d used on Amos Gahl.
Devereux turned back to him. “All right. Eight figures.”
Shaw wondered where on the scale between ten million and ninety-nine the man was thinking. He guessed the payoff would be on a low rung of the ladder.
“A higher number isn’t going to miraculously produce something I didn’t have two minutes ago. In exchange for leaving my family alone, I’ll give you the Urban Improvement Plan evidence, whether or not you say you don’t know what it is.” He shrugged. “If it’s not enough for the prosecutor, then it might at least point the police in a . . . helpful direction.”
Sullen, Devereux muttered. “I doubt that will be a very productive en
deavor, Mr. Shaw.”
They had arrived back at the place where they had picked Shaw up. Carrie was nowhere to be seen.
The CEO looked around for her.
Perhaps it had been one jab too many.
Devereux shrugged. “It happens. Those girls . . .”
Shaw thought: Good for you, Carrie.
Devereux tapped the driver on the shoulder. The man shut the recorder off. The tape was soon to be erased.
A sigh. “I would hate to have to turn this matter back to Ian Helms and Irena Braxton. They’re so . . . unsubtle. Let me encourage you to have another look at the contents of the courier bag. Discuss it with your bearded friend. Eight figures is, after all, eight figures.”
He handed the copies back and Shaw slipped them into his backpack.
The driver was out of the car and opening the door. Shaw stepped out onto the sidewalk.
Shaw heard Devereux’s voice. “I would look very carefully for that tally, Mr. Shaw. It would be good for everyone.”
55
How is it there?” Shaw asked.
Victoria Lesston said through the speaker on Shaw’s Android, “We’re vigilant. Carrying sidearms. Your friend’s guys brought a machine gun.”
“Mary Dove told me.”
“What’re you up to?”
Back in the Pacific Heights safe house, sitting beside an open window and letting a pleasant breeze breathe past him. “Just hung out with a lecherous billionaire.”
“You have all the fun.”
His eyes were on the sketch he’d done of Echo Ridge, in the Davis & Sons frame, hanging on the wall. Even though it was in save-a-few-bucks plastic, the art didn’t look at all bad.
“Your mother,” she said, “was telling me about Ash. Sorry I never got a chance to meet him.”
“He was quite a man. Troubled, complicated, compassionate. Nobody like him in the world. He was a crusader.”
“This thing you found? So, you think it’s true?”
He said, “It is, yes. A real voting tally from nineteen oh-six. If it got out in public, it’ll change . . . well, it’ll change everything.”
“Is it safe? The tally.”
“I hid it in a picture frame.”
“In plain sight?”
“Not really. It’s facing backward.”
“A framed blank page—isn’t that a little obvious?”
“There’s a sketch I drew on the back. A landscape.”
“But it’s not what your father was looking for?”
“The tally? No. He didn’t even know it existed.” His voice grew terse. “He was looking for evidence to bring down BlackBridge and get the president—this guy named Helms—arrested. But there never was any. Only the vote tally. Oh, he had a mixed tape too.”
“A what?”
“Another story for when I see you again.” He wished they could have a longer conversation, but this wasn’t the time or place.
A pause. “Which will be when?”
Shaw nearly said as soon as possible. He missed her. But chose: “A few days. Just some loose ends here.”
The front door opened and Russell walked into the living room.
“My brother’s here. I better go.”
“Say hi to the mystery man for me.”
Shaw liked the lilt in her voice.
They disconnected.
Russell asked, “How did it go with Devereux?”
“He had an idea we’d found the tally. But he wasn’t sure. He might think Gahl hid it somewhere else. He offered to pay us a little money for it.”
“Little? Six figures?”
Silence.
“Seven?”
“More.”
“Hmm.” Russell’s go-to response. The accompanying facial expression was: easy come, easy go.
“He suggested that Braxton and Droon were going to step up to bat again.”
“Used a baseball analogy?”
“No, that was mine. He collects money. Devereux.”
“Who doesn’t?”
“No. I mean, he’s a real collector. Old coins and bills. Ancient. A hobby. Does that make him a numismatist?”
“Couldn’t tell you.” Russell walked close to the frame and examined his brother’s sketch.
It was only then that Shaw realized that it might be titled View from Echo Ridge. Which was, of course, the very spot where Colter had believed his brother had murdered Ashton. What had subconsciously motivated him to pick that scene for the drawing?
His brother studied it closely.
Would he remark on Shaw’s choice?
“You can’t see the typewriting on the other side” was all he offered. He turned away.
“They used thick paper back then.”
Shaw was about to say something but then tensed, cocking his head.
“Colt?” Russell asked.
Shaw held up a finger. He rose and stepped to the front door. He peered through the peephole.
He stepped outside, hand on his gun. He noticed a woman in a maid’s uniform, sorting towels on a cart, facing away. He returned a moment later and closed the door. “Maid.”
It was then that a brilliant white flash from outside filled the room and an instant later the staccato crack of an explosion rattled windows. Car alarms were wailing.
Both brothers drew their guns and looked out.
Two men in tactical black and ski masks had blown open the door of Russell’s SUV. Apparently the vehicle had extra reinforcement and the bang had not completely breached the vehicle. One of them was trying to pull the door open all the way.
Russell muttered, “You flank, the alley.”
Shaw nodded.
His brother didn’t bother with the subtle approach. He went for a frontal assault. He stepped out the window and balanced briefly on a ledge. He then judged angles and leapt onto the roof of the one-story building below.
Hiding his gun under his jacket, so as not to startle residents in the building and earn a 911 report, Shaw closed and locked the window his brother had just climbed through and then walked into the hallway, now empty. He was in a hurry, yes, but took the time to double-lock the door. He jogged to the stairwell that would take him to the exit in the basement.
* * *
—
On the street it was soon obvious that a firefight was not forthcoming.
The two tactical ops were gone.
Shaw joined Russell, standing beside the car and examining the damage, which was considerable. A six-inch hole had been blown in the door near the lock. It seemed like an efficient, if messy, way to enter a vehicle, but they hadn’t known about the extra steel plates. The door held.
“What happened?” Shaw asked.
“They saw me and my weapon and decided not to engage. They had a van waiting up the street.”
“BlackBridge? Or one of your customers from the Oakland operation?” Shaw was thinking of the hidden room in the safe house and his brother’s maps of the docks across the Bay—which had a decidedly tactical theme about them.
“BlackBridge or Devereux. My other project? No one is a risk anymore.”
“How’d they make us?” Shaw asked.
“I’ve got some thoughts on that.”
But he didn’t explain just now. He tilted his head, listening.
Sirens wailed in the distance.
“I’ll have to talk to the cops.” Russell was the epitome of calm.
“You have weapons inside?”
“Won’t be a problem.”
“Who’s it registered to?” The smoke was acrid, Shaw’s eyes burned. The breaching charge involved manganese or phosphorus.
“A company. Offshore. Done this before. Go back upstairs.”
Shaw nodded.
He turned and
left, walking back to the front door of the residence. The back one, through which he’d exited, was self-locking. And while he could jimmy it, there was no reason to. Shaw entered the building and climbed the stairs. Survivalists tended to avoid elevators. For one thing, he recalled his father’s rule:
Never miss the opportunity to strengthen limbs in everyday life.
For another, in an elevator you’re subject to someone else’s control.
On the second floor, he walked to their unit and undid both locks.
He stepped in and closed the door behind him. He was only three or four feet inside when he glanced up to where he’d hung the Davis & Sons frame, containing the halfway decent sketch of the stark view from Echo Ridge.
The wall was now bare.
56
They’d tagged him.
That’s how Droon and Braxton had found the new safe house.
Tagging.
“Got the back of your jacket.” Russell scanned the garment with a handheld device that looked like a noncontact thermometer. The display lit up with little yellow dots.
“How?”
“Where were you when you met with Devereux?”
“The backseat of the Rolls.”
“They coated it. RFID dust.”
Radio frequency identification.
In the Compound, where there was no high-tech, the three children were not exposed to the basic internet, much less the universe of other digital esoterica. In the years since he’d been out in the real world, as a reward-seeker, Shaw had embraced much that was electronic and he’d heard of RFID dust. It was a common technique used by security and military forces—those from countries with sophisticated SIGINT—signals intelligence—operations, and sizable budgets. Radio frequency tracking systems were complicated and worked only with state-of-the-art equipment. Satellites and drones were involved.
Once tagged, you could be trailed even when you ducked out of sight and moved via underground passages. Algorithms compared geographic mapping systems to predict where you would emerge. When you did, another sensor would pick you up again, then hand off to others.
The Final Twist Page 23