Run

by Andrew Grant

  Had Karl Weimann let the cat out of the bag? The detectives’ insinuations about Carolyn’s key suddenly seemed sickeningly plausible.

  “What’s wrong?” McKenna asked. “You’ve gone quiet. Did something in the pictures ring a bell?”

  “No. It’s just—that’s my wife in the last one. I wasn’t expecting to see her.”

  “Oh, of course. It had slipped my mind, her working at AmeriTel. But please, don’t worry. Your wife’s not in any kind of trouble.” He slid the pictures back in the file and snapped it closed. “Now, tell me. Has anything odd happened since you left the company?”

  “It depends what you mean by odd.” I sketched out the basics surrounding the Audi that had tailed me, the break-in, the visit from the two detectives, and the Infiniti I’d just dodged. “In fact, I was heading home now because I was worried someone might try to break in again.”

  “I can see why you’d be concerned,” McKenna said, opening the door. “But don’t worry. We can help you with that.” He slid out, went over to the Ford, had a word with the guys inside it, then turned and got back in my Jaguar. The other driver moved off, turning sharply to avoid a battered silver Avalon—the first car that had passed us the whole time we’d been sitting there—and sped away. “My guys are going to your place now. If anyone’s there who shouldn’t be, they’ll get a nasty surprise.”

  “Oh. OK. Thank you.”

  “We’ll catch up with them in a minute. In the meantime, there are a couple of other things I need to ask you.”

  “Sure. What do you need to know?”

  “The stuff that was stolen. Your list. It’s pretty short. You didn’t leave anything out?”

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  “Like, for example, what was on those memory sticks?”

  “Oh. Nothing important. Just some data files. I was going to use them to test my new product.”

  “Where did these data files come from?”

  This was awkward. From what I’d heard, the Fifth Amendment didn’t carry much weight with Homeland Security so I glanced at McKenna to see what I could make of the man. He looked calm and assured and in good shape, like he’d be equally happy working in a bank or climbing a mountain. His face was tanned, disguising the lattice of fine lines around his eyes, and his dark hair—about an eighth of an inch long—was showing the first signs of gray around the temples. Not the kind of guy you’d cross the street to avoid. But not the kind you’d pick a fight with, either.

  “It’s OK.” McKenna smiled at my less-than-subtle inspection. “We’re on the same side. I’m not looking to jam you up. And I have bigger fish to fry than you, believe me. I just need to have a complete picture of what’s going on. Such as this data. What was it, exactly?”

  “Communications records. Details of landline calls. Cellular calls. Texts. Emails. IMs. Web searches. That basically covers it.”

  “Where did they come from?”

  “AmeriTel.”

  “I mean, who made all these calls and emails and so on?”

  “Oh. Anyone, I guess. Anyone who uses AmeriTel’s network. That’s potentially their whole customer base. Hundreds of thousands of people.”

  If the scope of that community fazed McKenna, he didn’t show it.

  “What about AmeriTel’s own employees, at their HQ?”

  “Of course. Them, too.”

  “Why did you collect this data, in particular?”

  “To run some reports the CEO wanted. But then he changed his mind. And then he canned me. I thought, why let it go to waste?”

  McKenna was silent for a moment.

  “Is that a problem?” I said. “Have I screwed myself? Because if I’ve broken some kind of rule, it wasn’t on purpose. I swear.”

  “No.” He shook his head decisively. “Don’t worry. Like I said, I’m not trying to trip you up. Believe me, if I were, you’d know.”

  Tuesday. Late afternoon.

  THE CAR MCKENNA HAD SENT ON AHEAD WAS WAITING FOR US when we pulled into my driveway a few minutes later. It was sitting in the spot where Carolyn usually parked, and the thought that I’d allowed—even indirectly—someone else to take her place made me feel a twinge of disloyalty. And a little sadness, too, as if it turned her temporary absence into something more permanent.

  The two guys who’d recently been pointing weapons at me were out of their car and moving toward us before I brought the Jaguar to a stop. The one who’d been driving was carrying a small, ribbed aluminum case. McKenna joined them for a brief huddle, then turned and motioned for me to follow them to the front door.

  “Have you changed the locks yet?” he asked, as I fished for my spare key.

  “No. I haven’t had the chance.”

  “That’s the first thing you should do when your keys are stolen. It’s basic common sense. You need to get on it, right away, before you leave the house again. And this time, get a lock that’s more practical. And less pretty.”

  “Why? Is this one no good?”

  “It depends what you want it to do. If you want it to keep criminals out, then no. Look at it. You could pick it in, what? Fifteen seconds?”

  “Really? You think it was picked? Is that how the thieves got in?”

  Normally the suggestion that my house was so insecure would have horrified me, but at that moment it filled me with hope. Because if the lock had been picked, it meant the thieves hadn’t used Carolyn’s keys.

  “It’s possible.” McKenna knelt and examined the keyhole. “But I doubt it.”

  “Why? How can you tell?”

  “We’d need to have the forensic guys check it out to be sure.” He took a pen from his pocket and pointed to the metal bezel with its tip. “But you see this part? It looks pristine. If it had been picked, I’d expect a deep scratch here, and a smaller one here. I’m guessing someone got hold of a key. And since yours is missing, you’d be dumb to take any chances.”

  “Well, OK.” I opened the door and tried to hide my disappointment. “Thanks for the advice. As soon as you’ve seen what you need to see, I’ll call a locksmith.”

  McKenna headed down my hallway with the other two guys trailing in his wake. Each of them glanced into every room they passed, but it was my study that held their interest.

  “Is that real?” McKenna was staring at the Lichtenstein.

  “It is.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Very. It’s one of his less well-known works, but there are a couple of features that—”

  “It’s interesting because it tells us the people who broke in were professionals. They had discipline. They came here with a specific target in mind, and that’s all they took. Amateurs would have stolen the painting. They wouldn’t have been able to resist. The question is, how did these guys know you had what they wanted? Did the police have any theories?”

  I hesitated, reluctant to throw Carolyn under the bus. But when I saw the look in McKenna’s eye I knew I couldn’t risk lying to him.

  “The detectives thought my wife might have tipped someone off.”

  “Hence your reaction when you saw that photograph. But what do you think? Do you agree with them? That your wife is involved?”

  “I didn’t at the time. I assumed I’d been hit with some kind of spyware.”

  “Either way’s possible, I guess.” McKenna’s words carried less conviction than I’d have liked. “Mind if we look around and see if we can throw any light on it? What about the computer itself? Where have you got it hidden?”

  “Oh, the computer? Didn’t I tell you? The police took it.”

  “No, you didn’t mention that. Why did they take it? Did they say?”

  “To look for the spyware. They figured it must have been something pretty advanced, given my virus protection hadn’t picked it up. They wanted to see if their lab could identify it.”

  “Smart move. We’ll check in with them, see if they’re making any headway.” McKenna shot a glance at one of his guys, who immediately left
the room. “Our labs have more experience with malware, so it could be they’d rather kick it over to us. In the meantime, let’s take a look at the usual suspects. Have you got a landline phone?”

  “A cordless one, on top of there.” I pointed toward a wooden filing cabinet in the corner of the room.

  The guy with the aluminum case covered the distance in a couple of strides and picked up the handset. He slid the cover off the rear compartment, pulled out the battery, and started to root around inside the body of the phone with short stubby fingers that looked extremely unsuitable for the job.

  “Looks like an old one.” McKenna grimaced. “Does it work OK? Or has it ever had to go for repair?”

  “It is pretty old, I guess. I couldn’t tell you when I bought it. But it works fine. Never had a minute’s trouble with it.”

  “And it begins.” McKenna directed my attention back to the guy with the phone. A tiny silver disc, about the size of a hearing-aid battery, was nestling in the palm of his hand with a pair of skinny red wires with neatly soldered ends poking out between his fingers.

  “Wait. What is it? A—”

  McKenna cut me off with an urgent waggle of his index finger. Then he nodded to his guy, who tossed the disc on the floor. It landed near my feet, and McKenna mimed a stomping gesture to me. I hesitated, then stepped forward and crushed it under my heel.

  “Seriously?” I felt a shiver dance down my vertebrae. “A bug? In my phone? How long had it been there?”

  “Impossible to be sure.” McKenna shrugged. “It’s old technology. Been around for years, but people keep using it because it works. It’s pretty basic. It only gives you audio, and it has a limited range. But it gets the job done.”

  McKenna’s guy opened his case and took out a shiny black box about the size of an iPhone. He flicked a switch on its side, then brought it over to the bookcase.

  “We call it a sniffer. It picks up radio waves.” McKenna spread his arms wide. “If anything else is transmitting, this will find it.”

  The guy reached the end of the top shelf, pausing next to each book in turn. He moved down a shelf and started in the opposite direction. This time he made it less than halfway along before I heard a high-pitched squeal. The guy switched the machine off with his thumb and started to gently ease the nearest book away from its neighbors.

  “Are those all about computers?” McKenna looked incredulous. “You could fill a technical library with them.”

  “Nearly all of them are.” I was on the defensive. “It’s my job, remember.”

  “Have you read them all?”

  “Of course. Some of them several times.”

  “Really? Because a couple look a little dusty. Oh, hang on—I think we have another winner.”

  The second guy had unearthed something from between the books. Another device. It was made of white plastic, about the size of a box of matches, and a narrow wire about eight inches long with a sliver of glass at the end was sticking out from one of its narrow sides. As I watched, the guy snapped the wire and slipped the remains into his pocket.

  “This one you can’t just buy at RadioShack.” McKenna made a circle with his thumb and forefinger, held it to his eye, and peered at me. “It’s video. And did you see how small the lens was? It’s a lot more sophisticated. We’re going to take it with us. If we catch a break we might be able to trace where it came from.”

  “Someone was watching me? In my own office?” For the first time I was glad Carolyn wasn’t here. She’d have freaked.

  Unless Carolyn was the one who’d planted the camera.

  “I’m afraid so. But I’m not surprised. Video increases the value of the intel tenfold. And it would be very sloppy to rely on a single device. If it were me, I’d have placed at least four in a room like this. In particular, I’d want one covering the desk. I presume that’s where your computer usually is?”

  “Yes. But there’s no other furniture anywhere near the desk. Where would you plant it?”

  “Maybe in the light?” McKenna suggested.

  McKenna’s guy held the sniffer up, but it remained silent.

  “What about the desk lamp?” McKenna asked.

  The guy tested it, but again came up dry.

  “There isn’t anywhere else,” I said.

  “There is one place,” McKenna countered.

  “Where?”

  “How long has that been there?”

  “What?”

  “The painting. Do you ever take it down? Store it when you’re away? Have it cleaned?”

  “No. Never. It hasn’t been moved since I bought it. And no one ever touches it besides me.”

  Unless … Carolyn had always hated that picture. And if Weimann had revealed the role she’d played in me buying it …

  “It’s in the perfect position.” McKenna pointed to the painting, and then my desk. “We have to check it.”

  “No.” I stepped forward, as if I could somehow protect it from something that might have already happened. “No way. Please.”

  “We have no choice,” McKenna said. “But would you feel better if you did it yourself?”

  McKenna stepped back, out of the way, and his guy handed me the machine. I lifted my arm, and swept it along the bottom edge of the frame. I was praying for silence. The thought of someone vandalizing my Lichtenstein—inserting things into it, using it to spy on me and maybe Carolyn—made me sick.

  I moved the machine all the way to the right-hand side without triggering an alarm. My arm trembled with relief. Desperate to be done, I swept back the other way, faster, about six inches higher. Still no sound. I kept on going, back and forth, higher and faster each time, until I’d reached the top of the painting. And uncovered nothing. I laid the device down on the desk—gently, as if there was a danger it would trigger itself out of spite if I banged it around—pushed my chair back with my foot, and sat down without a word.

  THEY GAVE ME A MOMENT to collect myself, then McKenna’s guy shook my hand, put the sniffer back in his case, and left.

  “You’ve been through a lot today, Marc.” McKenna took a business card from his pocket and held it out to me. “If you need to talk about anything, here’s a number for someone you can trust.”

  “No, thanks. I’ll be fine. I’ll talk to my wife when she gets home. Or to a friend. I’m seeing a couple of them for lunch tomorrow. Old friends. Good listeners.”

  McKenna shook his head.

  “Sorry, Marc, but you can’t mention this to your wife. Or anyone else. There’s too much at stake. If you need to talk, call the number on the card. OK?”

  “I guess.”

  “Good. And I’m going to leave you my card, as well. I doubt you’ll have any more trouble, but if anything does happen, I need you to call me right away. Night or day.”

  “OK. Thanks.”

  “Remember, call me. Not those detectives you met. Our resources are far superior. And we’re dealing with something way above the locals’ pay scale here.”

  “Understood.”

  “Excellent. Now, I have just one other thing. That AmeriTel data we talked about? I’d still like to take a look at it. So if any of it shows up anywhere—any other old memory sticks, computer discs, email attachments, whatever—call me. Immediately. It’s important.”

  “I will. Absolutely.”

  “Great. In that case, I’m done here. I’ll get out of your hair.”

  ——

  THE AGENTS’ TIRES CRUNCHED across the gravel, more cautiously than Carolyn’s had done yesterday, but an unwelcome reminder of her departure nonetheless. I glanced at my Lichtenstein, still relieved that it hadn’t been violated—by her, or anyone else—but my eyes were playing tricks on me. Instead of the blond woman’s face, I saw my own. I was the one falling into the abyss. Losing the love of my life? Or even my grip on reality?

  What the hell had just happened?

  Why was McKenna so interested in the AmeriTel data? LeBrock had been desperate to get it back, too.
And what about Carolyn? Was it the data everyone had been after all along? I’d thought my work was the target. But if it wasn’t, why was Carolyn dining out with Weimann, my old rival?

  More to the point, why was my wife dining out with another man?

  How naive had I been?

  Wednesday. Morning.

  NORMALLY, I CAN’T STAND DEALING WITH MUNDANE HOUSEHOLD crap.

  Cleaning, gardening, plumbing, electrical work—I leave Carolyn to find people to take care of it. But without Carolyn, and after a night without a wink of sleep—when the house was alive with creaks and groans, as if the structure itself were mourning her absence—I had no choice but to get on the case myself.

  Two cups of strong coffee, a Google search, and one conversation was all it took to hire a locksmith, and he was parked on the driveway unloading his tools before another hour had passed. It seemed like he knew his business, although whether Agent McKenna would think the ridiculously expensive Centurion Elite he installed would be secure enough, I hadn’t a clue. It didn’t look any more substantial than the old lock, to me. And given the guy’s constant, annoying attempts to make me admit I was doing the work because I’d caught my wife cheating and kicked her out, I was certain I wouldn’t be employing him again anytime soon.

  The locksmith was clearly putting two and two together and getting fifty—at least I hoped he was—but his faulty logic did spark another thought that was actually useful. I didn’t want Carolyn to come home, find the locks had been changed, and jump to the wrong conclusion. I was tempted to call her and explain, but didn’t trust myself not to confront her about Weimann. Not yet. It was a conversation that called for a cooler head. So, I sent her a text. And I was deliberately vague about how my keys had come to be lost. I didn’t think she’d see me sleeping through a break-in on my first night alone as evidence of increased awareness—of myself, our marriage, or anything else.

  THE IDEA OF SEEING old friends for lunch was a welcome distraction from the events of the last couple of days, but as I was driving to the restaurant I found myself struggling to decide how much to tell everyone about my new situation. Vincent—the oldest of our group—had come through a tough childhood, and talk of the police and burglaries could quickly put us on the opposite sides of an argument. Jonny—who seemed to start a sickeningly successful new business every fifteen minutes—was ultra-competitive. He always wanted to show how he had the best watch or the fastest car. I could just imagine him seeing my brush with Homeland Security and raising me an encounter with the CIA. And Sally-Anne—the only woman—worked in telecoms, just like Carolyn. Their paths crossed pretty regularly at industry functions, and I wasn’t sure I wanted our personal problems leaking into my wife’s professional world.