Germ Page 21

  She pushed her hair back with both hands, feeling the grit and grease from the undercarriages she’d crawled beneath. She walked slowly into the bathroom and pressed her palms against the countertop, leaning over the sink. One of the two fluorescent tubes above her flickered madly, transforming her reflected face into something from a carnival fun house. The brown of her eyes, eyebrows, and hair, the maroon of a small cut on her cheekbone she didn’t remember getting, appeared black against the white of her skin.

  She splashed cold water on her face, then did it again. She poured it over the back of her neck, ran streams of it into her hair. Yes. Her skin thirsted for the water’s briskness, its energizing purity. She threw her arms back to let her jacket fall to the floor, followed by her cream blouse. Water cooled her chest, streaked over her belly. The next thing, she was naked under the icy jets of the shower. The cold robbed her breath but ignited her mind. In minutes, she felt new, ready.

  Then she added heat to the stream and lathered soap over her body and shampoo into her hair. She leaned against the tiles and watched the suds spiral down the drain until the water was clear. A sharp toss of her head snapped the water from her hair, and she stepped out. In the mirror, her skin glowed a healthy pink.

  Okay, she thought. Time to get to work.

  She sat cross-legged on the bed, the computer in her lap.

  She called up the web site Bonsai had given her. It was blank except for a single rectangle in the middle of the screen that read CLICK ME. She did and was prompted to enter a pass phrase. The third one she entered caused the words in the box to change to PLEASE wait. She worked a towel over her moist hair. She hoped that Bonsai had been able to decipher the chip and that it contained enough evidence to end this thing.

  He worked out of a home office in Morrison, Colorado, a quaint tourist town in the Rocky Mountain foothills west of Denver. She pictured him there now, playing his computer keyboard with the vigor of a virtuoso pianist. In fact, he bore a fair resemblance to a young Beethoven: wild hair, fiery eyes, stern mouth. She assumed the acne had cleared up by now. When he typed, fingers blurring over the keys, his head bobbed spastically to a tune only he could hear.

  A minute later she wondered what she was waiting for, if a glitch would keep her waiting forever. Not like Bonsai, but nothing was sure with computers or the Internet, regardless of the skills of the person trying to tame it.

  Then a voice came through the speakers. “Julia?”

  “Bonsai! Did you crack Vero’s code?”

  “Nope.”

  Her stomach lurched nauseously.

  “Nothing to crack,” he continued.

  “What?”

  “It’s not encrypted. It’s a new type of digital media, very cutting-edge. High-resolution, lightning-fast rendering, incredibly dense code. It requires an unholy amount of computing power to drive it. What compact disks are to eight-tracks, this thing is to anything on the market today.”

  “So what, I need special hardware?”

  “Not anymore. I linked with some buddies at MIT’s computer lab. After some trial and error, they were able to supply me with a program that converted this code to one that a top-of-the-line Pentium can handle.”

  “So what’s on it? What kind of files?”

  “Mostly video. You lose quite a bit of resolution in the conversion process, so it’s grainier than the original, and the image stutters a little, but you can see it okay. What kind of brain you running?”

  “The Bureau’s best. Custom configured to power some pretty incredible satellite communications software.”

  “The clock-speed has to be fast, Julia. Nothing you can pick up at Sears. I mean—”

  “Prototype Athlon two-gig processor, two gigs of RAM, a gig dedicated to video rendering, and a half-tera hard drive.”

  “Yow! Okay, then. I’m ready to send when you are.”

  “I need another favor first.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “Hack into the Knoxville Police Department and the Tennessee State Criminal Investigation Division for any pending investigations of clone-phone dealers in the 423 area code. Make sure it’s not a sting operation, just an investigation. I also need the name of one of the dealer’s customers. Cross-reference it with recent busts; I don’t want the dealer talking to the guy. Doable?”

  “Consider it done. VOIP me in thirty minutes.”

  fifty

  Atropos considered the possibility that his prey had changed hotels, but dismissed it. They probably thought the Oak Ridge ruse was evasive enough. If they had gone somewhere else, the chances of finding them without his employer’s help was slim. This place was the best lead he had.

  He turned right onto Houston Street, which intersected Broadway Avenue at the Motel 6 where the cabbie said he’d dropped them off. His eyes darted over the L-shaped structure, taking in the ground-level breezeway and housekeeping cart parked in front of an open door on the second-floor walkway. Continuing past, he noted the alley that separated the motel from residential backyards. The small, opaque windows of bathrooms dotted this side of the building: each a point of egress. He’d watch for one of them to come out for ice or snacks or to use a pay phone. But if he had to hit the room, he’d have to move hard and fast: no return fire, no retreat.

  He made a U-turn at the next intersection, pulling to the curb when he came abreast of the motel. The office was visible through the glass of a station wagon parked in front of the room closest to him. He could barely make out what appeared to be vending machines in the shadowy breezeway. A bright square of sunlight glowed like a movie screen where the breezeway opened up on the other side of the motel. He stared for a long time, looking for the silhouette of a head to break out from the sharp lines of the machines. Satisfied that the three had not posted a sentry there, he shifted his gaze to the cars in the parking lot. One of his prey could have broken into a car to keep watch. That it appeared they had not taken such precautions confirmed his suspicion that he was dealing with amateurs, despite the woman’s position as a federal agent. She was accustomed to hunting, not hiding.

  Approaching the office from the front seemed safe, but first he would inspect the surrounding area: Where were the nearest police cruisers? The likely avenues of escape? Places where his quarry could hide should they evade his attack, and where he could hole up if something went wrong?

  He reached for the gearshift lever on the steering column, and a glimmer against the matte of his gauntlet caught his eye. Instantly he knew the cause and reached for a handkerchief in the leather pouch around his waist. In his anxiousness to get to Maryville after interrogating the cabbie, he’d neglected routine maintenance. He wiped at the glimmer first, then rubbed vigorously over and between each spike and each finger. He tossed the cloth into the passenger seat, where it landed soiled-side up: thick red smears against the sun-brightened white.

  He rolled away from the curb with one last look at the motel. As he turned onto Broadway, he began scrutinizing every person, vehicle, building, and passageway he saw.

  Bonsai came online as soon as Julia selected the click me

  button.

  “So, anything for me?” she asked.

  “Do hackers like computers?” He explained the information he’d found in the Knox County Sheriff’s Department database.

  She wrote two names and a phone number on a notepad. “You’re brilliant. I’ll get back to you when I’m ready to receive the data from the memory chip.” She shifted on the bed and tucked a bare foot under her bottom. She caught a whiff of something unpleasant in her dirty clothes and ignored it. It would have to be good enough to have clean hair, dry now and brushed loosely back from her face. She pulled the room’s phone off the nightstand and dialed the number Bonsai had supplied.

  “Sky Signs,” a male voice announced.

  “I need some phones.”

  “We do skywriting, lady. Weddings, birthdays, something to cheer—let Sky Signs write it in the stratosphere.”r />
  “Cute.”

  “Thanks for calling.”

  “Whoa, I still need some phones.”

  “I told you, we don’t do phones.”

  She glanced at the notepad. “That’s not what Aaron Horvitz told me.”

  A pause.

  Bingo.

  “Who?” the man asked flatly.

  “Thought Aaron mentioned he was a good customer of yours … Colin, right? Maybe I heard wrong.”

  “Gimme your name and number.”

  She did, and the line went dead. She shot out the door and across the parking lot to the pay phone she’d visited before checking in with Bonsai. It was one of those boothless phones, encased in a blue egg-shaped shell. She tucked her head close to the phone, hiding from passersby on the street behind her. Mr. Colin Dorsett was undoubtedly trying to reach Aaron Horvitz to vouch for her. Sad thing, though: according to Bonsai, police had taken Horvitz into custody two nights ago for discharging a firearm into the foot of a rival drug dealer during a bar fight. She was betting that Horvitz had more pressing concerns than apprising his supplier of stolen and reprogrammed cellular phones of his new residence in the county clink. The pay phone began ringing.

  “Yeah?” she answered.

  “Aaron ain’t answering.”

  “So?”

  “So I don’t do business with strangers.”

  “Look,” she said, sharp. “Aaron said his name was good as gold with you. He’s not going to be too happy to find out it ain’t.”

  Dead air, then: “Whaddya want?”

  “Four flip phones with fully juiced batteries, a car power cord, a USB adapter.”

  He spit out a colorful word. “You starting a telethon?”

  “Something like that. While you’re at it, I need a few others things. I’ll make it worth your while.” She told him what she wanted.

  The man reluctantly agreed and quoted an extravagant price. He was trying to allay his concern with cash.

  “Fine,” Julia said. “Bring them to the Hungry Farmer on Henley Street at five.” Their taxi had passed the restaurant on their way out of Knoxville. She knew through Bonsai that the cops were onto Dorsett’s clone-phone business. She couldn’t risk their seeing her at his counterfeit storefront.

  “Hey, I don’t make house calls, lady. I don’t care who you know.”

  “Tell me business is booming after 60 Minutes ran that piece on clone-phone crackdowns. No way, buddy. Make a swing by the Farmer for me, or I’ll spend my money somewhere else.”

  It’s what eventually got them all: greed.

  “All right, five o’clock, but I ain’t coming in. I’ll be driving a red convertible Camaro. Come out when you see me, cash in hand.”

  “See you then,” she said, sweet as candy.

  fifty-one

  Allen just didn’t get it, and Stephen shouldn’t have been surprised. He shook his big head and steered the van onto Broadway Avenue. After the Vega, it was a pleasure to drive such a smooth-running machine; that he actually fit in it was icing on the cake.

  “It’s not like I assaulted the guy,” Allen said, continuing their argument.

  “You said his van was a piece of—”

  “That’s called negotiation.”

  “You were antagonizing the man!” A light turned red, allowing him to turn the full force of his gaze on his brother.

  “Oh, bull,” Allen countered snidely, which was really no counter at all. “He didn’t take offense.”

  “He almost decked you.”

  “I would have let him if it lowered the price.”

  “How can you spend so much money and be so cheap at the same time?”

  “How green do you want it?”

  Stephen glared at him a moment, then realized he was talking about the traffic light and accelerated through the intersection.

  “Besides, he could have told us to take a hike if he didn’t like my attitude,” Allen said.

  “Some people don’t have the luxury you do to turn their backs on cash. Not that you ever have.” It was a wonder they had come from the same family. The next light turned yellow, and he slowed for it. He seemed to have caught the red side of Broadway’s traffic-light cycle. Fortunately, they were only a few blocks from the motel.

  Abruptly, Allen fell to the floor between the two front captain’s chairs. “Turn your head to the left!” he yelled, motioning wildly in that direction. His terrified expression compelled Stephen to obey.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Don’t look, but the motel …”

  He flicked his vision at the Motel 6, catty-corner on the right. The massive figure of the Warrior filled the open office doorway. He had his head cranked around, looking into the parking lot, toward where Stephen waited for the light to turn green. Stephen turned his head away. He felt the skin on his arms rise rapidly into goose bumps. There were maybe fifty yards between them. The Warrior could look right at him if the thought crossed his mind.

  A horn behind him blared.

  “Oh—” Green light. He glanced over. The Warrior was talking to someone in the office. Stephen made a panicked decision to turn away from the motel, instead of driving past it. He checked for cars in the left-turn lane, signaled, and edged into the intersection. A pickup was approaching from the other direction, and he braked for it, realizing too late that he could have darted across ahead of it. If a siren erupted from the van and flashing lights sprang up on its roof, he would not have felt more exposed. Another car pulled out from a liquor store, filling the gap between the truck and a knot of cars racing forward from the intersection a block away.

  “Come on, come on,” he said under his breath.

  “Just go!” From his position on the floor, Allen was blind to the traffic.

  Stephen hunkered low in the seat and looked over. The Warrior

  had come out of the office. He was standing in the sunlight, squinting at the cars in the parking lot.

  The car behind him honked again. Stephen jumped. The Warrior turned to look. He put his hand against his brow to block the sun. The horn blared again, longer. Now the Warrior was striding forward, across the motel parking lot, directly toward Stephen.

  Why is this guy honking? Can’t he see the traffic?

  He realized the rear of the long van was blocking the lane that went straight through the intersection. Deciding to turn had been a mistake.

  He calculated he could cut through the traffic behind a car and pray the oncoming drivers were attentive enough to slam on their brakes hard enough and fast enough to avoid colliding with him. He saw an opening and knew there wasn’t room. He was going for it anyway.

  Dear Lord, don’t let anyone be hurt.

  He moved his foot off the brake and glanced quickly at the Warrior, thinking he may have to duck away from a gunshot. He was gone. Stephen jammed the brake pedal. Then he spotted him: staring into a parked Toyota. The Warrior moved around it to examine the interior of the next parked car. He seemed to have discounted the commotion in the street as being none of his concern.

  Stephen closed his eyes, let out a long breath.

  “What? What’s happening?”

  “Nothing. We’re outta here.” The light had turned yellow, stopping the surge of oncoming cars. Stephen roared across and into a residential neighborhood.

  Allen grunted as he began pulling himself up.

  “Stay down, Allen!” Stephen said, urgent, wide-eyed. There was something about his brother sprawled on the floor of the van that lifted his spirits. He turned his head to hide his smile.

  The roar of a big engine and the squeal of tires beckoned

  her to the window. Pistol in hand, she pressed against the wall, flicked her head around the sill, and pulled it back again. A dark blue conversion van, idling directly in front of the room, not parked. Had to be the guys. But why the Jeff Gordon theatrics? A car door slammed. Allen ran around the front of the van. She holstered her weapon and swung the door open.

  “Le
t’s go!” he said, still outside. “The Warrior! He’s at the Motel 6.”

  “That was fast. He’ll know we didn’t check in.”

  “Then he’ll start checking around.” He was grabbing the few items he and Stephen owned, tossing them into the drugstore bag.

  “He may not be alone,” she said, disconnecting computer cables with one hand, pushing components into the gym bag with the other. Allen stepped into the bathroom, used his forearm to sweep whatever was on the counter into the bag, and followed Julia out of the room.

  Stephen pulled away before she had the side door shut, and that was fine by her. He bounded over a curb onto Broadway, jostling her headfirst into one of the plush rear seats. For a while she watched out the tinted rear windows for a vehicle pulling up fast or following at a consistent distance. Nothing.

  “You saw only the Warrior?” she asked.

  “Isn’t he enough?” Allen had a smudge on his cheek, but his hair was perfect. It came to her that she’d never seen it any other way, even after crawling out from under the car.

  “I need some navigation,” Stephen said.

  “Knoxville.”

  “You gotta be kidding. The airport?”

  “Hungry Farmer Restaurant. I’ve arranged to pick up some new phones, ones that can’t be traced back to us.”

  “And then?”

  “And then we find out who wants us dead so badly.”

  Neither man had seen her withdraw her pistol, and both jumped when she jerked the slide back and let it return with a resounding kachink!

  fifty-two

  The van was perfect. Besides tinting its windows, someone had put curtains over the side and back windows. Curtains also separated the front seats from the rear of the van, but were now pushed to the sides. A foot-wide board could be placed on supports so that it spanned the width of the van directly in front of the rear captain’s chairs, or stowed under the seats. A mattress on a plywood board took up the last four feet of the interior. Julia could have done without the stench of cigar smoke, but by the time they reached the parking lot of the Hungry Farmer, she had the table cluttered with computer gear and had forgotten all about the repugnant odor.