Run

by Andrew Grant

The higher room was on the twelfth floor, so I texted its number to Weimann and took an elevator to the seventh. That’s where my second room was, all the way at the end of the corridor. Once inside I unpacked the new laptops, got them running—not hard, when you work with computers for a living—and set up a video link between them using the hotel’s free wireless. Then I picked up the nearer one, slipped one of the new memory sticks into my pocket, and headed to the stairs.

  The room on the twelfth floor had exactly the same layout as the one I’d just left. A pair of twin beds against one wall, with gaudily patterned covers and giant heaps of unnecessary pillows. A wardrobe, dresser, and desk against the other wall, in some kind of pale, fake wood. A doorway to a small bathroom. An uncomfortable-looking couch beneath the window. All perfectly functional, but nothing you’d miss—or even remember—five minutes after you left. Typical of a place designed as a stop along the way to somewhere else, not a destination in its own right. Appropriate in more ways than one, I thought, as I positioned the laptop on the corner of the desk and made sure its built-in camera had a good view of the entrance. Then I sat the memory stick on the other corner of the desk and left, careful not to let the door close all the way and lock itself behind me.

  Back in my room on the seventh, I set the camera to privacy mode and checked the screen of the second laptop. The view was perfect. When Weimann arrived, I’d see him without him ever knowing I was watching. I’d see how he reacted to finding the memory stick. I’d see if he wasn’t alone. I’d see if he’d sent anyone else in his place. And I was five floors closer to the exit. If I wasn’t one hundred percent certain everything was the way it should be, I’d be out of the hotel and back on the highway before anyone even knew I’d been there.

  All I had to do now was wait.

  ——

  I’M NOT USUALLY ONE for changing horses mid-race, but after ten hour-long minutes it dawned on me that I was missing an opportunity. I’d left the fresh memory stick displayed prominently for a reason. It was a tell. If Weimann came because he wanted to work with me, it wouldn’t mean anything to him. He’d ignore it. But if he came because he was already working with the crooks Carolyn was mixed up with, getting his hands on my memory stick would be his goal. He’d pounce on it. As would anyone else he sent. And if that did happen, wouldn’t it be better for me if they were satisfied with what they took? The only guy whose face I’d seen was dead. What good would it do them to waste time trying to find me once they’d recovered their prize?

  I took a deep breath and plugged the original memory stick and another new one into the laptop and set the contents to copy between them. I figured the laptop would get infected in the process, but I wasn’t too worried. The one I’d used at AmeriTel had still worked fine, even once the virus had taken hold.

  The file transfer took four minutes. That left eleven minutes before Weimann was due to arrive. Not much time to run to the other room, switch sticks, and get back to safety. I was wondering if I should just content myself with the original plan when my phone received a text.

  Traffic brutal. ETA now 12:15. Sorry! KW.

  I took that as a sign, said a silent prayer, and set off down the corridor with the freshly filled memory stick in my hand.

  Friday. Lunchtime.

  THE DOOR SWUNG OPEN, FIVE FLOORS ABOVE ME, AND A FIGURE appeared on my computer screen. Tall. Skinny. Slightly stooped. Shorter hair. But definitely Weimann.

  And he was on his own.

  He walked forward hesitantly, looking around, puzzled to find no sign of me. I could see his mouth moving, as if he was calling out, but no sound made it through to my computer. He shrugged. Then stepped over toward the desk. Stopped. And picked up the memory stick.

  He turned it over a couple of times, peering closely at it, near enough to the computer’s camera for me to make out the lines of curiosity creasing his face. Then he tossed it down, turned his back, pulled out his phone, and started typing.

  A couple of seconds later, my phone beeped.

  I’m here. Where are you?

  Just stepped out for a sec, I texted back. On my way back now. Please wait!

  WEIMANN WAS SITTING ON THE BED when I arrived a few minutes later. He was wearing jeans and a black, pin-striped jacket over a purple paisley shirt, like one Carolyn had bought me once. The ensemble didn’t suit him at all.

  “What the hell, Marc?” he said, before I could even offer him my hand. “I cancel a long-standing appointment and drive two hours to meet you, and you’re not even here?”

  “Karl, I’m sorry. There was something I had to check on. It was important, believe me, or I’d have been here when you arrived. Anyway, we’re both here now. This is going to be the start of a beautiful—and extremely lucrative—friendship, so let’s not argue. Would you like a drink?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Lunch, then? I could order room service.”

  “I didn’t come here to eat. Just tell me what you’re proposing, Marc. Twenty-five percent of what?”

  “OK. Here we go, then. Excuse the pitch. It’s a bit rough. I’ve not told anyone about this before, but you’re going to be blown away.”

  AS IT TURNED OUT, blown away wasn’t the best way to describe his reaction. Judging by his expression, anyway, and the sardonic grunt he greeted my description with. I couldn’t believe that deep down he’d failed to see the potential, though. Weimann was too smart. And too greedy.

  “And my part would be, what?” he asked, when I’d finished.

  “Bringing this piggy to market’ll involve all the usual steps. You’ve done it a dozen times yourself. You know what they are. I have people lined up for the specialist stuff. But in this case, there’s one extra thing that needs a little attention. Something unusual. I don’t have the time or the resources, so that’s where you come in.”

  “OK. Explain?”

  “This is between us, OK? Because I don’t want the unwashed masses talking about it. What’s happened is—and I know this sounds bizarre, but I’m not making it up—I’ve been accused of creating a virus. It’s like one of those bogus lawsuits people bring for the nuisance value. I can’t move forward with the real work till that’s dealt with, and I don’t want any delay. I want you to take care of it. Find out who did create the virus. Where it came from. How it spread. As much detail as possible. That’s up your alley, right? Everyone says you’re the best at cyber security, and all that stuff.”

  “Oh. OK. So, you do all the interesting work—and later on take all the credit—while I sweep up the shit that someone’s dumped at your door?”

  “I wouldn’t put it like that. It’s important work, and we’ll share the kudos—and the profit—just like I offered on the phone.”

  “No.” He got to his feet. “No deal. I’m not interested. Clean your own house. Because honestly, Marc, screw you. Who do you think you are? Your days of lording it over everyone else are coming to an end.”

  Friday. Early afternoon.

  I HAD NO IDEA WHAT MY NEXT MOVE WAS GOING TO BE.

  None. Not even a hint of a Plan B. All I could imagine at that moment was escape. Scenes from South America flooded my mind, but they were culled from TV shows rather than experience. I had no idea which city would be best. Which country, even. And now that I was thinking straight, I knew flying was out of the question, anyway. With Homeland Security on my case—and the police, and whoever else—I’d never make it through airport security.

  What about driving? How far away was Mexico? Or Canada? My desperation was getting the better of me when I heard my phone begin to ring, still in my pocket. I was in no mood to answer it, but the noise wouldn’t stop. Whoever was calling wouldn’t give up, either. Eventually I pulled the phone out, ready to silence it, but when I saw whose number it was, I paused. Then hit Answer.

  “Marc?” It was Weimann. “Thanks for picking up, buddy. Can we talk?”

  “About what?”

  “I want to apologize for how we left things. I was
way out of line.”

  I didn’t respond.

  “The truth is, Marc, I’ve been hanging on to your coattails for so long, there is a little resentment in me. I didn’t listen. I didn’t give you a chance. But now I can see I made a mistake. I’m calling to find out if I can fix it. I appreciate the gesture you were making. And if your offer is still on the table, I’d love to talk about it.”

  I still didn’t respond, but not because of any negotiating stance I was taking. Because I didn’t have the mental capacity to form any coherent sentences right then. I was too astonished.

  “Marc? You’ve gone quiet. Is that a no? Because I understand I screwed up. But, please. Don’t pile another mistake on top of mine. That won’t make things right.”

  “I know.” I finally found my voice. “And it’s not a no. I just lost signal for a moment.”

  “Great. Your offer stands?”

  “It does. Are you in?”

  “I am. With a couple of tweaks.”

  “Such as?”

  “The virus thing. I don’t want to get boxed into it. I’ll take care of it first, of course. But then I’ve got some ideas for the real project I’d like you to consider.”

  “I’m always open to ideas, Karl. Of course I’ll consider yours. But I’m not promising to run with them. It depends what they are.”

  “Good enough. They’ll sell themselves. Next thing? When you pitch to major clients, I want to be right there with you.”

  “You can be in the room. But I decide what we present. And how.”

  “OK. You’re the boss. Which leaves one last detail.”

  “Which is?”

  “Money. I want fifty percent.”

  “I’m hanging up now.”

  “No, wait. Forty.”

  “The offer’s twenty-five.”

  “Twenty-five’s not enough.”

  “Forty’s too much.”

  “Thirty-five?”

  “Twenty-eight.”

  “Thirty?”

  “Done. You buy the champagne.”

  “My house, an hour?”

  “I can’t. I’m still at the hotel.”

  “Leave now. You’ll make it.”

  “You said you were two hours away.”

  “I was. But I wasn’t at home then.”

  ——

  I TOSSED MY HASTILY packed suitcase in the trunk of the car, then paused. Could I trust Weimann? What if his change of heart was the result of another phone conversation? One with the AmeriTel guys. What if they’d told him to lure me to his place so they could finish what their crony had started back at mine?

  I didn’t like it, but there was only one way to find out.

  Friday. Afternoon.

  IF YOU SCALED DOWN A MAP OF WHERE I LIVE TO EIGHTY PERCENT, you’d end up with a decent facsimile of Weimann’s neighborhood. The lots were smaller, the trees were shorter, but the areas were definitely similar.

  I found Weimann’s house and turned in off the street, afraid there’d be police cars in the driveway. Or agents’. Or murderers’. But the car I did see surprised me. It was a Jaguar. Parked outside Weimann’s front door. The same model as mine. And the same color. Racing green.

  I rang the bell, jumping with every rustle from every bush.

  “Nice car,” I said, when Weimann finally appeared.

  “Thanks.” He turned to lead me through to his kitchen. “I wanted the supercharged one, but Renée balked at the cost. She made me go the pre-owned route, too. Women, eh? What can you do?”

  I didn’t reply. I was having too much trouble with the irony.

  “Can I get you a coffee?” he asked.

  “No, thanks.” I glanced around the room. The units and appliances were good quality, although it must have been a few years since they’d left the factory. The countertop was solid granite, but there was a hazy film all across the surface. A pile of empty pizza boxes was blocking the draining board, and there were half a dozen dirty mugs in the sink. “I already had too much, at the hotel.”

  He fixed a cup for himself and then directed me farther down the hallway—skirting around a heap of muddy sneakers and a half-dismantled golf cart—and into a room that was part office, part den. A few framed certificates and photographs dotted the walls, and a collection of six prints was lined up neatly in two columns above the larger of his two desks. The image was the same in all of them—an Apple computer monitor, ancient, from the mid-eighties—and each one had been overlaid with a different bold color.

  “I like the Warhol effect,” I said.

  “Thanks. It’s fun. It’s not an original Lichtenstein, though.”

  No shit, I thought, shifting a box of magazines from the least cluttered IKEA armchair in the center of the room and sitting myself down.

  “All right,” he said. “How do you want to play this? Shall we get started?”

  “Why wait?” I pulled the newly replicated memory stick out of my pocket. “Only, be careful with this. It’ll infect anything it comes in contact with.”

  “No problem.” He took the stick, crossed to his smaller desk, and lifted the lid on a laptop computer. “This is an old machine. I dug it out as soon as I got home. It doesn’t have Ethernet hooked up, and the Wi-Fi’s switched off. We can keep it completely quarantined until we know for sure what we’re dealing with.”

  WEIMANN WORKED WITH THE STICK and the laptop for thirty minutes, then spun his chair around to face me.

  “You’re making me earn my money with this one, Marc. I’ve tried everything. Every virus detector on the market, plus a couple that aren’t, and all the other tricks I know to make a naughty little program show its face. Nothing worked. If you hadn’t told me otherwise, I’d have sworn the stick’s clean.”

  “Clean’s the last thing it is. Whatever’s on there is new, and it’s clever. And we need to find out about it, or I could end up in jail.”

  “Don’t worry. It won’t come to that. I know a guy who can help.”

  “Oh? Who?”

  “Best you don’t know too much. We hooked up years ago. I can vouch for him. He owes me a couple of favors. OK, now, I’ve copied all the data onto the hard drive, just in case we need it, and I’ll run the stick over to him now. He’ll have something for us in a day or two, I would hope.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Not too far away.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “Better not. If he sees anyone he doesn’t recognize, he’ll bolt. You know how edgy these cyber nuts are. And he won’t be able to help us if he goes underground. Look, I won’t be gone long. In the meantime, make yourself at home.”

  “What if Renée gets back and finds me here? Won’t she think that’s weird?”

  “Renée left me, Marc.” He paused for a moment. “Seventeen months ago. I thought you knew. If anyone comes back and finds you, it won’t be her.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry, Karl. I didn’t know. What happened?”

  “Remember that theater company she joined? Well, she ended up screwing the director. I found out. Confronted her. And she chose that long-haired ponce over me.”

  “That’s awful. I’m truly sorry.”

  “Water under the bridge.” He shrugged. “Occupational hazard. We may rake in the dough, but it’s hard to compete with glamour, right? And power.”

  I was about to disagree, then I thought about my situation with Carolyn. And the photo of her and Weimann.

  “Karl, did you know that Carolyn had wanted to join that company, but Renée took her spot? Right back when it was getting off the ground?”

  “Of course. Everyone knew. But you didn’t want to lose her fat paycheck from AmeriTel. So you fixed it for Renée to get the job instead of her.”

  “I’m sorry. I never would have done it, if I’d known what would happen with her and this asshole director.”

  “Bygones.” He shrugged again. “Anyway, I’d have done the same thing, in your shoes.”

  “One more thing, Karl. Did yo
u tell Carolyn about it? What I did?”

  “No. But, Marc? I didn’t have to. She’s not stupid. She’s known all along.”

  TIME HAS NEVER SAT easily on my hands. Being cooped up alone in a stranger’s house was no exception and before long, like a pianist in a room with a Steinway, I gravitated to Weimann’s laptop. I was desperate to find out what was happening in the outside world. Had the body been found in my house? Did the police have any leads? How hard were they looking for me? But the computer wasn’t online. I couldn’t risk hooking it up, because of the virus. So I moved on to the next best distraction. The AmeriTel data.

  I found the files Weimann had copied from the memory stick easily enough. But that wasn’t all. He had a prototype of a product I’d abandoned mid-way through its development. The Dreadnaught. No one should have it but me. My first reaction was anger. But my second was more worrying. Weimann had a stolen version of an older program. The thieves who broke into my house had stolen my newest one. What if there was a connection?

  For every suspicion I quashed, another sprang into my head. It was like mental whack-a-mole, so to distract myself I fired up the Dreadnaught and used it to run some simple reports on the AmeriTel data. Nothing too profound—there wasn’t time—but the type of simple toe-in-the-water routines I usually did at the start of a consultation.

  Some clients are easy pickings. They have lots of closets, with lots of skeletons waiting to burst out. With others, I have to work a little harder to sniff out the juicy stuff. AmeriTel’s data put them in the second category. But well-hidden secrets are no less tasty than the low-hanging fruit. Often, it’s the reverse. And with my former employer, that certainly turned out to be true.

  It took time to dig it out, dust it off, and make sense of what I was seeing. But there was one tiny, innocuous entry amongst the tens of millions that—put in context—turned my understanding of recent events completely on its head.

  Friday. Late afternoon.

  WEIMANN GOT HOME NINETY MINUTES LATER AND CAME straight to his study with a bottle of Moët & Chandon in his hand.