The two men looked at each other, perplexed. Lilley shook his head and returned his weapon to its holster.
Raines said, “We’ll be back with a warrant, smart ass. You’ll soon discover there’s a penalty for defying the law.”
The two men returned to their vehicle. Almost before they closed the doors, it had accelerated into the traffic stream. Its departure was accompanied by shouts of protest and squealing brakes as other vehicles did their best to avoid an accident.
Toby removed and reversed his glasses, smiled into the camera lens, and said, “That was an unexpected experience even for Los Angeles. Thank you, everyone, for watching Toby In The City, the vblog for everyone who’s entertained by day-to-day city events. Watch for my next alert. Take care.” He replaced his glasses and ended the transmission. The audience counter had reached half a million.
He wondered what had happened to the vehicle he was supposed to meet. He had his answer less than a minute later when a black Tesla, a new E32, the latest model of their luxury line, exited the slow streaming traffic and pulled up beside him, its electric motor silent. He checked the license plate against the details in the attorney’s message: they matched. He opened the rear door and settled into the seat. The interior had that typical new car smell.
The driver turned around, looked Toby up and down—she was obviously comparing a video image with the real person—and said, “Billie’s me name, Billie Nile. Thought I’d lost you for a minute or two. How’d you get rid of those bozos?” Her auburn hair was cut very short on one side, long on the other. She wore a small chauffeur’s cap on the long side.
“I was broadcasting live on my vblog—Toby In The City—you might know it? I don’t think they enjoyed the publicity.”
“So you’re that Toby? Yeah, I watch it when I’m off shift. Good one. Okay, hold on, we’re running behind schedule. Traffic’s been gnarly today.”
Her take-off was as fast as the Suburban’s had been. Toby watched as she used a break in the traffic flow to ensure she did not create protests from her fellow drivers. Once the vehicle was underway, she switched over to the vehicle’s automatic driving program and sat back in the driver’s seat, relaxed.
Toby projected a stream of vblog comments onto his retinas. He chuckled to himself as he read the series of two hundred-character messages. Viewer reactions were more than positive, and shares were almost record breaking. His advertisers would be happy, and his revenue would show a nice increase. He doubted that the two men and whoever had sent them, law enforcement or otherwise, would be as delighted; their faces were now spread across the Internet. He wondered what it had been about—mistaken identity, perhaps. He folded his VR glasses and placed them in their container, adding that to everything else in his valise. Perhaps he should spend some time to tidy it. Sometime.
Ten minutes into the trip, Billie caught his eye in the rear vision mirror. “I’m taking the 5 south. The traffic will clear out once we get past Irvine. San Diego’s not very busy. We’ll be two and a half hours on the road, so chill. There’s towels and water, plus a coffee brew. Nothing stronger.”
Toby nodded his thanks. “Water will do.”
“I’ll let you know when we’re fifteen minutes away,” Billie said, returning her attention to the highway.
He connected his notepad to the back of the front seat docking station and logged into mind.fm. He wanted to relax and selected the music stream designed for him. After five minutes of playtime he pulled his ear buds out. There was something wrong with the music stream, something that he couldn’t identify. He used the Tesla’s sound system and selected a soft jazz stream. Better, he thought.
Toby had dropped into a half-asleep state when Billie’s voice caught his attention.
“Fifteen minutes, now.”
Billie’s prediction was precise. She stopped the vehicle outside an old building, constructed in stone, set well back from the street. It contained four floors, and both the grounds and the building were well maintained. There was a curving drive to the front of the building with parking on one side close to the entrance. Billie pulled up to the front steps.
“Lemme check with the office before you exit,” Billie said. She punched a quick-dial number, and a succinct conversation followed. She disconnected and turned to Toby. “All clear. I’ll open the door for you.” She escorted him to the front door of the office building, and Toby had a feeling he was being protected, from what he did not know.
“I’ll be here when you’re ready to leave.”
“Thank you.” Toby pushed through the double entry doors; the name of the legal firm across the glass was the only indication of the occupants. A uniformed and armed security guard was waiting for him just inside the entrance. The guard did not introduce himself.
“Follow me, Mr. McIntosh.” The guard led him to a small conference room and held the door open. Toby entered the room, and the door closed behind him. The room was furnished with a heavy, carved conference table, oval shaped, styled in solid timber, and six upholstered chairs were evenly spaced around the table. A coffee service with cups and fresh coffee was on the table, together with a water jug and glasses.
A man, standing inside the door, held out his hand. “Mr. McIntosh, I’m Reuben Jones. Thank you for coming on such short notice.” The attorney was dressed in an expensive suit, his thinning hair was brushed back, and his demeanor was very professional.
Toby shook the man’s hand. “Your message said it was about Nate—my uncle—and was urgent.”
“Yes, indeed. Please take a seat.” The attorney waited for a moment for Toby to sit and then followed his example. “You have your driver’s license? We’ll need formal identification, later. We act for your uncle, Nathan Travers. We have instructions, given certain preconditions, requiring us to assume he is unable to deal with his day-to-day affairs for some unavoidable reason. The worst-case scenario is that he is deceased. We have been instructed to act on those assumptions, with or without proof.”
“You think Nate is dead? How? What happened?”
“We don’t know. He meets with either myself or one of my partners, if I’m unavailable, on the first day of each month and has done so for more than a year. However, this month—yesterday—he did not keep his appointment and did not communicate with us in any way. That’s what he called a trigger condition.”
“What the heck is a trigger condition?”
“I thought you might be aware—no? Simply that he has missed his appointment. We don’t know what he might have anticipated. His absence could be because he’s fallen ill or been involved in an accident—indeed, he might have suffered a fatal injury—and if so, please accept our sympathies. Your uncle has been a client of the firm for almost twenty years. His instruction was for me, or our next senior partner if I wasn’t available, to hand you a letter that he supplied, as soon as possible after a trigger condition occurring.”
The attorney picked up the folder from the conference table, opened it, and extracted a large envelope. “Here. I’m required to leave you in this conference room for thirty minutes while you read the contents. We’ll have some formalities afterward to work through—paperwork, you know.” As the attorney headed to the door, he said, “Please help yourself to coffee, water, whatever you need. I’ll be back in thirty minutes.” He closed the door softly.
Toby stared at the envelope. Damn, he thought, something has happened to Nate. He reached out, hesitant, reluctant to take up the challenge of the contents.
oOo
Chapter Three
Toby opened the sealed envelope and checked the contents. There were ten pages of notes, laser printed. His uncle’s signature ended the last page. He returned to the first page. He read it again. He read through the complete document. He read it a second time. He rubbed his eyes and pressed his hands against his forehead. He read the document again. The contents had not changed. His Uncle Nathan was handing over control of his estate to him, Toby, effective immediately. Hell, tho
ught Toby, the old man was worth a couple of billion dollars. He checked the financial summary page. The total amount invested in stocks alone was far more than ten billion dollars, depending on market values.
His hands shaking, he continued to read.
Of course, there were conditions attached. Toby held the first two pages in his left hand and the remaining pages in his right hand, and sat still, deep in thought. His uncle intended he would take on active, full-time management of his affairs. He would need to resign from Caltech and from his advisory and research consulting roles. He checked his watch. Twenty minutes had passed. The attorney, Reuben Jones, would be back in another ten.
Toby read the document again. The final pages contained summaries of assets and investments and concluded with a set of detailed instructions.
Jones, when he returned, would require his signature on some legal documents, transferring control of everything to him. Of course—Toby checked again—ownership was via trusts, both American-based and offshore. It looked as though he’d be visiting Europe as well. He’d never heard of Lichtenstein, nor of Vaduz, its capital. He checked further. His uncle had made provisions to cover the situation if Toby declined. He didn’t study those details. There was no need. He was going to accept.
There was a knock on the door. It opened, and the attorney stepped back into the conference room. He looked at Toby, an inquiring expression on his face.
“Well, Mr. McIntosh?” he asked.
“This is a shock, totally. I’ll accept my uncle’s offer and directions, of course. Can I—if he returns—if he’s alive, can we reverse all this?” He tapped the papers.
“With some difficulties, yes. There would be costs, as well. We could do it.”
“In that case, definitely. What do I have to do?”
“My PA—she’s a notary—will be in shortly. She has three sets of documents for you to sign. She’ll notarize them. That’s it from our perspective—you’ll be in control of the assets, companies, and so forth, as set out in your uncle’s notes. We’ll provide letters of introduction to Nathan’s attorneys in Bermuda and Vaduz; you’ll need to attend in person to complete their paperwork. Let me know when you plan to travel. I’d recommend you don’t wait more than six weeks or so to complete the offshore legalities. If you want to retain us to continue providing legal advice and support, we are available.”
There was another soft knock on the door.
“Come in, Aster. Mr. McIntosh is accepting his uncle’s offer. He brought his driver’s license. He’ll need to execute all three of the trustee appointment documents.”
Still in somewhat of a state of shock, Toby shook hands with the attorney and pushed through the double doors of the office building. He was carrying a briefcase, a new one, provided by Reuben Jones, which was full of documents. There was enough reading material to last for weeks, he thought. More details: legal structures of trusts, details of investments, descriptions of business operations, instructions—the list went on.
Billie was waiting on the outside steps. She escorted him to the rear door of the Tesla, and again Toby had the same feeling of protection. Billie closed his door, and when she was in the driver’s seat, she turned back to Toby.
“Everything okay?” Before he could answer, her cell phone buzzed. “Pardon me,” Billie said, plugging in an earpiece. Another cryptic conversation followed. She concluded her side of the call. “Yes, sir. I understand. I was prepared for that. Thank you.”
She disconnected the call and turned back to Toby.
“As I was saying—everything okay? We’re heading back to LA?”
“Yes, please. To my apartment. Can you drive me—?”
“Certainly. I’m your chauffeur, as you require. Also bodyguard.”
“Bodyguard? Whatever for?”
“Your experience earlier today should provide the answer to that, at least in part. We don’t know how anyone found out—yes, I’m aware of who you are and of your uncle. My boss—he was briefed by the attorney—has confirmed you’re now in control of your uncle’s estate, and I’m responsible for your protection. It’s going to be an interesting ride.”
“Well, I didn’t expect—thank you.”
“I have your address. We’ll go there, first?”
“First? Yes, I suppose. After that—” Toby paused.
Billie waited for a few seconds. “We’ll go to your Uncle’s house? It’ll take us three hours to reach your apartment.”
Toby sat back with the briefcase on his lap, trying to absorb the shocks of the afternoon. It was difficult to believe his uncle was dead. He would, Toby was almost confident, be at his home, wondering why Toby had been to the attorney’s office. If not, perhaps he’d be at one of his other properties. But just in case—he opened the briefcase and selected the first folder; it contained a copy of the papers that the attorney had handed to him. He read each page again, this time with far more concentration. When he finished, he selected the next folder.
An hour or so later, Billie said, “We’re being followed. There’s a black SUV—looks like that Suburban—and it’s been on our tail for the last fifteen miles.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. I’ll keep an eye on it and let you know if anyone else joins in.”
“Thanks.” Toby was curious: why were people after him? He accessed his vblog; perhaps someone had identified the two men who had claimed to be FBI. He started to scroll through the comments and stopped. There were thousands—maybe tens of thousands—of comments. He keyed in a search query, and after a moment the results started to display, this time fewer than a hundred. Yes, people had identified the men, confirming they weren’t law enforcement. He had names, addresses, records. The men belonged to the brownshirts and were from Virginia. It seemed they had prison records for assault, robbery with violence, and other offenses. He wondered what they were doing in California.
Toby decided to contact the FBI—the real FBI. He took out his cell phone and found the number. He dialed it and explained his situation, that he had been accosted by two people claiming to be FBI agents. He forwarded a copy of his vblog video with the addition of the comments identifying the men. The duty officer called him back after reviewing the material.
“Sir, yes, we agree, they are not agents. We’re waiting on confirmation of their identities. Do you know of any reason why these people—or anyone else—should be following you?”
“I’m not sure. It could be something to do with my uncle. Nathan Travers. You might know the name. I’ve just left his attorney’s office. They told me he’s missing. The men following me may have had something to do with his disappearance.”
The duty agent replied, “Yes, sir. Hold for a moment.” It was almost a minute before the agent returned to the call. “Sir, we know of Nathan Travers. He’s on our VIP list because of his federal government contracts. We’ll use a drone to catch up and trail the vehicle following you. We’re tracking your cell phone, and we’ll have an escort with you as soon as we can. They’ll accompany you for the remainder of your journey. Please hold.” The agent, after a minute, came back on the line. “You’re headed to Glendale?”
“Yes.” Toby did not ask how the agent knew his likely destination. “After that, we’ll go to my uncle’s house in Bel Air.”
“Good. We’ll arrange for one of our senior agents to meet with you at the Bel Air property. Try to keep your phone available for our calls.”
Toby disconnected and spoke to Billie. “The FBI said they’ll send a team to escort us. They’ll let me know when it’s near.”
“Thanks. I was listening. I’ve sent an emergency signal to my office. Can you send a copy of what you sent them to my boss, also? I’ll give you his cell number. He can provide backup if it’s needed.”
Toby sent off a copy of his files to the number Billie messaged to him. He opened the folder again and tried to concentrate on the contents. He picked up the second folder and leafed through the pages. He stopped and read a pag
e for the second time.
“Billie?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Toby.”
“Yes, Sir Toby?”
“Stop that. I have your resume here. You’re a pilot? You served in the military?”
“They retired me. I ran over my senior officer. Accidentally.”
“Accidentally?”
“Well, he was running away. I chased him—in his vehicle. I hadn’t driven it before. Bumped into him. Broke his leg. I got out and blackened both his eyes while he tried to limp away. Bastard.”
Toby decided to not ask what had caused her to assault the man. “Why are you working as a driver if you have a helicopter license?”
“Both chopper and commercial license; I’m rated on your Cessna. You’ll see. We’ll need to visit one of your uncle’s properties, and while we can fly to a local airport, we have to do the last part by chopper.”
“How come you know more than I do?”
“I’m sure it’s all in the files you’re reading. I got a briefing from my boss, and he got one from the attorney. We made the assumption you’d continue my assignment.”
Toby recognized the unspoken question. “I agree, your assignment will continue.”
“Thank you. I’ll let my boss know.”
“When are we flying to my uncle’s property?”
“If we keep out of the hands of whoever’s following us—Monday morning. I’ve booked the Cessna for ten a.m. departure.”
Toby shrugged. Today was Thursday, and it could not be a more bewildering day. He continued to read files. The more he read, the more the unaccustomed weight of business responsibilities increased their burden. For a short moment, he wondered if he really could step into his uncle’s shoes. He dismissed the thought as rapidly as it had arrived. He was not his uncle, and he would make his own tracks. Nate would take back control when he reappeared, anyway.
The Darwin Project Page 2