The Phoenix Egg

by Richard Bamberg

  Hosokawa made a simple movement with his left hand. The driver bowed, tilting until John thought he might fall over. Then the driver straightened quickly and walked to a point on the rail where he could watch them while he appeared to be studying the sea lions on the jetty.

  “Mr. White,” Hosokawa began. “You represent a Ms. Caitlin Maxwell–”

  “My agency,” John interrupted.

  “Pardon?”

  “My agency. The Blalock Security Agency has Ms. Maxwell as a client.”

  “There’s a difference?” Hosokawa asked.

  “Of course,” John answered. “We don’t normally give out that kind of information, but since we registered a contract with Ms. Maxwell it would be foolish of me to deny it. However, I make no claims to being the person handling her case.”

  Hosokawa stewed on that for a few seconds while keeping his face a death mask. His English was excellent, with little of the accent so well publicized in the old movies. “Very well, we’ll play the game your way, Mr. White. Your client has something that we would like to purchase.”

  “I see,” he said, not seeing at all. “And what would that be?”

  “If she hasn’t told you what it is, then I see no reason to tell you myself. Employees do not need to know the business of their employers. You can tell Ms. Maxwell that we are prepared to negotiate a price for the item in question.”

  John took a sip from his beer and gazed off toward the driver. “I suppose she might be willing to sell it, not that I can guarantee anything.”

  “Of course,” he agreed. “I am just requesting that you relay our offer. I am sure she would be most satisfied with our negotiations.”

  John nodded slightly. “Really? Well then, I’ll definitely let her know what you’ve said. Do you have an initial bid?”

  His mask cracked. “Pardon?”

  “An initial bid. You know the drill. She has something you want. She’s placing it up for bid. You make an offer; the other interested parties make their offers. She goes with the highest bidder.”

  Hosokawa frowned. “We have no intention of getting into a bidding war, Mr. White. We are prepared to pay handsomely for what has come into her possession, but there are limits to everything.”

  “I don’t think so,” John snapped. “You aren’t the only interested party Mr. Hosokawa. As an honest businessman, you know that price is governed by demand. In this case, it seems that demand is high, so we expect an equivalently high price.”

  Hosokawa’s mask slid back into place as he thought over John’s words. “Mr. White, I can see you are a businessman of some intelligence. This thing in Ms. Maxwell’s possession came to her through no fault of her own. She didn’t design it, buy it, or steal it. It has simply been left in her care. We have already paid well for the delivery of this item and are not interested in seeing it end up in someone else’s hands.”

  “So you are saying this ... this thing belongs to you. It’s something you paid for and are still awaiting delivery.”

  “Exactly.”

  “You know the NCIX is interested in this thing?”

  Hosokawa’s attention sharpened. John might as well have waved a steak in front of a pit bull.

  “No,” Hosokawa said. “What business would they have with it?”

  “I can’t answer that. I’d like to, really I would, but you can see that with the Feds involved, I, as a legitimate businessman, would have to turn it over to them until they determine proper and legal ownership.”

  The tension in Hosokawa became a physical force that insinuated itself into his words. “Mr. White, we have worked long and hard for this device. My partners are not tolerant of failure when they have invested so much time and money. As one businessman to another, I am sure you can see our position.”

  John nodded to keep him talking.

  “We are willing to go to extraordinary lengths to acquire that which we consider to be ours. If you were able to persuade Ms. Maxwell that the item should be ours, then I’m certain we could arrange a worthy finder’s fee for yourself.”

  “Above what you’re willing to pay her for the item?”

  “Certainly,” he said. “We have no reason to deny Ms. Maxwell a profit, even though it is totally unearned. You, however, will be earning your profit.”

  John nodded again. “Just what size finder’s fee are we talking about here?”

  “That can be negotiated, but let’s start with the equivalent of five years’ salary.”

  “You know how much I make in a year?” John asked.

  “I know how much the Blalock Agency reported on their taxes last year. It is a respectable figure.”

  John didn’t ask how he’d gotten his information. The IRS computers were about as easy to enter as a nun’s dormitory room after midnight, but bribing an official or hiring a code breaker were easily within Mr. Hosokawa’s means.

  “That sounds like a generous offer, Mr. Hosokawa. I can’t make any promises, but I will see what I can do.”

  “Make no mistake, Mr. White,” he said. His voice grew even softer than before. “Our displeasure can be even greater than our pleasure.”

  John nodded. “Message received and understood. Do you have a number where I can reach you?”

  Hosokawa’s left hand dipped into a pocket and came up with a business card. He slid it across the table. John palmed the card without reading it.

  Hosokawa stood, and the driver appeared at his elbow.

  “Don’t take too long in responding, Mr. Blalock. Events are rushing down time’s highway, and I fear it is a one-way road.”

  John didn’t have an answer to that.

  Hosokawa left without even the eyebrow dip.

  ***

  Holdren’s cell phone buzzed as they were leaving the offices of the NCIX at San Francisco’s federal building.

  A stiff ocean breeze swept through the crowded streets. It temporarily removed some of the smell of car exhaust, rotting garbage, and human urine. San Francisco was once again going through a period of social permissiveness that allowed bums to fill the streets, defecating in alleys, living on park benches, and clogging the sidewalks with their wasted lives.

  Holdren had never had patience with the miscreants that made up the lower rungs of modern civilization. He supposed all ages had suffered the disease-ridden vermin, but in most ages, their very diseases helped thin the herd. In modern America, a permissiveness called social welfare maintained their numbers through feeding, clothing, housing, and caring for the teeming vermin.

  He flicked open the phone. “Holdren.”

  “This is Kirby again, sir. Maxwell is logged onto the Web.”

  “Do you have a location?” Holdren asked.

  “Downtown, near the Trans America building.”

  “We’re close. Do you have anyone closer?”

  “Yes, sir. There’s a car not two blocks away.”

  “Excellent. Get them on her. Have them keep her in sight until I arrive, but under no circumstances are they to move in before I get there.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Holdren returned the phone to his pocket.

  “This time, we have her,” he said.

  CHAPTER 17

  Darkness had swept over the city by the time John reached The Gleaning Cube. Its cool embrace was comfort to many, fear to others and opportunity to the slime inhabiting the city’s more notorious areas. For John, it was simply night. That half of the day that provided cover from prying eyes, solace to eyes weary of the world’s cruelty, and as always, freedom. However, this night was business, and he found no pleasure in its embrace.

  He parked near the end of the small wharf behind The Gleaning Cube, backing the car in only after his headlights illuminated every niche where someone could hide. The encounter with the Frenchman had reminded him that caution was a lifetime pursuit. When caution lapsed, death soon followed.

  John got out and activated the car’s alarm. It wasn’t one of those noisy things that honked th
e horn and flashed the lights. No, if someone was trying to get into his car he wanted to know about it before they knew he knew. His alarm system beeped his remote and signaled what caused the alarm, whether it was the motion sensor, the hood or trunk lock, or one of the doors. If the ignition was tampered with, another signal would notify him it was being hot-wired.

  John took another careful look around the wharf before he walked to the back door of the bar. It was unlocked. He opened it, slipped inside, and locked it behind him. You could never tell when the door would be locked, but there was a buzzer that usually brought the bartender or the bar-back.

  He eased down the hall until he reached the men’s room. A quick check told him it was unoccupied. He did the same at the ladies’ room and the storeroom, which also served as an office. Both were empty.

  The jukebox played not-so-modern jazz.

  John checked the bar from the shelter of the hallway. There were a couple of customers he recognized, but, for the most part, the clientele at this hour were tourists. He entered smoothly and went to the bar, taking note that no one appeared interested or even surprised that he had come out of the back. The bar was small enough that it was possible to keep up with everyone even when crowded, but this crowd was only interested in themselves.

  “Evening, Becky,” he said to the bartender.

  Becky was a student at Stanford. She had a scholarship that paid her books and tuition, but not for her room and board. For nearly two years, she had worked afternoons and early evenings at the Gleaning Cube. They’d talked on several occasions, sometimes at length. Tonight her auburn hair was pulled back in a French braid. John recognized it as the hairstyle she used whenever she was rushed for time.

  Becky wiped the bar off in front of a stool when John approached. “Hi John, what’ll it be tonight?”

  “Molson.”

  “Right. Working eh?”

  “Am I that obvious?”

  She grinned. “Damn straight, John. You’ll order Black Bush if you’re here for a drink, but when you expect to be here a while, as in waiting for a client, you always get a beer.”

  He returned her grin. “Guess I come here too much. I’d better find a bar where no one knows me.”

  She popped the top on a Molson and poured it into a tall pilsner, letting a half inch of foam develop on the top. She placed a small square napkin on the bar, set the glass on it, and shook her head. “Don’t get that way, John. You know all the local bars need their characters to make regular appearances in order to hold onto their tourist clientele.”

  He took a quick gulp from the Molson. It was cold and sharp. “Is that what I am now, Becky, local color?”

  “Please. Color? No, I wouldn’t use that term. Local character maybe, but color? Who knows? Perhaps, it’s all semantics. In any case, you’re a well-known local. People ask about you when they come in.”

  “Really?”

  That was news to him. He had no idea that he came here often enough to have developed a name. It was disconcerting.

  “Sure, you have all the requisite attributes. You’re distinctive, mysterious, and handsome.”

  “Handsome?” John ran a finger down the scar on the left side of his face. He hadn’t realized Becky was nearsighted.

  “Yes, handsome. Don’t think the scar makes you less attractive. It’s not what you’d call disfiguring. Ladies are intrigued by it. Many want to know how you got it.”

  “What do you tell them?”

  Becky shrugged. “It depends on who’s asking, but mostly we just say it’s something you picked up in the Marines and don’t like to talk about.”

  He took another swallow of beer. She was right about his not liking to talk about it. It was a prime example of carelessness and of caring too much. Anytime he started feeling philanthropic, he’d touch the scar and remember what trying to be helpful could cost you. Becky was nice. Many times, she had made the nights pass enjoyably with her wit and charm.

  The front door opened.

  Caitlin Maxwell stepped in from the dark. She’d lost none of the furtive moves that she’d had displayed so well last night and examined the entire room before moving inside.

  Becky noticed John’s gaze and glanced toward the door.

  “Nice lady. Client?”

  “Yes, a client.”

  Caitlin swept around the counter and laid her bag on the bar. Before he could stop her, she wrapped her arms around him and kissed him in a very friendly manner. The taste of her was sweet. The press of her body against his was moving.

  John found himself unable to resist either the embrace or the kiss.

  When Caitlin finally broke the clutch, Becky cleared her throat. “Can I get your client a drink?”

  He eyeballed her with what he hoped was a menacing scowl. From the smile that lit her face, he knew he hadn’t succeeded.

  He really was going to have to find a new bar.

  “White wine, chardonnay, if you have it,” Caitlin said without taking her eyes off John. “Miss me?”

  Becky had moved down the bar and was decanting a portion of wine into a tall stemmed glass, but he could tell she was still listening.

  John’s voice came out low and tense. “Miss you? You leave the room after I distinctly told you not to. You left nothing to tell me what happened to you, and now you have the audacity to ask me if I missed you. You’ve got some nerve lady, you could have been spotted, you could have left a trail back to here, hell you could have been killed.”

  “Lighten up, John. I’m fine.”

  “Lighten up?”

  That expression usually accomplished the opposite when directed at him. He kept his voice low. “I have neither the disposition nor the time to lighten up. I expect a little professionalism when I’m working. In case you’ve forgotten, you came to me for help.”

  “No, I haven’t forgotten. But there was something I had to do, and I couldn’t do it from the hotel room.”

  “And what...”

  Becky’s returning with Caitlin’s wine interrupted his sentence. As much as he liked Becky, there was a limit to how much he trusted anyone.

  “Let’s move to a table,” John said as he picked up his glass and started toward the back without waiting for a reply.

  His usual table was vacant, and he sat down before Caitlin caught up.

  She sat down next to him. “My, aren’t we touchy tonight.”

  “Touchy my ass. One more stunt like you pulled today, and you can forget my help. You either follow my instructions or find yourself another boy,” John said and put more emphasis on his growl after seeing his scowl fail with Becky.

  For the first time, Caitlin seemed to realize he was serious. She lowered her eyes and looked away. “I’m sorry. I thought I’d be back before you. There was something I needed to do.”

  “Okay, and while we’re getting things straight, what was with that kiss?”

  “Oh, I thought it’d look better if we were meeting for other than business reasons. You know how they’re always doing it in the movies.”

  “This isn’t the movies. You’re not fooling anyone.”

  “I don’t know, the bartender seemed convinced.”

  “She’s just a kid, they’re easy to fool.”

  “Sure they are.”

  “Enough of this. What was so important that you had to leave the hotel?”

  “After you left, I got to thinking about the connection between what happened to me and Scott’s death.” She paused.

  When it became obvious she was waiting for him to ask, he did. “And?”

  “I checked my Web site and found a message from Scott. It was a huge file, but the kick in the pants is that it was sent after he died.”

  “After? Well, that’s not impossible. He could have had a delayed transmission set up, but then he could have also had it stored somewhere, and the news of his death somehow activated the transmission. How large was it?”

  “Several gigs.”

  “Humph, that is
large. Did he send you files like that often?”

  “Are you kidding? No, of course, you’re not. The answer is no, normally he didn’t send me anything because I saw him at the office every day.

  “What kind of work was he involved in?”

  “I’m really not sure what he could have been involved with that would get him killed. It’s not as if we dealt with classified information.”

  John nodded. “What did he say about this file?”

  “Nothing at all.”

  “So what’s in the file?”

  Caitlin opened her bag, took something out, and then placed it on the table between them. John looked around the room. No one had developed an unhealthy interest.

  He palmed the thumb drive and lowered it to his side. It looked like an ordinary thumb drive and its marking claimed 64 Gigabytes of memory.

  “Would you mind putting it back in your bag? I’d just as well not attract too much attention.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I should have thought.”

  Caitlin took the thumb drive from his hand and slipped it back into her bag discreetly.

  “What’s in the file?” he repeated.

  “It’s encoded. I don’t have the encryption code.”

  “Damn. Did Scott leave you any clues as to the content of this file?”

  She shrugged. “I’m not positive. He made a vague reference to May first.”

  “Oh? What’s significant about that date?”

  “It’s the day my parents go back to their home in Colorado. I can’t think of anything else.”

  “Your parents still live in Black Forest?”

  “Yes, but they’ve become snowbirds and spend each winter in Florida. There’re a couple of other strange messages, besides the one from Scott.”

  Strange messages? What sort of messages did she get when she wasn’t being hunted?

  “You want to tell me about the messages?”

  “Well, sure. The first was from someone wanting to buy something from me. The message didn’t state what or who they were. They wanted my reply sent to a public e-mail drop.”