"Yes. He is employed by Iswid Nahr."
"Who's he?"
"It is not a person—it is an organization based in Saudi Arabia."
"Ah," Jack-san said, nodding. "And I'll bet our friend Kemel is one of their top guns."
"Gun? No, he is a middle-level member."
"So what are they? Terrorists?"
"No, not at all. Iswid Nahr is an oil trade group."
"Like OPEC."
"Yes, but so very opposite. OPEC seeks to manage the flow of oil, tighten the spigot of production in order to secure price stabilization. Iswid Nahr wants to open that spigot wide. Its name translates as 'Black River.' It wishes Saudi Arabia to export oil at very maximum levels. Their thinking is that this will discourage development of foreign oil sources and keep the West—as well as my country—so very dependent on Middle East oil."
"Oil guys?" Jack-san said. "What's in this for them?"
"That is the question I was sent here to answer. Obviously Kemel Muhallal's mission here is to secure the Clayton technology at any cost."
"Obviously. But doesn't that go against your theory that this Iswid whatever blew up Clayton's plane?"
"I assure you that it is so very more than theory."
"Yeah, but think about it: If Kemel wants this 'technology,' why would he and his group blow up the guy who invented it?"
"Perhaps because the inventor was intending to sell it to us instead of to them."
Jack-san stared out the window. "Yeah, but to blow up a whole plane just to stop one man… two hundred forty-seven people dead…"
"Nearer to two hundred and sixty now," Yoshio said. When Jack-san gave him a puzzled look, he added, "You must count the arsonist, the lawyer, and Miss Clayton's first investigator. Also the pair that I removed at the Clayton house. Plus whoever you killed last night. Do you know how many?"
Jack-san shrugged. "Couldn't tell you. Didn't hang around to count. But whatever, the body count was way too high already. And all this is making less sense by the minute." He stared at Yoshio. "And you've got absolutely no idea what this Clayton technology is?"
Yoshio could answer that quite truthfully. "No."
"Kemel's big advantage is that he does. At least I hope he does. Hate to think he blew up a planeload of people on a hunch. So let's assume he does. That puts him way ahead of us."
Us… was Jack-san aligning himself with Yoshio—and therefore Kaze Group—or was it merely a word? This might be an avenue to explore.
"Kemel Muhallal has no right to the Clayton technology," Yoshio said. "My… country has a moral right to it because Mr. Clayton so obviously intended to sell it to us before he was murdered. And should we discover that it is so valuable as our trade minister said, we will buy it from his heir. Something Iswid Nahr does not seem to wish to do."
"Yeah, you've got that right," Jack-san said slowly. "They've offered to buy the house… they've never breathed a word about an invention or technology. Maybe they think the price will be too high."
Yoshio shrugged. "Something so valuable will pay for itself, I would think."
"I would think too," Jack said. He twisted farther in the front seat. "So where does that leave us? Do we work together on this?"
"No," Yoshio said quickly. He always worked alone. To have a… partner—especially one not aligned with Kaze Group—was unthinkable.
Jack-san almost looked relieved. "Good. But I assume we can have a nonaggression pact. And can I assume that should Alicia and I dig up this Clayton technology, whatever it is, that we've got a buyer?"
"A potential buyer," Yoshio said. "It may be that this technology is of no use to us."
"Fair enough," Jack-san said, "but we'll give you first refusal." He extended his hand over the top of the front seat. "Deal?"
Yoshio hesitated. Something was wrong here. He had the weapon, but somehow this Jack-san had taken charge. And somehow this meeting had been all to the American's advantage. He had learned much while Yoshio had learned only that Ronald Clayton was a pedophile who had defiled his own children.
But still, an ally would not be a bad thing… if this was a man who could be trusted to keep his word.
Yoshio had a sense for these things, and he felt Jack-san was such a man.
They shook hands.
"It is a deal," he said.
Yes… a deal. But as Jack-san drove him back uptown, Yoshio decided it would be a good thing to keep a close watch on this man. If he could find him.
"What do you do now?" he said as he stepped out near the garage where he had parked his own car.
"Going home to play with a toy," Jack-san said, and sped off.
6.
Jack watched the little Rover race across his living room carpet and butt against the wall. The uptown wall. He was already farther uptown than Murray Hill, but apparently that wasn't enough for the Rover. It wanted to go farther. Always uptown, always north.
Except out on Long Island. Then the little bugger had run off toward the northwest.
But where was the directional control?
Jack grabbed the truck, turned off the motor, and popped off the body. He checked that out but it was nothing more than molded black plastic.
The chassis was more complicated—wheels, undercarriage, electric motor, steering control, battery compartment, and antenna. Jack knew his knowledge of remote-control toys was rivaled only by his understanding of quantum mechanics, but he pulled out a magnifying glass and made like Sherlock Holmes.
No help. Just a bunch of wires.
As long as he was here, he should check the battery compartment to see what kind it took, just in case it ran out of juice. He popped the lid and saw that it took two AAs. But the battery slots were empty. Instead he found a silvery cylinder about half the length of his pinkie wired to the contacts.
"What the hell?"
He trained the magnifying glass on it, but all that did was make a little mystery bigger. No markings on the cylinder. The whole rig had a definite homemade look to it.
Jack felt a strange prickle along the back of his neck. Not fear… something else… a sense that he was looking at something enormously important. But what?
He knew he'd taken this about as far as he could. The next step was to take it to a guy who could dismantle and reassemble just about anything put in front of him.
7.
"It doesn't look like a battery, maybe," Abe said, "but it's a battery."
The little Rover lay partially disassembled on Abe's counter. The body was off, the battery compartment lay open in the exposed chassis.
Abe had a thing about the weapons he sold. He dismantled and reassembled everything that passed through his doors. He could break down and reassemble a Glock in a couple of eye blinks. Jack had asked him why, and Abe's reply had been something like, "I shouldn't know all about what I'm selling?"
"That's not like any battery I've ever seen," Jack said.
"So? You've seen every battery ever made? Look, it's where a battery should go; it's hooked up to the contacts that power the motor, and the car runs. It's a battery. Even Parabellum would tell you that if he weren't asleep."
"Okay, okay." Sometimes Abe's help was no help. "It runs, but only in one direction. Explain me that."
"Easy," Abe said, and twanged the metal antenna. "This is where it gets its instructions. Somewhere, someone or something is sending its steering mechanism—via this antenna—the message to head in a certain direction. Without this little wire, the steering mechanism would be deaf, and the car would head in whatever direction you point it. Here, I'll show you."
"That's okay," Jack said, reaching for the truck.
But Abe pulled it back out of reach. "You don't want I should prove it?"
What he didn't want was Abe messing too much with the toy.
"I just don't want you should break it. I've got a gut feeling that thing will lead me to the mysterious 'Clayton technology.' But if its directional mechanism gets screwed up—"
"No
thing will get screwed up. What's to screw up? It's an antenna—just a piece of wire. Only take me a second."
Jack watched helplessly as Abe adjusted his reading glasses and picked up a pair of needle-nose pliers. After some fiddling, some twisting, and a few muttered curses, he managed to remove the aerial.
"There," he said. He handed the chassis to Jack. "Nothing to it. Go ahead. Now you'll see. Point it wherever. It's uptown-running days are over."
Jack turned it over and flipped the power switch.
Nothing.
He flipped it back and forth from on to off and back again.
Still nothing. Oh, hell.
"Swell, Abe. Now it doesn't run at all. You broke it."
"What? Impossible."
"No, you did." Jack flipped the switch back and forth again. "Look."
"Quit kvetching and give it here."
Jack handed it back and leaned on the bench. He stared at the scarred surface, asking himself how he could have let this happen, wondering what the hell he was going to do now. That little car was his only lead.
And then he heard the soft whine of the little motor. He looked up and saw the Rover's wheels spinning.
"Thank God. What did you do?"
Abe was staring at the chassis, frowning. "Reinserted the aerial, that's all."
"Well, whatever it was—"
The motor died as Abe removed the aerial again. Then started up when he reinserted it. Off… on… off… on… all in time with the aerial.
"You must be breaking a circuit," Jack said.
But Abe didn't reply. His frown was deeper as he pulled out a magnifying glass of his own and focused it on the aerial socket.
"Look here," he said, pointing with a pencil. "See this fine little wire? It runs from the aerial socket to the battery compartment. And you can tell from the way it's soldered that it's not original wiring. This has been added. And I didn't notice before, but the new wire is attached to this strange little battery that doesn't look like a battery."
He straightened and began fiddling with the aerial again, in and out of its socket, starting and stopping the motor.
And then he left the aerial out and left the truck chassis in the center of the bench.
"I think I have to sit down."
Jack shot Abe a look. Something in his voice. And his face—so pale.
"Abe, you all right?"
"Yes," he said hoarsely, staring at the chassis. "I'm okay."
"Well, you sure as hell don't look it. I've seen better color on a casaba."
Abe continued to stare at the toy. His color was still rotten. Jack was worried about him, but then Abe said the magic words.
"That's because I've just figured out what we've got here."
"Swell. Gonna tell me?"
"I… I think this little toy runs on broadcast power."
"Is that good?"
Finally Abe looked at him. "Is that good? You ask me if that's good! What kind of meshuggeneh question is that?"
At least the color was returning to his face.
"Broadcast power. I never heard of it. Pardon me."
Abe reached for the truck, and Jack noticed his hand hesitate, like he was afraid to touch it, like it was some sort of holy object. But finally he grabbed it and lifted it.
"See this aerial?" he said, holding up the wire. "The motor can't run without it. No aerial… no power. But stick the aerial into its slot…"
As he did just that, the motor whirred and spun the wheels.
"… and suddenly we've got power. Power from the air."
From the air? Had Abe just had a mini-stroke?
"You're losing me," Jack said.
"You were right about the thing in the battery compartment, Jack. It's not a battery. It's a transceiver. It's taking the signal the aerial is receiving and transforming it into electrical energy."
Jack felt a kernel of excitement begin to burn in his gut.
"Okay, but what's the aerial receiving?"
"Power. Whoever modified this toy must have some sort of a transmitter somewhere that can broadcast a beam, a wave, an I-don't-know-what—let's just call it energy, because that's what it is——that can be downloaded through the aerial and turned into electrical power."
Jack stared at the spinning wheels, feeling that excitement swell and burn hotter. He was beginning to see how big this was.
"But how?"
"If I knew how such a thing could be, would I be standing here talking to you? No, I wouldn't. I would be sitting in my palatial home on Martha's Vineyard—my Martha's Vineyard, because I would have bought the entire island. Jack, I'd be much too rich to even know you, let alone talk to you. I'd be the kind of rich that'd make Bill Gates look like he's on welfare."
"All right. I get the message."
"Do you?" Abe said. "You've heard the phrase, 'The end of life as we know it?' That about approximates it."
Jack nodded. "No power lines. No electric cords. No—"
"You're thinking small, Jack. How about saying bye-bye to the internal combustion engine?"
"Hey, you're right," Jack said. "Finally we'll be able to breathe the air around here and maybe…"
He heard his voice trail off as the full import of Abe's words hit ground zero. Now Jack had to sit down.
"Holy shit."
Because suddenly it was all clear… or most of it, at least.
"Oil," he said after a moment. His saliva had gone south. "Oil will be worthless."
"Not completely," Abe said. "As a lubricant it'll still be good. But as a fuel? Feh!"
"No wonder Kemel's been ready to do anything to get hold of this."
"Kemel? This is the Arab you told me about? Yes, of course he'd do anything. This little toy car portends the complete economic collapse of the Middle East. Not to mention Texas and the U.S. Gulf Coast."
"My God," Jack said. "The economic holocaust you've been talking about all these years… it's finally—"
"That was supposed to be from runaway inflation. But this isn't it. Don't worry so much. Wailing and gnashing of teeth there'll be, huge upheavals in finance and in every industry that gobbles power, but no holocaust. Unless of course, you're heavily invested in oil stocks."
"Yeah. Then it'll be time to take that long first step off a window ledge."
"But if you should have lots of your money invested in countries that rely heavily on foreign oil—"
"Like Japan?" Jack said, thinking of Yoshio.
"Japan, yes. Big time, Japan. They're virtual slaves to foreign oil. Broadcast power puts the Japanese and Middle East economies on a seesaw: one drops into the abyss, the other goes into orbit."
The pieces were falling into place. Jack could almost hear the clicks as they came together.
"That's it, then," he said. "No wonder that Japanese trade delegate was so ecstatic: Ronald Clayton was on his way to Japan to sell them his broadcast power technology. Kemel and his Iswid Nahr buddies got wind of it, and made sure he never reached Japan. That's why they're so desperate and so secretive now—they don't want anyone to even guess broadcast power exists."
Even the will's cryptic message for Greenpeace made sense now: broadcast power meant no more oil spills… a brand-new day for air quality, the ozone layer, the whole environment: World-changing technology…
Abe cleared his throat. "One thing I don't understand—I should say, one of the many things I don't understand—is why Ronald Clayton was taking his technology to Japan. He didn't need Japan. He didn't need anybody. All he had to do was patent it and quietly announce it. He wouldn't have to go to anybody. The world would stampede to his door. Not only would he be rich beyond King Midas's wildest dreams, he'd be worshiped as well. He wouldn't be Time's Man of the Year, he'd be the world's Man of the Millennium. Why was he going to Japan?"
"Haven't the faintest," Jack said, taking the chassis from Abe and switching off the motor. "But I know someone who might."
8.
"… And so it's my guess," Jack
was saying, "that this little truck is going to flip the world on its ear."
Alicia had been relieved to see Jack. Not glad, just relieved that the man at the reception desk asking to see her without an appointment hadn't been Will. He'd already called twice this morning. Alicia knew she couldn't face him, but maybe she could dredge up the courage to talk to him. At the very least she owed him a return call.
But Jack had come in with that toy truck from the house and pulled it apart on her desk, talking a blue streak. Alicia had had a hard time following him at first. She was still dazed from watching Hector die. And then she'd been a little frightened. Jack was positively wired. For a bad moment she'd thought he might be on speed, or maybe peaking in the manic phase of a bipolar disorder. And when she'd heard what he was talking about, she pretty much settled on the latter.
But then he wasn't simply telling her, he was showing her how the Rover didn't have a battery and would only run when the aerial was attached. He called it broadcast power.
"Broadcast power," she said, catching the chassis as it rolled across her desktop. "But that's science fiction."
"So was rocketing to the moon and a computer on your lap—once. Now they're history. But what's got to blow you away even more is the fact that it's all yours."
Was it hers? she wondered. Really? And how much was it worth? A tingle crept over her skin as she realized that a day might come when every lamp, every microwave, every TV, every car in the world would have one of those little transceivers in its works. Worth? Alicia doubted she or anybody else could count that high.
"Not all," she said, remembering something. "A third of it is yours."
Jack cocked his head and gave her a puzzled look. "Mine? But—" •
"Our deal, remember? We split the proceeds—you've got a thirty-three percent share."
"Jeez," Jack said, dropping into a chair. "I forgot all about that."
"I'm sure you would have remembered eventually." She refused to let herself get excited. "But right now you've got a third of nothing. We've only got half of the equation. The receiver's not worth anything without the transmitter."
Jack nodded. "Like taking a TV set back to the 1920s, I guess. Without somebody broadcasting, it's just an expensive night-light."
Repairman Jack [02]-Legacies Page 30