I wasn’t exactly being quiet. I hummed along with the spooky mp3 music. And the wind-up bat in my hand kept squeaking. I had a suspicion Graham would be waiting with the latest assault weapon if I tried actually sneaking up on him. I wound up or snapped on a couple more toys when I climbed the next set of stairs to reach the door at the top.
I gauged the position as opening directly into his enormous office. He’d locked it, of course.
I took my power drill to the lock, then kicked it open, letting my mechanical bats and mice loose at the same time. I flattened myself against the closet wall as the creatures crashed into ceilings, monitors, desk chairs, and scampered off into hiding under desks. All to the mp3 tune of a weird TV theme song about monsters.
I was trying very hard not to laugh as Graham’s irate curses flamed the air. Leaning against the hidden staircase wall, I heard a gunshot and a bat squeak, followed by a stomp and another squeak. The wind-up bat would be a little tougher to reach, but it would wind down eventually, possibly after taking out a monitor or two. I was nearly bent double picturing the chaos in Graham’s tightly controlled universe.
“If I’d really wanted to be mean, I’d have used the radio-controlled airplane,” I said from my hiding place. “I could have taken out your head.”
“Dammit, Ana, did you steal back your inheritance so you can sue me out of this house or are you ready to get kicked out?”
I heard a muffled shot and a thump, presumably the squeaking bat hitting the floor. With more bravado than I felt after he’d dealt a mortal blow to my weak spot, I sauntered into his cyber-universe to survey the damage.
One of the bats was tangled in some wires near the ceiling. Since the only light in here was from the bank of monitors, I couldn’t really detect what he’d done to that one. Looked like all the screens were intact, so mostly, I’d just annoyed him. What a pity.
“I’m ready to be treated like someone who has more intelligence than the average spook and who is as capable of protecting her family as you are,” I told him, finally letting my anger emerge. “Patra is my family, not yours. If I want to fry the puppet-masters who pulled zombie strings yesterday, you have no right to interfere. Now, do I risk getting arrested to go after that phone on my own or will you help me?”
“Bill Bloom’s personal effects are still in police custody,” he intoned, actually turning to glare at me.
If he knew what his voice did to me, he’d use it more often. I just propped my fists on my hips and glared back. “You think I don’t know that? That’s why I politely asked if you could have them released. I didn’t want you going all lionesque if I did it myself.”
“Lionesque?” he asked with what almost sounded like amusement. “What in hell is that?”
“That’s not the point. The point is that you’re treating me like EG. If I want Bill’s phone, it’s because I have a very good reason for it. You might prefer hiding in this attic pulling strings, but it’s not healthy, and I don’t intend to fall into the same trap. If you can’t provide what I need, have the courtesy to explain why, and I’ll do it myself. Until now, I’ve done all the outside work on my own. I stupidly hoped maybe we could work together on some projects.”
Wow, that hurt to admit, but sometimes my tongue flaps faster than my brain. I probably needed to make an appointment with my therapist, after I found one.
Amadeus Graham rose from his chair, towering over me. I refused to cower or scamper back down the stairs. My heart pounded erratically — more because this man and his abilities turned me on than because I was frightened.
“I am not hiding,” he said reasonably enough. “I simply work better off the radar.”
“No, you are regretting that you kissed me, you are regretting that you let us into your life, and you’re trying to make me mad and drive us off,” I retaliated.
Okay, I’d been harboring a lot of pent-up frustration.
“What I do is dangerous, Ana. If you can’t keep your head down and stay out of trouble, go back to your Atlanta basement and send your family somewhere safe. I do not want to be responsible for their lives.”
“Yeah, I got that already. Tough cookies. We can’t all be that irresponsible. Hide behind your stupid excuses, but you know we were raised to be what we are. That’s not going to change.” Possibly to my regret, but I couldn’t ignore the obvious any longer. “We accept full blame for our actions. Let me be your front. You can’t do everything from here.” This was not precisely how I’d meant this encounter to go, but my tongue had a mind of its own. So did my hormones, and they were just plumb insane.
Graham wore his shirtsleeves rolled up today. He crossed his muscled — bare — arms and took a step closer, aiming for intimidation. “You don’t really think I’ll put you in danger in place of myself, do you? I deal in information, not stupid mouse tricks. Until you figure out how to make information work for you, I’m not aiding and abetting your self-destructive tendencies.”
“Information is worthless unless someone is prepared to act on it.” I bunched my hands into fists and took a step closer so we were nearly toe-to-toe. He had me vibrating with far more than fury. “Living isn’t for cowards. We have to be prepared to die at any moment. I’d prefer to die for a good cause.”
“You’re not good to anyone dead,” he said in a voice dripping with scorn.
“You’re not good to anyone, period,” I retorted. “Spiders trapped in attics have a very self-centered universe.”
I turned on my heel and stalked out — the normal way, through the hall door. I was steaming. I’d stupidly hoped to somehow convince him to get Bill’s phone for me. I really didn’t want to break into a police station, and I knew Graham had contacts. Now all I’d done was make him curious. And furious, but that was a bonus.
I hurried back to my office and left my door open so I could hear Mallard return. Both of them really ought to give my deviousness some credit.
While I waited, I emailed Nick asking him to run a background check on all the personnel at the British embassy who’d interviewed him. If any of them had been in war zones with Whitehead and Smedbetter, I wanted their names. And their voices.
Seattle finally came through, with a hefty invoice for the rush job but also the identification I’d requested. They’d matched Smedbetter’s voice on tape #2844 to the voice on Patrick’s recording insisting that “escalation is the only solution,” and “You have a wild card in your deck who needs to be dealt with. He’s been snooping where he shouldn’t.”
Nailed him.
I did a little jig of triumph. We had no proof that the general might have murdered Patra’s father, but chances were good that we had an instigator.
The unaccented American voice declaring that his party was prepared to support Smedbetter’s request for escalation of the war, and that they’d acquired newspapers across Europe was still unidentified. That could be almost anyone on Broderick’s staff, or even Paul Rose’s. The smooth politician’s voice and the use of the word “party” would indicate the latter.
As a bonus, Seattle had also matched the ungrammatical American voice on Patrick’s recording with an unidentified interviewer on the Smedbetter tape. I played tape #2844 with General Smedbetter speaking to a reporter — it sounded like a newspaper interview about the general’s interest in military weapons. Patra had sent me an article with Ernest Bloom interviewing the general on that topic.
Excitement blossomed.
If this interviewer was Ernest Bloom, he had been in the room when an American general and a media rep discussed starting a revolution to protect oil interests — and worried about a spy in their midst. Patrick?
Bill Bloom would have recognized his father’s voice on Patra’s tape — and called his mother, as well as Patra. It was beginning to look like the tape really had been the cause of Bill’s death. One of the men on it must have learned of the tape’s existence from Bill’s mother or by tapping Bill’s phone. That man would most likely be his killer.
I heard Mallard coming in the kitchen door. I grabbed the army coat I’d brought down earlier and hurried to greet him. The corner of a plastic baggie stuck out of his jacket pocket. He looked startled to see me as he removed his hat and hung it on the rack beside the door.
“I think we need to throw a Halloween party for EG,” I said cheerfully. “Funky lights, weird music, ugly cupcakes, the works. Dry ice, maybe? Do they bob for apples on Halloween? We can invite her class.”
Disconcerted by this unexpected approach, Mallard straightened his tie and appeared to consider it. “Perhaps a professional party planner?” he suggested.
“You’re so not up with the times,” I said, brushing past him to head out the door. “All that stuff is available at the mall. I’ll take a look. See you later.”
I was up the stairs before he realized I’d picked his pocket. He’d made it so very easy, possibly intentionally. One never knew with Mallard.
Leaving our portly butler shouting futilely, I jogged down to the Metro and hopped on the next train going anywhere.
Twenty-eight
Patra’s perspective
Patra lingered in the ladies’ restroom on the executive floor. There were so very few women on this level that she was fairly confident no one would intrude. She waited until she heard General Smedbetter in the corridor. She was pretty certain that was Broderick Jr.’s voice joining him. They didn’t sound pleased.
She whistled a happy tune.
She had hoped her lovely wire story would lure the culprits from their lairs. From the rising anger in the hall, she gathered her story had hit the fan.
She couldn’t wait to leave this hell hole and see how the news of Broderick’s perfidy was hitting the real world, but she had one more task on her list before she left.
She turned on the microphone in her pen, edged open the restroom door, and recorded their voices.
The men entered an office and closed the door. Bollocks. She’d love to be a bug on the wall, but she hadn’t had time to gather that kind of sophisticated equipment. Still, maybe . . .
She connected the pen to her phone and sent the small audio file to Ana and Sean with notes of the participants’ names in hopes they could match the voices to her father’s tape. Then with wickedness aforethought, she checked to be certain the coast was clear and entered the men’s restroom. She left the pen behind a trash can. It was set to record with the sound of a voice. She wasn’t certain how she’d get back in here to retrieve it, but it was just a wild chance anyway.
With the exposé she’d written working its way out on the AP wires, she figured it was time to make her exit. She took the elevator down.
Security met her in the lobby as the elevator door opened. The long tile floor to the glass door exit stretched past their burly shoulders like a barbed-wire no man’s land.
* * *
After ascertaining that Mallard, Riley, or no one else followed me, I changed trains and headed for Bill’s neighborhood. I’d prefer to experiment in a safer location, but the apartment would be the first place the thugs would look once I sent my message. If Graham wouldn’t descend into the mucky world, I would.
Using my own phone, I texted Nick, Sean, and Patra to let them know where I was so they could collect my body if necessary. That’s not what I told them, of course. I just said I was investigating a new clue at Bill’s place.
The discovery of the spyware in Patra’s phone increased the probability that it really had been her audio file that had cost Bill his life. The thugs had zeroed in on Bill within an hour of his calling Patra to say he had information. It was possible Patra’s phone had already been hacked, but she’d just arrived in the States. My assumption was that Bill’s phone had been hacked first. By whom was the question I meant to answer today. I expected that answer to lead me to Bill’s killer.
Bill’s apartment house had no security. I walked in without anyone paying a bit of attention, not just because I was wearing my grubbies and looking harmless but because no one cared. I wore leggings tucked into the cowboy boots I’d found at Goodwill. The boots were more comfortable than the fancy spike heels Nick had made me buy, but a little noisy on the stairs. I stopped on Bill’s floor, ascertained his place was empty, and opened the flimsy lock with a credit card.
Inside, in the light of Bill’s dirty window, I examined the outdated cell phone I’d retrieved from Mallard. Bill’s contact list didn’t hold many names, but I didn’t need many if the spyware was in this phone. I’d done a little research and was utterly appalled at how easy phone spyware was to install. As a result, my phone was now loaded up with every anti-bugging software known to mankind.
Bill’s didn’t even have a password, poor trusting guy.
I figured his mother wouldn’t know how to receive text messages, so I sent mine to all Bill’s media contacts, including Carla at Intrepid. Found Bill Bloom’s files, I wrote. Hidden door in closet. Treasure trove!
What better way to bait a hook for phone-tapping criminals, right? As well as notifying half the news media in town as to where the treasure — and by default — Bill’s phone was. If they knew Bill was dead, they’d probably wonder about the message sender, but that would just arouse more curiosity. I’d had a hankering all along to throw all the bad guys into one room. Throwing in the media as well might be even more fun.
I tucked my own wireless bug into a dusty corner and checked the speaker by tapping my toe and listening to my earbuds. Seemed to be working.
The day was unseasonably warm for this late in October. By the time I reached the roof, the sun beamed down, and my army coat was stifling. I kept it on anyway. I sat down in the shadows on the roof with my spyglass and my earbuds and waited to see who was ambitious — or desperate — enough to show up first.
Patra’s perspective
Patra assessed the two security goons blocking her exit, the crowd of employees surging onto the elevators, and chose the path of least resistance. She stepped back into the elevator with the crowd.
If Poo Media was really good, they’d have security standing in front of the elevator on every floor. This wasn’t looking pretty. If they wanted to maim her yesterday, they’d probably want to slice and dice her today if they knew about her lovely prank.
Her best bet was to be surrounded by witnesses. She texted Sam that she was trapped, figuring he was closest. Not that she expected him to do much, but both Magda and Ana had taught her to stay in contact with friends and family at all times. Kidnapping had been their main concern in third world countries. Patra hadn’t really considered it in civilization.
She palmed her spray can, removed her Taser and other weaponry from her purse and tucked them into her blazer pockets. She stepped off the elevator on the floor expelling the most passengers, ready to aim and fire.
Two black-suited goons zoomed in on her like homing pigeons. She maced one, who went down grabbing his eyes and screaming curses. She zigzagged and placed a couple of slow-moving, lard-butted office jockeys between her and the second guard. She raced for better cover as the gas spread and burned eyes and panic broke out behind her. The spritzed goon shouted, but he was still stumbling and incoherent.
Patra could hear curses as the second goon stepped on toes and shoved bystanders to clear a path through the frightened crowd.
She dashed into cubicle hell and had nowhere to run but over people. And desks. Patra tossed a rolling office chair in the path of the goon still in a condition to chase her. More screams. One idiot jumped on his desk, bringing the flimsy platform crashing down and causing a domino collapse of fabric partitions. Jolly fun, if only she knew where to run.
Taser in hand and looking for an opening where she wouldn’t shoot the wrong person, Pat
ra thumb dialed 911. She had no idea what the cops would make of this chaos, but she was pretty certain assault and battery were illegal — as soon as she assaulted and battered someone.
More goons appeared in the doorway. Rats. Ignoring the gaping jaw of the office manager, she climbed up on his more substantial metal desk in the corner. Keeping her back to the wall, she aimed her Taser while reporting a terrorist in the Broderick offices to the police dispatcher. Trying to remember the office address while staving off furious, testosterone-pumped guards did not add to her peace of mind.
She shot the first thug who approached and watched in glee as he yelled and jerked spastically. She didn’t want to kill the guy, so she let up on the trigger once he hit the floor. She hadn’t secured one of the new multiple-shot weapons and had to pull the stun gun out of her other pocket. She loved well-tailored suits.
Two guards came after her at once, attempting to tackle her from the desk. Stupid. Her pointed-toe shoe clipped one in the balls. She stunned the other, then kicked him in the jaw as he staggered. Maybe she’d use her metal heel on the nose of the next jerkwad who approached. She was starting to steam, if only because all the sheep in the room simply stared helplessly while three big men attacked her.
As if the heavens heard her fury, the fire alarm screamed and sprinklers drenched the office.
* * *
Generally — I postulated as I huddled on the roof and waited for action — gorillas and Neanderthals ruled the world because they were stronger. They had learned they could get what they wanted with power, whether that power was guns, fists, wealth, or the law. But every once in a while, diminutive David’s intelligence and knowledge could take down a powerful Goliath.
I prayed like heck this would be the case today, because the first car to the curb was a black Escalade. I maneuvered to the end of the roof where I could see the license plate, took a photo, and sent it to Graham.
Undercover Genius Page 22