At least according to his passport.
One couldn’t be too careful these days with watchful eyes on every street corner, monitoring every checkout line or city crosswalk. Even small-time criminals with real talent had to take extra precautions.
Bo had been sleepless and running on adrenaline since Tuesday, and he assumed his exhausted body wouldn’t stand a chance against the jet’s subtle, vibrating thrum. He reached overhead and turned off the reading light, directed the funnel of air away from his face, and crossed his arms as he wiggled deeper into the plush seat of first class. Another job well done that deserved a treat. Warm, wet towels. Free drinks. Elbow room.
Sleep came more slowly than expected. His brain crackled with possibilities, exit routes, and questions like, which one of these guys is the air marshal?
Had anyone paid any attention to the wrapped package in the overhead compartment? Probably not. Just another day, just another guy on his way home with a souvenir, something too fragile to check at the gate. It was true, in a way, but it was more than an antique vase or a set of champagne flutes. The perfume bottle had belonged to Queen Anne, had been dated to around 1710, and had formerly been in the possession of a persnickety British woman who’d had no intention of selling her priceless heirloom.
So Bo had hopped on a plane, snuck into her flat, and stolen it. It was no more difficult than buttering toast. True enough, it had been a simple task, much simpler than he was accustomed to, and he almost felt bad about taking the black market collector’s money. Almost. But that extra comma in his fee proved to be enough to assuage any guilt. International jobs often involved a higher level of risk—thus cost more on the purchaser’s end—but it surprised him how quickly the large number in this case had been agreed upon.
Anyway, a fool and how he parted with his money wasn’t Bo’s problem.
Before takeoff, Bo had fidgeted more than he would have liked when the flight attendant shoved the package around to accommodate the carry-on for the young brunette woman in the seat next to him. She’d introduced herself as Chloe, looked to be about twenty-five, wore sunglasses large enough to moonlight as manhole covers, and smelled like a mixture of clove cigarettes and cotton candy. Her long, sleek legs ended with delicate feet encased in a pair of sapphire blue platform pumps that couldn’t be comfortable when hustling through an airport like Heathrow.
She’d said she was on her way back from a photo shoot in Prague and had gotten sidetracked by this new club she’d heard about in London that was so top secret, even Tom Cruise couldn’t find it. When Bo asked her what it was like, she scoffed. “Totally dead. I only saw Madonna, Leonardo, and that guy from Fight Club, the one married to what’s-her-name. You know, the one with the kids.”
Now, with his eyes closed, he could hear the soft snores of the girl who’d been too good for Brad Pitt. Chloe made a wet, sucking sound when she closed her mouth, and Bo wondered how mortified she’d be if she knew that she slept like a middle-aged drunkard. Pristine appearances and all that.
Bo readjusted himself once more when she touched his elbow. He was too jumpy, needed to get his mind off the moment; just a few minutes of shuteye would be enough if he could get himself under. Sleeping pills were out of the question though; he couldn’t risk the grogginess.
To get his mind elsewhere, he thought of the American twins that Voyanovich had seduced on Tuesday. That was nice. They were nice. Coordinated in ways that he thought only existed in rumors and chewing gum commercials. It was odd to think of them as American, because he was no less foreign than they were, but he’d been so deep into character that it had felt like he and the twins were caressing each other across battle lines of the long-defunct Cold War.
Their names were Karen and Sharon, which made him chuckle, because sharing is caring, and they’d been great at that, too.
When Chloe mumbled and rolled to her right, resting her head on his shoulder, Bo gave up and opened his eyes. It was a long flight. Maybe sleep would come later.
As gently as possible, he removed his tablet from the seat back pocket in front of him, connected to the on-board WiFi using a hijacked credit card number that he knew from memory, and checked his messages.
There was a note from a woman named Nancy, which was really the codename of his handler, Vieri, reminding him about the “birthday party” on Friday.
We’ll meet at noon and go together, it read. Park in that garage near the bank downtown on Fifth. You know the one. Don’t forget to bring little Billy’s gift! If you don’t have to work, let’s go for coffee after, okay? Big cups this time.
“Hmm,” he muttered. Going for coffee meant that Vieri had more work for him.
Big cups meant a monster score.
Big payoff. More work.
So soon?
Vieri knew that Bo liked to take breaks between jobs. Less heat. Less chance for the FBI, Interpol, CIA, anybody, to make a connection. This was unusual.
Chloe groaned and sat up, stretching, wiping the corner of her mouth. Bo grimaced at the slobbery wetness on his shoulder. “Sorry,” she said.
Annoyed, Bo closed the message file and responded, “No problem. I didn’t like this shirt much anyway.”
She chuckled and playfully punched his shoulder.
Her cute ’n’ cuddly giggle wasn’t enough to assuage his irritation.
* * *
Bo tried to say goodbye to the gazelle-like supermodel at the gate, declining her offer to buy him a drink as restitution for drooling on his shoulder. Chloe appeared thoroughly flabbergasted when he said no, apparently unused to lesser men telling her that she couldn’t get what she wanted. Or, rather, perhaps she was so used to men coming on to her, rich men who could buy an easy yes, that she was stunned at the rejection after taking a legitimate risk.
“I’m sorry,” Bo said, briskly walking away from her. “I’m late, I’m married. You know how it goes.”
“No you’re not,” Chloe said, following him.
Bo offered a polite chuckle and lifted a palm. “Honest. And my wife is totally the jealous type. She’d never let me go on a trip by myself again.” He readjusted his grip on the wrapped package under his arm and headed for the baggage claim area, ducking through the crowds, some on their way to a new gate, some breaking into smiles as they spotted loved ones. Others trudged onward, alone and focused. Home to the wife, home to the kids, back to the routine.
As for him, he had a night in the city to let things die down, just in case, then an early flight to Portland, Oregon, in the morning.
Behind him, he could hear the determined footsteps of delicate feet encased in high heels.
He groaned and thought, What now?
A tender hand on his forearm turned him around.
“What?” he barked.
Chloe’s eyebrows dipped inward, and the gentle hand became not so gentle. She squeezed and dug crisp fingernails into his skin. “Stop. I need to talk to you.”
Bo tried to pull away. “Let go, seriously. I get it. Okay? You’re hot. You’re a model. People never say no to you. Whatever. I’m not interested.”
“Shut up, Sheppard. Vieri said you’d be tough to break, but I didn’t think you’d be a whiny little prick.”
Bo’s head recoiled like a firearm in unsteady hands. “What did you just say?”
Chloe flicked a wary glance left and right. Massive earrings jangled against the sides of her neck. She pulled her sunglasses down to the tip of her nose and eyed him over the rims. “Your time on loan started the moment we walked off that plane.”
“Who are you?”
“Vieri owes us. Your talents are the payment.”
Bo shook his head. His skin grew warm. “I don’t follow,” he stammered. Almost like he’d reverted to his Leaky Steve persona, “don’t” came out with a barrage of D’s in front of it.
“How about we go get that drink and I’ll explain?”
“So he just handed me over to—whoever you are? Like I’m his employee? His pr
operty? Something he can give out? You do realize that he’s just the front, right? He finds the work, I do the work, and he takes a cut. There is no relationship where he has a say in what I do, simple as that.”
“Does this change your mind?”
Bo flinched when she held up her cell phone and showed him a picture. Vieri sat under a single, bare light bulb in the center of a darkened room. His white hair was matted red around the hairline, the gash four inches long and angry. His hands were tied behind his back. A 9mm handgun pierced the shadows, inches from his left temple, with a finger sitting heavy on the trigger.
Bo checked his surroundings, waited on a herd of passengers to trundle by, and looked for the closest security guard before he said, “No. It doesn’t. Shoot him. I’m walking. You’re walking. I don’t play when the other team has the ball. Done and done.”
Chloe sighed as her shoulders sagged. “Jesus, okay, I didn’t want to do it this way, but you’re forcing our hand. Don’t go anywhere, Sheppard. There are about thirty different cameras on you right now, plus that guy by the food court, and the other one over there at that little kiosk… add in two more that I don’t see at the moment. And, good God, these things are killing my feet.” She stepped out of the platform heels and dropped an easy five inches to the floor.
The wig came off next, revealing short blond hair pulled back into a tight knob with a part down the center that looked as if it had been carved by a scalpel.
Bo knew what was coming next. He fought the urge to run. He knew he wouldn’t get far.
Out from her designer purse came the ID, the bland smirk in her photo matching the one on her face now. “Special Agent Chloe Morse. Financial Crimes Division. You won’t be needing this.” She took the wrapped package from underneath his arm, leaned over, and deposited it into the nearest trashcan.
Bo couldn’t help his initial gut reaction. “Whoa, hey!” Then a brief moment of clarity flickered past. “Damn it. That wasn’t real, was it?”
“Nope.”
The clarity danced back and wagged a chastising finger in his face.
Nyah, nyah, nyah.
It all made so much sense. The buyer agreeing to his astronomical fee without negotiating, the ease with which he’d broken into the flat and stolen what had amounted to a glass jar, the way Vieri was hinting at more work.
“But why? I canceled my trip to Bhutan for this,” he said, as if she cared.
“Answering your own question. We weren’t sure how much you knew, or if Vieri could be trusted—he’s fine, by the way. Totally a fake picture, but Jesus, man, you were ready to put concrete boots on him, huh? Anyway, since Bhutan has no extradition treaty with the U.S., we weren’t sure if you were trying to flee.”
“Vacation. I was going to meditate.”
Chloe shook her head. “We didn’t know that, obviously, so we needed to keep you busy, under surveillance, while a few more chess pieces were moved into place. I’ve been shadowing you since your first flight to London from JFK.”
He tried to remember if he’d seen someone resembling this still beautiful, albeit toned-down version of Supermodel Chloe within the last few days. Yeah, as a matter of fact… “I flew coach on the way over. Two rows up. You had on that Notre Dame sweatshirt.”
“Busted.”
“The red hair looked better on you.”
She winked.
“Am I under arrest?” Bo asked. He had been expecting this day for nearly two decades, but he’d never thought it would actually happen. He’d been so careful—careful to the point of obsession. Lost sleep and frantic dreams of leaving a fingerprint behind haunted him nightly.
“Not yet. Even though we need a ruler to measure your file, cooperate and I’ll see what we can do.”
* * *
Bo had to stifle his laughter. “You’re kidding. Like, really? This isn’t a joke?”
Four men in suits stood like sentinels around the white-walled, frugal room, their earpieces situated firmly while their hands were clasped in front of their belt buckles. This wasn’t much different than what he might have seen on any weeknight crime show, except for the fact that this was real, he was here, and the young woman across from him was being nice—and so far, the person who would play the part of the bad cop hadn’t arrived.
Undercover supermodel Chloe, who seemed to prefer the title “Special Agent” now that she was among colleagues, pulled her lips to the side in a half grin. Her opposing eyebrow went up along with it, as if the two were attached by a pulley system. She said, “It exists, absolutely, and this thing could damage the global economy if it hits the black market. A couple days of reverse engineering, sell it to the highest bidder who would then manufacture it, then make a few hundred billion and walk away.”
Bo glanced around the room at the four stationary agents, waiting for one of them to crack. Maybe a grin, maybe an imperceptible shake of the head, something, anything, to indicate that this was all a ruse.
Nothing from the men. They were carved from granite.
Bo said, “A light bulb.”
“An everlasting light bulb. That’s the key,” Morse replied.
He stared, waiting, hoping that his extended silence would finally elicit the much anticipated, “Gotcha!” His birthday was coming up. Would Vieri set up something like this, just to screw with him? Hire some actors, create an implausible plot to get inside his head?
No. Vieri wasn’t that creative.
Morse slid an eight-by-ten photograph across the table. “Take a close look. What is this, Sheppard?”
“It’s a light bulb over a door.”
“Exactly.”
“And?” He sat up and cleared his throat. “Look, can I get a Coke? Aren’t you supposed to offer me a coffee and cigarettes? Isn’t that how this works?”
“Do you smoke?”
“No.”
“Do you drink coffee?”
“No.”
“Then we’ll get you a Coke in a minute. What else do you see in this picture?”
“What? Nothing.” He watched as she pressed her lips into a flat line. He added, “Nothing significant, that I can tell. Bricks, a coat rack. Oh, wait, maybe that’s a fireman’s helmet?”
“What you’re looking at, Sheppard, is a single light bulb that has been burning for one hundred and fourteen years. It’s located in a fire station in Livermore, California, and has never been replaced. It has a hand-blown carbon filament, was constructed by the Shelby Electric Company in the late 1890s, and has only been off a handful of times. The Guinness Book of World Records certifies that it’s the longest burning light bulb in existence. Who knows how long it’ll last, but hell of a record, wouldn’t you say?”
“And that’s the bulb you want me to steal? That’s the bulb you’re afraid of?”
Morse shook her head. “Nope. This is a fluke.” She held up two fingers, twirled them in a circle, and swished them toward the doorway. Her underling automatons exited the room with barely an acknowledgement. The last one lifted his chin at her and she added, “Yes, bring him a soda.”
They waited in silence. Thirty seconds later, the door opened, and the walking mannequin deposited the familiar red can in front of Bo.
He didn’t open it. The act of winning a small battle was enough.
Morse tapped her finger on the photograph. “This right here, it’s special, yeah, but what we need you to get for us is called the Slow Burn 1000.”
“Steal it, you mean.”
“Let me finish. And no, we don’t need you to steal it. It’s already been stolen. We need you to get it back for us.”
“Semantics.”
“If you say so.”
“Get it back? From who?”
Morse explained that the Slow Burn 1000 was a one-of-a-kind prototype of an everlasting light bulb, and that a man called El Tigre had been hired by a Czechoslovakian organization to steal it from Pacific Electric a week ago in a low-profile heist that barely made the news. Of course they didn’
t want it to get out. Nobody did. Not Pacific Electric, not the CIA, not anybody who knew about it and had a stake in the worldwide financial economy.
“Who is El Tigre?”
“We don’t know. He exists, but we’ve never been able to get a picture of him. For all we do know, it could be multiple people operating under the same moniker. Whatever the case, the guy’s a ghost.”
Bo smirked. “So, this is some real-world conspiracy stuff, huh? Big-time international cover-up? The everlasting light bulb that goes all the way up the chain?”
Morse grabbed the can of soda, popped the top, and took a swig. “It’s not like we’re hiding aliens from the public, Sheppard.”
“Honestly, though, you’re telling me that PE developed an everlasting light bulb? That technology actually exists?”
“We’re talking about putting people on Mars within the next thirty years. You think some guy in a white lab coat can’t design a light bulb that’ll burn longer than six months?”
“We can’t build a vending machine that’ll keep my chips from getting stuck. We can’t make those little perforated strips on boxes of food tear all the way open without ripping halfway through. So, forgive me if I’m a little hesitant to believe that I’ll never have to buy light bulbs again.”
“And that’s the problem. PE developed this thing just to see if they could do it. Yeah, we could all buy a single set of bulbs for our homes and never have to worry about it again, but if that happens, imagine how many companies would go out of business, imagine how many people would lose their jobs. Say the fifth largest company in the United States took a massive dive in the stock market because one of their core production models was no longer necessary. Yeah, it’s a freakin’ light bulb, but we’re talking about the possibility of crippling the global economy.”
“That’s the point. It’s a light bulb. The world will recover. People will spend the money they save somewhere else.”
“You don’t think we’ve thought this through? We have, Sheppard. Everybody has. Last week, the day after this thing went missing, the upper suits at PE, a handful of Wall Street gurus, and the director of the CIA sat down and hashed this out. Yeah, maybe we’ll recover, but after the market’s collapse in 2008, the whole economy is still wobbly. The nation—and, for that matter, the world—can’t afford for the energy sector to take a hit. If PE drowns, internationally, we’re talking trillions gone, and the good ol’ U. S. of A. doesn’t have enough money left to bail everyone out. So, yeah, if it happens, excuse my pun, but turn out the lights. Party’s over.”
Tales of Tinfoil: Stories of Paranoia and Conspiracy Page 6