The Goodbye Man

by Jeffery Deaver

  He’d stumbled when it came to protecting Adam Harper. He needed to find out how much danger the other members here were in.

  Of course, there was a problem.

  Facial recognition . . .

  The initial application to the Osiris Foundation required a picture; it made sense to match that against the applicant who arrived in person. But they were using recognition software that prowled through public—and likely private—databases to weed out undesirables and catch intruders, like reporters and spies from competitors.

  If the FR system failed to identify him, he’d stick with the original plan: participate in the Process himself and see what this place was all about—find out if Adam had been bullied enough that he found suicide a better alternative to dealing with the police.

  Of course, if the recognition came back labeling him as Colter Shaw, he supposed he could just sprint for the gate, make a camp in the surrounding woods and reassess from there.

  Forget the luggage. He’d lose his computer but he’d lost computers before.

  Never put inanimate objects before your hide.

  So, leave the truck, sprint to the parking lot and vault the chain link, take to the forest. Follow Harbinger Road back to Snoqualmie Gap. Call Mack, have money wired. Then buy what he needed and trek back here, setting up a base nearby, and start his surveillance.

  That is, if he weren’t beaten so badly that would not be an option.

  The front door opened. It was the Intake receptionist. She seemed to take note that he was standing, not sitting on the bench. “Please come in, Mr. Skye.”

  He was glancing toward the path that would take him back to the parking lot. He saw three tunicked Assistance Unit guards standing in a circle in front of their building. How many were there in total? And how many subscribed to their boss’s bare-knuckle approach to security?

  “You all right, Mr. Skye?”

  “Yeah. Fine.”

  “Please follow me.”

  She led him to the third desk. He sat in the chair previously occupied, he assumed, by the now-severely-injured investigative reporter. It took a few seconds to spot the pinhole cameras. The one recording him was in the letter M of TOMORROW on the wall behind the third desk.

  The back door opened and in walked the blond woman he’d seen outside.

  She sat down, placed her tablet in the stand and touched it to life. Her lips smiled. Her eyes remained concentrated dark circles, like gun muzzles.

  “Mr. Skye, I’m Journeyman Adelle. Let’s get started, shall we?”

  20.

  Handing over the application form he’d downloaded and filled out, Shaw noted a trilogy of blood spots on the side of Adelle’s blue blouse, just below her right armpit. Hugh’s blow to Klein’s nose had been powerful, the spatter significant.

  The Intake receptionist got a call. She said to the other women, “The gate’ll be closed for a half hour.”

  Adelle said, “I know.”

  Shaw asked bluntly, “The gate? Everything all right?”

  Her glance contained a hint of cautious curiosity. Why would he ask? “Everything is fine.” She corralled a smile and continued to keyboard on her tablet.

  Well, he figured, play your part for now. So far, his joints and cheekbones were intact and Adelle was smiling, even if that smile had no more substance than her makeup.

  The woman spread his application in front of her and began transcribing information from it into the tablet.

  There’d been an initial online process, in which Carter Skye had sent the picture of himself and a brief memo about why he sought admission to the three-week-long Initial Training Period at the Osiris Foundation.

  He based Skye’s life on both the San Francisco journalist’s killer, Harvey Edwards, and Adam Harper. Skye’s history was one of depression and anger. He’d had run-ins with the authorities, drug offenses, occasional fights. He was “on the spectrum” somewhere: OCD, attention deficit, Asperger’s, anger issues. His romantic relationships had all ended quickly and presently he doubted that he and the woman he was seeing would be together for much longer. (This portion of the play was inspired by someone else, Margot, and was largely nonfiction.) Skye’s job—like Shaw’s after college—was working in the forestry business, surveying. Both Shaw and his alter ego liked the solitary nature of the work. He was a drifter, working temporary assignments. He didn’t do well with bosses.

  The next day he’d received an email from the admissions director reporting that if he wanted to attend the session beginning the following Monday, he should complete the attached and bring it to the camp, along with a nonrefundable application fee of $1,000 and, if he chose to sign up for the course, the full fee would be $7,500.

  Adelle posed a few questions, which he answered quickly—he’d memorized Skye’s bio, backward and forward.

  The camera in the letter M was minuscule but to Shaw it was like a sniper scope aimed his way. He kept his head down at first but then gave up on the suspicious posture. It didn’t matter. He was sure the lens was of the highest resolution and already had recorded a dozen perfect, rich-pixel images of him. They were being carried by clever software through databases. Perhaps a digital eyebrow was presently being raised regarding a curious lookalike, one Mr. Colter Shaw.

  If he got busted, how would it play out? They’d presumably take him to the clearing and do the same thing as they’d done to the reporter, beat him and then get rid of him. Shaw would come up with a story. Yes, he used a fake name but he was embarrassed about seeking help. He’d be passive. They’d let their defenses down. He’d incapacitate Hugh first. The supervisor was talented in Eastern martial arts but Shaw’s father had taught the children grappling, and Shaw’s wrestling skills from college had never left him. He’d use surprise to get the man on his back fast and relieve him of any weapons—a gun, if he was lucky. Then, covering them, he’d sprint for the woods.

  Shaw found himself tense.

  Then he thought of one of his father’s Never rules.

  Never give away what you’re about to do.

  He relaxed and sat back.

  He’d fight if it came to fighting, escape if it came to escaping, continue the performance if the facial recognition autobot gave him a pass. Now, stick to the role: troubled guy in his thirties unhappy with life and hoping for a quick fix.

  Shaw noted Adelle’s nails were the same shade as that of the three dots of dark blood. What would her reaction be if she noticed the stains tonight? Would she be troubled at the memory of the beating, or would she think it was all in a day’s work?

  She finished transcribing the information and slipped the paper application away in a drawer. “Now, if you decide to go forward with the ITP you’ll discuss the financial arrangements with your interviewer but I’ll take the application fee now. How will you pay?”

  Cash—in that amount—is automatically suspicious. In the post-9/11 world, anonymous credit cards are hard to come by; banks and Homeland Security remain vigilant. But checks? Not so difficult. Shaw dug in his wallet and handed over one for $1,000 already made out to the Foundation. It was drawn on one of his LLC accounts but his PI, Mack, had ordered starter checks and had printed on them Skye’s name and a post office box number.

  Adelle put the check in the drawer too, ticked another box on the tablet. She started to turn toward him but at that moment her eyes flicked back to the screen and she froze.

  Had an inquisitive bot returned the message: He’s really Shaw, Colter, 7832 Vista Trail Road, Okachee, FL, professional reward seeker?

  The woman came to life and tapped some more on the tablet then, tellingly, turned it over, as she’d done before stepping outside to watch the reporter’s pounding. Apparently his interview was over; the applicants at the other two desks were still in the chairs where they’d been for forty minutes.

  “If you’ll excuse me for a
moment.”

  Shaw shrugged.

  Adelle vanished through the door to the back. She started to speak to someone on the other side before the panel closed.

  Shaw glanced at the front desk. That receptionist was no longer there. He noted that one of the Intake clerks—at the desk next to Adelle’s—glanced at him quickly, then returned her attention to the couple who was still being tableted. They seemed less awkward than before. At the far end, the bald man still was morose.

  And his strategy of claiming an innocent motive for the pseudonym? He decided to rethink it. If the facial recognition had in fact returned a positive, Hugh would probably have guessed a reward seeker was akin to a soldier of fortune or a mercenary. Maybe working for a competitor. The expert, Anne DeStefano, had told him about the rivalries among cults. Shaw might be considered more of a threat than the reporter.

  Then the back door was opening and the person walking through it was not blood-spattered Adelle but Hugh himself. Closer now, Shaw could see that the man was not handsome, his face pocked, his nose broken and badly set long ago. But he wore a bulletproof confidence. His shoulders were broader than the earlier view had indicated and his thighs thicker, hands meatier.

  “Hello.” A pleasant voice, calm as could be.

  Shaw nodded, standing.

  Never fight from a position lower than your opponent’s.

  “I’m Journeyman Hugh.”

  “Carter Skye.”

  The palm that Shaw shook was thick with calluses. Many martial artists spend hour upon hour punching and kicking bowls of dry rice and gravel to sheathe-up the striking portions of appendages. “If you wouldn’t mind following me, please, Mr. Skye.” Nodding toward the back door, the one through which reporter Klein had presumably walked to meet his fate.

  Shaw glanced toward the front door. Twenty feet away.

  No. Play it out.

  He’d be oblivious till the end, then use surprise to try to take Hugh and the others. Get into the woods. They’d chase. That was fine. The wilderness was his world.

  At the door Shaw paused, his eyes doing an “After you.”

  Never let your opponent get behind you.

  Hugh wasn’t going to make an issue of position. He had plenty of backup, not to mention lethal hands. The man walked through the door first, and Shaw followed.

  They’d bypassed the main reception area of the Administration building and Shaw found himself walking down the dim corridor he’d seen earlier, extending to the back of the building.

  At the end of the hallway, Hugh stopped beside an unmarked door and typed a number into the code pad, waited for one green light. Then he typed another. Shaw had never seen this type of lock before. Hugh pushed the door open, meaning Shaw should precede him, and this time he did. As he walked forward, he brushed Hugh’s right hip, trying to feel for a firearm. None. And the man was right-handed; that was the side on which a trained shooter would holster his gun.

  Never cross-draw a pistol.

  Inside, Shaw looked around. This was a very different room from Intake. The walls were painted violet and hung with bas-reliefs, paintings and plaques. Egyptian was the motif. A deity—Osiris, probably—was depicted in many. Shaw tried to summon what he’d learned in high school about Egyptian civilization. He was unsuccessful.

  At one end of the room was a large wooden desk, behind which sat a tall-backed chair made of shiny dark-brown leather, affixed to the frame with brass buttons. Across from the desk were two matching chairs, though smaller, and a round table between them. Against the right side wall was a couch, also matching, in front of which was a coffee table. The furniture legs ended in talons gripping metal balls.

  Shaw grunted. “Weird place.”

  “Have a seat, please.”

  Shaw half-expected Hugh to use his real name.

  He sat in the chair across from the desk.

  Was this where the initial “interview” of the reporter had occurred? It was hardly the spot for interrogations; the place resembled the office of an Egypt-obsessed CEO running a small but successful medical or office supply company.

  The door opened and Shaw found himself looking at a pudgy man wearing the male version of the regulation uniform: blue shirt and black slacks. The infinity amulet he wore was, like Hugh’s, silver. His face was moon round and his thinning hair was combed back, accenting the shape of his head. He wore disks of glasses, also contributing to the spherical image. In his thick hand was yet another tablet, in which he was absorbed as he walked to the desk and then behind it.

  The man eyed Shaw up and down. “We have a few things to talk about, sir.”

  21.

  Shaw rose and separated his feet and rocked forward—a fighting stance.

  “No, no, no. Sit, my friend.”

  After a moment Shaw did, though he kept his weight forward, poised to leap. The pudgy man looked around. “Some room, isn’t this? Elegant. Small, though. Do you know where the word ‘claustrophobia’ comes from?”

  Shaw eyed him, said nothing.

  “‘Claustro’ is Latin for ‘bolt,’ as in bolting the door. And who doesn’t know what ‘phobia’ is? All those Jeopardy! questions. Do you watch Jeopardy!?”

  “No.”

  “Of course you don’t. No time. Busy, busy man. So, I apologize for the”—he lifted his arms—“windowless chamber. Master Eli is security minded. Insists that we all be. You, me, all God’s children. Our Assistance Unit boys sweep for listening devices. Did you know that you can buy high-tech bugs on Amazon, of all places? And get next day delivery if you order within four minutes and seventeen seconds.”

  Shaw eyed him warily because that’s what somebody of Skye’s background, suspicious of authority and being in a closed space like this, would do.

  The man seemed genuinely cheerful. However, Shaw thought: he’s softening me up. Shaw kept part of his attention attuned to the door behind him. He wondered if Hugh might come up with a Taser or choke hold, which when properly applied can render one unconscious in six seconds. Death rarely takes longer than ninety.

  He glanced around, as if viewing the room. The head of the Assistance Unit had left silently.

  Curious.

  The man’s fat fingers typed on the tablet. Then he looked back to Shaw. “I’m Journeyman Samuel.”

  Shaw looked for improvised weapons. The chair, the tablet, a pen. All would work. None well.

  And “Journeyman” again. What was that about? It was a title, obviously, not a name—but what did it indicate?

  More reading on the tablet. “There are certain applicants that Master Eli likes to flag, Mr. Skye.”

  So they believed his fake identity.

  Shaw offered silent thanks to Mack McKenzie.

  Colter Shaw had had occasion to use false identities in the past; it’s not illegal if you’re presenting yourself as someone else to private citizens, and if you’re paying your way. Mack was an expert at ginning up documentation to turn you into someone else: driver’s license, non-active credit cards, employer ID and insurance, and shopper loyalty and AAA cards.

  The real problem isn’t the documentation, though. It’s the damn internet, the place where everybody first turns to see if you’re really who you say you are.

  Shaw hadn’t anticipated facial recognition but he had guessed that his cover would be checked, and Mack had worked hard to shore it up. When he’d decided to go undercover, she’d placed a call to one of her specialists: a “massager,” he billed himself. His bots would roam the Clearnet and dark web and eradicate or deeply bury references to his clients. Shaw’s own reward-seeking website was temporarily suspended and many of the news stories about him were either scrubbed or weighted down with so much autobot baggage that his real name sank to the bottom of Google and Bing and Yahoo.

  At the same time, the savvy software would flood the web and so
cial media sites with a phony identity: in this case, real and Photoshopped pictures of Shaw—as Carter Skye—on vacations, in news stories (fake news was de rigueur nowadays, of course, and so very easy to produce and place), employment and education records, blogs, Twitter and Facebook posts, Instagram, Snapchat. Like pregnant spiders, these bots would populate that ethereal world with gigabytes of data about Carter Skye.

  Like Adam Harper, Skye had a troubled background—petty crimes. And like Harvey Edwards, there’d been some violent offenses in his past, assaults, including one with a deadly weapon.

  Samuel now looked him over, a grandfatherly gaze. “People like you are perfect for the Foundation. You’ve got a bit of a past, if you know what I mean.”

  “You mean, the law?” Shaw frowned. “Half of it was trumped up. Cops give you shit. I don’t put up with it.”

  “Understood, understood. See, some people come here on a lark. Not really committed. You’re the kind of person that’ll keep your head down, do the work. You want to get better. I can feel it. You’d be a credit to us. And”—he lowered his voice slightly—“Master Eli likes those in his flock who are, let’s say . . . presentable. And you, Mr. Skye, are not hard to look at.”

  A bit of flirt laced Samuel’s words. Shaw gave a cautious nod, simultaneously acknowledging the man’s meaning and gently rejecting the overture.

  The matter was settled, and no harm done.

  “This means, I’m pleased to tell you, that if you want to sign on for the training, you’ll be placed in our expedited program. We feel you’d be an asset to the Foundation.”

  “Well, I . . . Sure. Why not?” Still wary.

  “Excellent. Now, let’s get to the nitty-gritty, shall we?” In the manner of all good salesmen, Journeyman Samuel devoted himself entirely to the task. He set the tablet down and looked Shaw in the eye. “The Process is expensive but you get—”

  “—what you pay for.”

  “Indeed, indeed, indeed! Master Eli is committed to making the Process available to everyone so he’s created an ingenious fee structure. Yes, there’s a large payment for the ITP, the Initial Training Period. The seventy-five hundred you saw on the application. Master Eli knows it’s substantial but that guarantees commitment. You put that kind of money into anything, you’ll follow through. Think about those health club memberships—you force yourself out of bed at five a.m. not because you want to work on your pecs but because you don’t want to waste those two thousand buckolas. Am I right?”