Stolen Thoughts

by Tim Tigner

  “Go on,” Chase said.

  “We could zap the lawyers in their sleep.”

  52

  The Mix-up

  VICKY WAS PLEASED with the plan they’d pulled together over the past few days, and thrilled to be actively engaging her enemy. Creative offense fit her personality much better than cowering defense.

  And it helped keep her mind off Chewie.

  She’d been so swept up in the brainstorming and reconnaissance sessions of the preceding forty-eight hours that the gaping hole in her heart had failed in its efforts to suck her into darkness and swallow her soul. Skylar and Chase deserved most of the credit for that. They had worked hard to keep her occupied, body and mind.

  Vicky’s affection for the couple was increasing with every step of their shared journey. So was her admiration for their attitudes and skills.

  For his latest trick, Chase had picked the stairwell lock to get them into the eleventh-floor foyer, while Skylar was standing watch in the lobby.

  “Excuse me,” Vicky said, as the housekeeper closed the door on Jim Rogers’ apartment. “Are you Laura? The office just sent me over. Would you mind putting this on his desk?” She held out a white legal-size envelope with the RRS&S logo in the corner.

  The weary lady managed an “Of course,” but paused as she took the envelope. “Can’t we just slide it under the door?”

  “Better to put it on his desk, don’t you think? We wouldn’t want it missed or stepped on.”

  “You’ll wait here? I can’t let you in.”

  “Of course. Thank you very much.”

  As the maid keyed back into the apartment, Vicky scanned the walls for the alarm pad. Their plan depended on Vicky being locked on Laura’s mind while she keyed the code, which required the pad to be within a dozen feet of the front door. That was a good bet, but not guaranteed.

  She spotted the panel as the door was closing, and locked in on the maid’s mind. 4-1-3-1-2-1-9-1 disarm. The instant she heard the confirming beep, Vicky ran across the foyer to Sackler’s door and slid a straightened piece of paperclip into his lock. She then ran back, refocused her Pradas on the same spot, and said, “I really appreciate your help.”

  No reply.

  “I really appreciate your help,” she repeated, a few seconds later.

  This time she heard, “It’s not a problem.”

  That was enough to get her system refocused in time for 4-1-3-1-2-1-9-1 arm to crawl across her phone.

  After Laura exited and locked the door, Vicky held up a second envelope and gestured toward Sackler’s apartment. “This one too, if you don’t mind.”

  The kind housekeeper again said, “No problem,” but she spoke too soon. Her key wouldn’t fit Sackler’s lock. After a few seconds of fruitless fumbling, Vicky said, “Let me try. I worked my way through paralegal school doing janitorial work. Tons of keys. Walking around with all of them I felt like a goat wearing a bell, but it paid the bills.”

  Laura handed her the small keyring, held from above by Sackler’s key.

  As Vicky tried the lock to no avail, she said, “Do you have any lip balm in your purse?”

  “I think so. How would that help?”

  “I’ll show you.”

  While Laura searched her purse, Vicky surreptitiously clamped Sackler’s key in a clay sandwich prepared by Chase. A tiny “book” with clay pages adhered inside the covers, which she had clipped behind the hem of her suit coat. It instantly made a mold of Sackler’s key. She quickly repeated the procedure on Rogers’ key, using a second book.

  While Laura dug deeper, Vicky brought her suit coat pocket into contact with the keyhole, prompting the powerful magnet therein to grab the impeding paperclip and extract it from the brass cylinder as she pulled back.

  “Will lipstick work?”

  “A chapstick would be better. Ooh, I got it,” Vicky said, sliding the key home.

  “What was wrong?” Laura asked, opening the door and triggering a beep beep beep from the adjacent alarm panel.

  “I’m not sure. Usually it’s collected bits of pocket lint that jam up the works. Sometimes locks just get dirty. The wax from lip balm works as a lubricant in a pinch.” While that was true, according to Chase it was bad for the lock. The wax would attract dirt and gunk up the mechanism over time.

  “Anyway, now you can put the envelope on Ms. Slate’s desk.”

  “Ms. Slate’s desk?” Laura asked, her tone inquisitive.

  “Please.”

  “But this is Mr. Sackler’s apartment. Ms. Slate is up on twelve.”

  Vicky brought her hand to her mouth as Laura, shielding the panel with her body, disarmed and then rearmed the alarm. “Oh, my. I got mixed up. Which means we put the first envelope on the wrong desk too. It’s for Mr. Resseque.”

  “That’s Mr. Rogers’ apartment,” Laura said, gesturing over her shoulder with apparent dismay.

  “I’m so sorry. I’ll need to ask you to retrieve it. If you’ll be so kind. I don’t want them upset with me.”

  “It’s not a problem.”

  Vicky cocked her head in question. “Is Resseque’s housekeeper also named Laura?”

  “She’s Lara. I’m Laura.”

  Vicky nodded at the coincidence that was truly to blame. “Well, I’m so sorry to be inconveniencing you, Laura. Please, allow me to pay for your taxi ride home.” She pulled three twenties from her wallet.

  53

  Rodents

  DESPITE THE HORRENDOUS twists of fate that had put her there, Vicky was happy to be back in a home laboratory. This one was on the east coast rather than the west, and she was on the third floor rather than in a basement, but at the end of the day, a lab table was a lab table and a soldering iron was a soldering iron.

  This being New York City, America’s biggest market, and with all the technology and medical corporations nearby, she had no problem obtaining premium equipment quickly. Not with the bottomless debit cards of her kind benefactors at her disposal.

  To create her zapper, Vicky began with a set of earphones. The kind used by jackhammer operators and airport runway technicians. To these, she added technology drawn from ultrasonic surgical scalpels and microwave ovens, creating a device designed to disrupt the membranes of the target cell type, but no others. In other words, precision, precision, precision.

  Based on incomplete data.

  From tests on mice.

  As Vicky silently laughed at the absurdity of her situation, Skylar walked into the bedroom-turned-laboratory carrying a teapot and two small cups. They liked experimenting with different styles and blends of tea—when circumstances didn’t require the kick of coffee.

  “What do you have?” Vicky asked, setting down her forceps and screwdriver.

  “Green tea. A loose leaf Japanese sencha. This one is a Toku Jô Sencha, which the shop owner said is extra superior. I’m not sure we’ll notice the difference in taste, but the price was definitely extra superior. In any case, I prepared it at seventy degrees Celsius, as he insisted.”

  Skylar poured two cups. “How’s your work coming?”

  “I’m almost done.”

  “Will it fit in the headphones as you hoped?”

  “Yep. And I’ve set it up to use the on/off switch they came with, so it will appear ordinary.”

  “I didn’t know they had an on/off switch. I thought noise-cancelling headphones were just insulation.”

  “They used to be, and the passive ones still are. But nowadays the good ones are active. They detect ambient noise using a microphone and then create what is essentially an equal and opposite sound wave, cancelling it out.”

  “That doesn’t seem possible. One plus one equaling zero rather than two.”

  “It’s one minus one, actually. Picture the drawing of a wave going above and below a horizontal line, then add a second wave which crosses the line at the same points, but going in the opposite direction. The two “smash,” resulting in a flat line. Sound cancelled.

  “Th
ey’re putting the technology into high-end cars now, and it’s moving into rooms. Probably starting with five-star hotels and apartments like this one,” Vicky said, gesturing to their $50,000 a month residence.

  “Interesting,” Skylar said, sampling the tea, then raising her cup in approval. “Nice.”

  “Yes, I like it too,” Vicky agreed, after sipping. “Just don’t tell me what it cost.” She’d thought California prices were high, but those in New York City were positively bonkers.

  Skylar motioned to the headphones, which still lay open. “What are all the internal dials for, if there’s just an on/off switch?”

  “The smaller ones allow me to modify the transmission wave, which is actually very sophisticated. The term wave doesn’t conjure up an adequate picture. The larger one controls the power level—the dose. But don’t worry, they’ll all be hidden inside.”

  “Why do you need them? Is there a way to test your device?”

  Vicky grew a stern smile. “Just one person at a time.”

  “Can you try it on mice, like you did in California?”

  “I could if I had access to a functional magnetic resonance imager. But I’m not going back to my lab before this situation is resolved, and I can’t risk using a friend’s either.”

  “Could we buy one?”

  “That’s not an option. They’re enormous, require extensive setup, and cost more than a million bucks.”

  Skylar drained her teacup while swallowing the implications. “You wouldn’t need additional testing if the assassin hadn’t disrupted your research at Caltech, right?”

  Vicky nodded, knowing where this was going. “That’s probably accurate.”

  “So, in essence, it was the lawyers who forced you to use them as guinea pigs.”

  “That’s true too.”

  “Well, all right then,” Skylar said, setting down her cup. “If the calibration is off, it’s not on you. It’s on them.”

  54

  Moore Drinks

  CHASE HAD WORN countless disguises during his decade with CIA Operations. Enhancements designed to alter his appearance, either to avoid recognition or to resemble a character type, be that a bum, a biker, or a banker. But this was only his second attempt at impersonation, at wearing a disguise designed to make him look like someone specific. Today, that person was hedge fund manager Jeffrey Buster.

  Jeff had earned the honor with two qualifications. One, he looked a lot like Chase might if he were ten years older. And two, he was a member of Club 3E.

  Although the venerable Central Park West establishment with its symmetrical pillar-esque logo was actually named for founder Ethan Elijah Evans, Chase’s research indicated that most members and wannabes thought the name was shorthand for elite, exclusive, and expensive.

  As he and Skylar quickly discovered, one need only examine a membership application to understand why. The paperwork was no less personal and probing than a proctology exam, while the wait for people who passed the reputation, recommendation, and financial hurdles was estimated to be between six and seven years.

  Chase and Skylar had passed through the large, hand-carved double doors with the apparent intent of introducing themselves as new arrivals to the neighborhood, and inquiring about club membership—with Charles’ and Kitty’s British accents on full display. While Skylar charmed the receptionist and peppered him with questions, Chase slowly wandered about the antique-festooned lobby, surreptitiously planting two tiny cameras, one with a full view of the front door, the second directed at the membership-card reader.

  They repeated the performance that evening just before closing to retrieve the cameras while a different receptionist was on duty. Back at the apartment, Chase then used the first stored video to select the member he most resembled, and the second to copy a picture of that man’s membership details and barcode.

  Tonight, he was flashing his fake Jeffrey Buster card from his phone.

  The card reader’s light beeped red.

  Chase flashed it again.

  Another red.

  The evening receptionist said, “May I help you?”

  “I’m getting red, would you buzz me in?”

  “May I see your phone?”

  “Of course.”

  “That’s the problem. You’re using a screenshot rather than the live app. It should work fine if you open your card in the app.”

  “My nephew uninstalled the program. I reinstalled it, but forgot my login info.”

  The receptionist consulted her computer, then turned the screen toward Chase.

  Below Jeffrey Buster’s picture, he read:

  User ID: JBuster

  Password: Big$4me

  Member Since: 14/06/2006

  Locker: 141

  Chase entered the information, flashed the card screen at the reader, and got green. “Thank you very much.”

  “Enjoy your evening.”

  Chase continued on to the locker room. He hadn’t expected to learn Jeff’s locker number and wasn’t about to use his phone to open it now, lest he be spotted by one of Jeff’s friends and be unmasked, but it was good to know.

  With the checkpoint behind him, Chase hid “Jeff’s” glasses in the trash, then stepped into the shower, where he went to work reverting to his natural appearance. While the shampoo washed away the combed-in gray, he scrubbed the artificial wrinkle lines from his forehead and around his eyes, then removed the jawline fading lightener and artificial beauty mark.

  Ten minutes later, Chase was scanning the dining room while walking toward the corner bar. The layout had clearly been designed with three functions in mind. The perimeter was lined with high-backed mahogany-paneled booths. Clearly, that was where the business was done. Further in was a ring of two-top tables, no doubt used primarily by single diners, members busy with their newspapers or laptops as well as their Scotch. In the middle, burgundy leather couches and armchairs in varied configurations circled coffee tables designed for drinks and hors d’oeuvres. The social section.

  Chase settled onto a stool at the bar.

  A bartender who looked like he might remember the Second World War approached.

  Chase gestured toward one of the overhead muted televisions. “Where does Jim Rogers usually sit?”

  The old guy glanced up at the screen showing coverage of the Pascal trial. Rogers wasn’t personally working the case, but Chase figured the bartender would know that one of his regular clients was a named partner at the firm handling the hottest court case in the country. “You’re new here.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “I’m Jeff Buster’s brother. Just visiting from London,” Chase said, extending a hand.

  “Paul Moore,” the bartender replied. “Most people call me Moore. I’ll let you guess why.”

  Chase smiled at the joke.

  “You’ll find Jim at the two-top near the far corner, ’bout twenty minutes from now.”

  Chase followed the gesture with his eyes. “What is his drink?”

  “He tends to wander across my top shelf in the Whisky section, but he usually comes back to Macallan 24. Takes it neat. That’s before dinner. After a small Caesar salad with no croutons and extra anchovies he leans toward cognac. A 1914 Pierre Ferrand has been his favorite of late.”

  A man of discipline and habit. Most of the successful ones were.

  Chase didn’t know what a 24-year-old Scotch would cost at a place like this, but he did know that food and beverage purchases would normally be automatically charged to the member—Jeff Buster’s account in his case—so Chase pulled three $100 bills from his pocket while asking, “I’ll take Jim his drink, if you’ll kindly pour me two. Plus a club soda for while I wait?”

  Moore made the money vanish and the drinks appear with the smooth efficiency of a veteran dance instructor, then moved on to other imbibers with an acknowledging nod.

  “What do you think of the trial?” Chase asked a few minutes later, when Moore had all his other customers happy.


  The bartender studied Chase’s face for a few seconds before answering. “I think the women agreed to make a trade, one job for another, and now they’re reneging on the deal because society suddenly decided to change a system that’s been working since before Moses came down from Mount Sinai.”

  “You’ve given this some thought,” Chase said, actively suppressing his anger.

  “It’s been a hot topic for a while now. Lot of members are nervous. I think it’s going to backfire on women. In the short term anyway. Executives won’t want to risk having them around.”

  “And in the long term?”

  “Things will snap back to the natural order. Jim’s firm will help with that, by getting Pascal off.”

  “You think they’ll win?”

  Moore harrumphed. “No doubt about it. They always win. Excuse me, one of my regular orders just walked in.”

  Chase watched the bartender prepare a Manhattan with the precision usually reserved for science experiments and cancer medications. Moore put the cocktail glass on a silver tray and took it to a bow tied gentleman who had just seated himself before a copy of the current New Yorker. Chase used the opportunity to put a tablet of Rohypnol into one of the whisky tumblers, then took a sip from the other to help ensure that he’d keep them straight.

  Moore returned with his empty tray and went about preparing drinks for the waiters as Jim Rogers walked in—with a bodyguard.

  The bodyguard approached Chase, but then sat at the two-top nearest his corner, side-by-side with another bodyguard who was also watching the room. That could be a good or a bad development. Putting two bodyguards together would either make them both more vigilant, as they tried to impress each other, or more careless, as they shared the responsibility of scanning for threats. Chase hoped for the latter as he loudly thanked Moore for the drinks and walked toward Rogers’ table.

  55

  Two Faces

  JIM ROGERS was weary but upbeat as he headed for his usual seat at 3E. Weary because it had been a long week, upbeat because the Pascal case was going well for the defense, according to both his partners and the news coverage. That was no surprise, of course.