by Dom Testa
The window was a different story. I pulled it open and confirmed the existence of the heavy-duty drain pipe I’d seen earlier. It ran from the roof to the garden area below, and was severely bolted into the stone wall that contributed to the fortress-style of the home. I opened my roller bag, removed the false bottom, and took out the tiny satchel that held my cat burglar goodies. No spy should ever be without one.
Back at the window I scanned the grounds in the dim light but saw no one patrolling. Everything was locked down and serene, and a stiff breeze did a nice job providing sound cover as it whooshed through the trees. Leaning out, I took hold of the drain pipe and slipped onto the side of the rock wall. For the first time since I’d invested this body I appreciated his smaller mass. The pipe, constructed to perform in a high-snow destination, held easily. In less than 60 seconds I monkeyed up to the roof and hauled myself over the edge. There, I lay prone for another minute, waiting for any reaction. There was none.
Keeping a low profile, I scampered to the far end where I knew the secret staircase ascended. A window on the north side was mostly shielded from below by two large pine trees, and leaning over the side I found the room on the other side dark. Zipping open my satchel I removed the glass cutter and suction clamp. I let myself down onto the tiny Juliet’s balcony — more a foothold than anything else, but perfect for my needs — and got to work. In about three minutes I’d removed the section of pane just above the window lock, reached inside, and flipped the lock open. From there it was easy to slide the window up. I was in.
Pulling out a small pen light I glanced around. As I’d suspected, it was an office, complete with maps on two walls, loads of heavy tech gear, and three desks, each with more than one monitor.
The maps got my attention first. One showed worldwide geothermal hotspots, another featured the United States with hundreds of marks to indicate wind farms, and a third had configurations that made no sense at all. I snapped photos of all three.
I spent a good fifteen minutes sifting through items on the desks. There was a note with Richter’s name scribbled at the top, and under it the name Parnell with two question marks. I had no idea who or what Parnell was. A LoGo employee? Another muscleman? A reminder for a dentist appointment?
Two other curious things popped up. One was a folder labeled P-Wv. It was stuffed with pages of what looked like coordinates. I’d studied cartography for a mission three years earlier and recognized map coordinates when I saw them. There were too many pages to photograph, so I took quick shots of the first ten.
The other item of interest was a drone. It sat on a table between two of the desks, and was quite large. Besides the traditional props you see on standard home-use drones, it had an oblong attachment along the bottom that seemed like an after-market addition. I poked around with it for a minute, but found no way of accessing the inside without breaking it. I took a collection of photos.
It was getting close to four o’clock. Since there might be early risers in this group I had to wrap up. I settled in front of the room’s main computer and pulled my satchel back out. Unplugging the keyboard, I spent a few minutes doing surgical work on the connector that slotted into the back. Once it was open, I inserted the tiny electrical components that would open up a whole new world to Q2.
Then I put everything back together again, covering up my cord invasion with glue and a dab of the perfect matching cord paint. You’d never know anyone had tampered with it.
All that was left was easing back out the window, then using another small kit to fit the cut-out window square back into place and get it properly sealed. That involved a substance similar to caulk, but crystal clear and strong as hell. The window was nearly pristine.
Back to the roof, back to the drain, back to my room. I had everything packed up in my roller bag and was back in bed by 4:35.
Look, I’ve seen plenty of spy movies and I’ve even read a few of le Carre’s novels. I get the whole defend your country mentality, and the need to stop knaves in their tracks.
But no writer or director has ever captured what I felt when I did the work. Yes, doing good is good. Serving your country is exceptional. You know what they all miss, though?
It’s damned fun. It’s a rush you can’t begin to describe. As Q2 agents we’re essentially adrenaline junkies times 1,000. Add the fact that you could catch a bullet at any time and it amps up that thrill even more. Take sky diving, bungee jumping, and hang gliding, roll them all into one experience, and that would be a good start to what I experienced climbing back down that drain pipe after having my way with the twins’ private enclave. A little part of me wanted to go roust smug Gillian out of her princess sleep and scream A-ha!
The bottom line? This job was a total kick in the pants and I couldn’t imagine doing anything else. Even the slow days were satisfying because you knew the good shit was coming. I’d get to be a bad boy soon, but in the name of the good guys. Hard to explain, but that’s the truth.
I think Fleming’s James Bond only did it to get laid. I did it for the jolt.
I’m sure I crawled into bed with a shit-eating grin on my face. I slept great.
Chapter Ten
Breakfast was incredible. I’m a French toast freakazoid, and a god obviously resided in the chateau’s kitchen. The convict who originally inhabited this body may have been a finicky eater, but I’ve found that food cravings skip along with me from shell to shell. Sure, his lame-ass body could ultimately reject the stuff I eat, but if you like peanut butter on pickles as John A, you will want that as John B.
Nutritionists might find this bit of appetite psychology helpful as they write about our national obsession with food. It’s in your thought patterns, not your cells.
Anyway, the French toast rocked and the blueberry syrup — homemade, of course — satisfied my sweet tooth. I’d definitely be requesting that from Christina’s kitchen when I got home.
Par for the course, Lucas talked and smiled, smiled and talked. Gillian was late to the table, picked at some scrambled eggs and yogurt, spoke little, and eyed me with utter disdain. I found myself wanting to say to her, “Hey, Gillian, if you’re trying something devious with our country’s power grid, at least make an effort of covering it up with civility.”
Since I was ostensibly there to learn about the Ormonds on a personal level, I steered the conversation back to their early lives. Lucas gladly spoke of their upbringing on two continents, relishing the prestige attached to his international education. One could assume he equated it with blatant superiority. I nodded at his lengthy curriculum vitae while pushing a large chunk of turkey sausage into my face and hoping the taste buds would play nice.
It couldn’t hurt to keep pressing, so I did. “Did your mother live with you overseas or did she stay in America?”
Gillian was about to answer, probably to remind me that dear old Mom was off limits, when Lucas jumped in.
“She was very involved with her charity work at home,” he gushed. “And besides, by the time Gillian and I were in Europe we were too old to need mothering.” And with that, they must’ve assumed the matter was closed.
“What kind of charity work?”
“Oh,” Lucas said, “mostly fundraising for arts programs and food shelters. They kept her quite busy.”
“And your father? Did he also work with these programs, or were they just your mother’s domain?”
Gillian rose from the table. “I have a lot to do this morning. I hope you’ve found out everything you need, Mr. Dean.”
I stood to shake her hand but by the time I was on my feet she was leaving the room. Lucas covered up the awkward moment with a bright smile and question for me. “What about your background? Where are you from?”
I mentally accessed the dossier on the fictional Conrad Dean. “Connecticut mostly, with summers in Toronto. Lots of family there.” For a moment I feared it was supposed to be Montreal. Keeping your covers intact isn’t as easy as you think.
“Gillian doe
sn’t like talking about your parents,” I said, returning the volley. “Not trying to be nosy, but just wondering why that might be. Am I ripping off some filial scab? If so, I apologize. This is just part of my job.”
He hesitated, perhaps unsure of how much he could say. “We, um, have always been forward-thinking as a family. Looking backward is unproductive.”
I frowned. “Our past predicts our future. And I’m here to possibly place a large wager on your future.”
His 100-watt smile returned. “And we appreciate that. I think my sister and I value the importance of past as it relates to the present. Our family upbringing doesn’t reflect on our role as LoGo executives nearly as much as our history of education and business does. She and I may have developed in the same womb together, but our personalities are distinct. She’s a very private person, very guarded.”
“I noticed.”
“Yes, well, at first she can be off-putting. But I promise you she has a large heart beneath that shield.”
I doubted that very much. I held back a smile as I pictured her tiny Grinch heart from the beginning of the cartoon.
We spent the next thirty minutes talking about his vision for the future of LoGo. Although he laid out a well-rehearsed manifesto of saving the Earth and providing energy for every person on the planet and blah and blah and even more blah, it all rang hollow. They were defined bullet points. Prospectus material. Canned hash. Boring.
Lucas and his sister, on the other hand, were not boring. Have you ever noticed that just a few short hours of conversation with someone can instill a pronounced distrust? In this case, it was distrust tinged with fear. I realized that I was talking with a sociopath, and one whose sibling may have skipped right over into the realm of psychopath. I banked all of that from just sitting and talking.
Granted, there were interesting tidbits from the third floor that may have contributed to the sense. But when I tried assembling all the pieces into some sort of picture, it kept screaming trouble. I didn’t believe for an instant that Lucas and Gillian Ormond had any intention of saving the world, at least not in the short term. Quite the contrary. The whistleblower from their own company had hinted at something destructive in their nature and their design. Just how destructive was still the big mystery.
I shifted gears. “Let’s talk about how LoGo has been received by the traditional power industry. You haven’t exactly been embraced by your oil, gas, and coal competitors.”
Another pause as Lucas Ormond measured his words. “No. I’d go so far as to say we’ve been rather despised.”
I raised an eyebrow. “That’s a strong word.”
“And it’s been a strong reaction, Conrad, from the well-entrenched power elite. It’s something my father took on from day one. Not only distrust, but outright aggression. Every single step he took to bring alternative energy into the mainstream discussion was blocked and defended by organizations that are deep in every respect: money, power, and influence. Especially political influence. And after more than a quarter century of hacking away, just when my father was breaking through, he was lost to us.”
There was a major subtext here. Detectives always scour the details of a case looking for that one key component of any big crime: Motive. Here was Lucas Ormond, perhaps unintentionally, hinting at a powerful motive behind their mysterious plan. It was the first time I’d seen anything besides a childlike smile on the face of the blond billionaire. Just below that gentle surface a current raged, pulling the young man along on a course of revenge and destruction.
We talked for another ten minutes and now I made sure to guide us away from the grave subject matter, back to something lighter, something to put Lucas at ease. I’d found out plenty. Now I just had to process it all.
It was time to go. I dished copious thanks on my host for a wonderful stay, making it clear I looked forward to visiting with him again soon. He beamed and thanked me, too. We shook hands. His grip was, again, clammy and lifeless. Gross. I never wanted to shake his hand again.
I packed up, found my Mercedes waiting near the front door, and drove straight back to the hotel in town. Followed, of course, by another mid-sized SUV. Black, naturally. Oh my god, how cute. They maintained the textbook three-cars-behind spacing, just like they’d been taught. I’m sure they’d wonder what I was doing at the hotel, but let ‘em sit outside and pick their noses while I went in and uploaded.
There were three hours left on the reservation, so I returned to the room to make sure I shared all my impressions from the late-night upstairs jaunt I’d taken at Chateau Ormond. I started by digitally transferring the photos and details from the tracer device I’d installed on one of the computers. Then I lay back for another upload, eager to save this morning’s chat with Lucas.
This time, though, I was much happier because I’d stopped first in the hotel gift shop and picked up a copy of Us Weekly.
By two o’clock I was back in the car, satisfied that everything was backed up. I dug out the Q2 bug-finder from my small pack and scanned the interior of the Mercedes. I had no doubt something had been planted.
I found it behind the rear-view mirror: a round, flat listening device. It looked like one of those lithium coin cell batteries. I laughed to myself.
To entertain any poor sap assigned to listen, I shuffled a playlist of show tunes and turned the volume up loud. I even whistled along with one or two that I knew.
Sometimes my job, as vital and dangerous as it is, can have silly diversions that bring me joy. Screwing with half-assed amateurs is one of those simple pleasures. I whistled and watched the SUV in my mirror, taking a few turns through residential areas before leaving Telluride. My tail did his best to follow casually.
Play time was over. Accelerating out of town, I shut off the music then wrenched the bug from its hiding place. Putting some space between us, I rolled down the window and dropped the little device onto the road. I pictured them furiously attempting to regain the connection. I grinned.
Once beyond the winding canyon I hit cruise control and prepared for the five-hour drive to the airport in Albuquerque. Halfway to Ouray, and apparently convinced I’d left town for good, the SUV pulled a u-turn and scurried back home.
I synced up with the satellite and called Poole.
“There’s something about the parents — both of them — that’s unsettling for our uber-wealthy twin weirdos.”
“I can dig deeper,” she said.
“Yeah. Dear ol’ Mom has got something about her they don’t want to talk about. And while you’re at it let’s look more into Niall’s death.”
“The plane crash? It was checked out by the FAA. An accident. Nothing suspicious according to the report.”
“I know, but look at it anyway. I can’t explain it, but I think both parents play into this. Whatever the hell this is. Maybe get someone from the second floor to snoop around. They never have enough to do, and they’re grossly overpaid.”
Poole had no idea how to respond to that last part. I had her conference Quanta into our chat and, once the boss was online, I moved on to some of the things I’d found at the chateau.
“I don’t know if it’s necessarily proof they’re planning to use pulse generation in an aggressive way, but they’re into the technology. Yes, it could be defensive, for protection.”
“But that’s not something you’d expect them to do on the sly,” Quanta said. “If anything, LoGo would want to share with their partners and investors that they’re proactive when it comes to guarding their technology.”
“True. Well, I tapped into one of those computers in the office,” I said. “It should be on channel 44.2.”
“It is,” Poole said. “They’ve been on it for some time today. Nothing suspicious yet, but it’s early.”
The tracer on that computer was pretty cool. It used the computer’s own power supply and relayed not only everything on the screen but every keystroke as well. Which was damned handy when it came to hacking passwords and such. Y
ou just matched up the keyboard maneuvers with what you saw on the screen and logged it all.
We want to believe we’re safe with all the tech products in our lives. It’s a joke. Someone somewhere — remember, there’s always someone somewhere — is a step ahead, regardless of your security. You can encrypt a password all day long, but when I have a record of everything you’re tapping onto a keyboard, I just know it. I can gather every sensitive document you can imagine, all while sitting there eating a cruller.
“There’s also the matter of the drone,” I added. “That wasn’t a toy. I doubt Lucas and Gillian played with toys even when they were kids. Well, Gillian might’ve had a toy ice pack.”
“An ice pack?” Poole asked.
“Never mind,” Quanta said with a sigh. “We’ve already sent the drone info downstairs. They’re working on that, too.”
“All right. What’s next, boss? I should be in Albuquerque a little before nine. Catch a plane home in the morning?”
“No,” she said. “Something fell into our lap. I need you to fly to Portland.”
“Oregon or Maine?”
“Oregon. Remember the whistleblower who was killed?”
“Yeah.”
“Turns out he had a girlfriend. She also worked for LoGo, but supposedly nobody knew they were seeing each other. After he died she quit and went to her parents’ home in Portland. And she’s ready to talk about what her boyfriend knew.”
Interesting. Although something occurred to me.
“Quanta, if we know about her now, then —”
“That’s right. They probably know. We’ve had her pack a bag and go stay in a hotel. We registered the room for her under another name and she’s tucked in for now. But I want you there to talk to her before she’s found.”