CHAPTER 55
A lex Z designed business cards for Gage and Blanchard and purchased pay-as-you-go cell phones. Gage was Mr. Green of Technology Brokers. Blanchard was Mr. Black of Detector Consultants. “Good morning, Mr. Black,” Gage said twenty-four hours later, as Blanchard sat down in the passenger seat of the rental car outside the Embarcadero BART Station in San Francisco. “I like your suit. But isn’t black a little cliche for a conspiracy?”
“It’s my funeral suit. You don’t know what a relief it is to be dressed up and not to be going to one, or the opera. And it still fits me as long as I don’t button it.” He sighed. “I thought I’d shrink as I aged but discovered Ben amp; Jerry’s just about when that was supposed to happen.” He patted his stomach. “Cherry Garcia.”
“Did you practice your part?”
“I didn’t need to.” Blanchard flashed a grin. “You’re used to fake people who play fake parts. I’m a real person playing a fake part.” He peered over at Gage.
“But there’s one thing that bothers me.”
“Shoot.”
“Isn’t this entrapment?”
“It’s only entrapment when the police do it. When we do it we’re just coconspirators.”
“My wife won’t be too pleased to hear me referred to as a coconspirator.” He laughed, then slapped Gage on the knee. “On the other hand, it could spice up the bedroom a bit. Maybe you can teach me gangster talk.”
“Maybe I’ll introduce you to a real gangster.”
“Maybe not. I think I’ll stick with the fantasy.”
“Here’s a little reality.” Gage pointed at the dashboard. “In the glove box you’ll find a cell phone, business cards, and a pen in a blue case.”
Blanchard removed the items and put the cell phone and cards into his coat pocket. He smiled as he inspected the pen. “It’s a transmitter, just like in the movies. What’s the range?”
“Fifty yards.”
“Maybe I can tweak it a bit for you later.”
Gage cast Blanchard a mock disapproving glance. “Are you done with the microwave?”
Blanchard drew back. “Whose side are you on?”
“Neither. I don’t get involved in domestic cases. It’s safer.”
The professor scanned the road ahead as Gage took the Highway 101 on-ramp. “Where’s our friend Mr. Matson meeting us?”
“A hole-in-the-wall diner in South San Francisco.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means he watches too much television.”
Gage and Blanchard rode in silence until they reached the Grand Avenue exit, halfway between the 49ers’ stadium and the airport.
“Give me the pen,” Gage said.
Blanchard removed it from his pocket and handed it over.
“I want a clean tape. So don’t say anything after I turn it on until we meet him. And then don’t say anything after the meeting ends, until we get back to the car.”
“Okay.” Blanchard licked his lips, and swallowed. “I’ll follow your lead.”
Gage looked over and smiled. “Don’t worry, you’ll do fine.”
“Just a few butterflies.”
“Play yourself. You’re the good guy in this-and don’t react to what I do. I’ll probably need to scare him. Remember, it’s just acting.”
Blanchard nodded.
“I’ll do an introduction as we get close. Date, time, and what we expect to happen. It’s for our protection and to use as evidence.”
Gage parked down the block from the cafe, then did the tape introduction.
As they entered the cafe, Gage spotted Matson sitting alone in a booth at the back. A few of the tables were occupied by what appeared to be regulars. Matson was dressed in a pink Izod golf shirt overlaid with a tan sweater vest. Gage caught Matson’s eye as they entered.
“I’m Mr. Green and this is Mr. Black,” Gage said after they sat down. Matson slid his unopened Wall Street Journal toward the wall. Gage and Blanchard then reached across the table and handed Matson their business cards.
Gage looked hard at Matson. “You make sure nobody followed you here?”
Matson nodded. “I’ve been driving around for hours. I went all through the Presidio and Golden Gate Park and Chinatown, and stayed off the freeway coming back down.”
Gage signaled the waitress and they turned their coffee cups right side up.
“Who goes first?” Matson asked.
“Me.” Gage glanced around the half-empty cafe, then leaned forward and crossed his forearms on the table. “As I told you on the phone, one of your competitors is interested in obtaining certain technology you possess.”
“Which one?”
“If I told you that, you’d cut me out. Right?”
Matson smiled. “It crossed my mind.”
“That wouldn’t be a good move. You’d lose your insulation.” Gage jabbed his own breastbone hard enough to make a thump. “And I’m your insulation.”
Matson’s smile faded.
“Suppose somebody figures out where my client got it?” Gage pointed at Matson. “You want a trail back to you?”
Matson shook his head.
Gage leaned back and spread his hands for a moment. “So what if it gets traced to me? I’ll already be Mr. White or Mr. Blue or Mr. Orange the second this deal is done.” Gage locked his eyes on Matson. “You understand?”
Matson swallowed, then nodded.
“So we’re not going to play any games,” Gage said.
“No. No games.”
They fell silent as the waitress arrived to fill their cups.
Gage tilted his head toward Blanchard after she walked away. “Mr. Black here will tell me what the technology is worth.”
Matson looked at Blanchard, whose face remained impassive, then back at Gage. “What if he’s wrong?”
“He’ll be right. When he’s done looking at the devices he’ll give me a number. It’ll be my only offer.”
“What if I don’t like it?”
“Then we never met. But you need to think about something.” Gage paused until he saw a glimmer of bewilderment in Matson’s eyes. “How many Mr. Greens have come knocking on your door?”
“Well…” Matson looked back and forth between them, then chewed on his thumbnail before finally focusing his eyes on Gage. “How do I get paid if we do the deal?”
“That’s up to you.”
Matson was quick to answer. “I want cash.”
Gage tapped his forefinger on the table. “Cash will cost me ten percent. I’ll need to deduct it from your end.”
“That’s a little steep.”
“It’s also a little risky. Money laundering will get me a lot more time than a little trade secrets beef.”
Matson’s eyes darted around the cafe, as if he was expecting FBI agents to spring from behind opened newspapers.
