someone coming after you.”
“I don't know why you think you can trust this guy. I think meeting him is a mistake.”
“I'm not trusting him. I'm being very careful, believe me. But I'll tell you what. You still have Obsidian and Hilzoy's notes on your laptop, right?”
“Right.”
“Go someplace and take the laptop with you. That'll be a kind of insurance for me if things go sideways.”
“Ben, seriously, I don't think this is a good idea. You're as exhausted as I am, maybe you're not thinking clearly.”
“Trust me, okay?”
“What about Sarah?”
For an instant, Ben's expression was genuinely sorry. “You mean…”
“No, not that. Forget about that. Is she in danger?”
“No more than you, and probably less. But I doubt she's going to listen to me right now.”
Alex sighed. “She's probably not going to listen to me, either.”
There was a pause. Ben said, “I'm sorry, Alex.”
Alex shook his head. He'd acted like a jerk at the hotel. It wasn't as though Sarah was his girlfriend. He'd never even had the courage to make a move on her, and he knew he never would. He'd just been jealous, that's all. But he didn't feel that way now.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” he said.
Ben cracked his knuckles. “No. I just don't see a better one. Go somewhere. Relax. I'll call you in just a little while.”
Ben left and Alex started to get dressed. He wondered where he should go. Another hotel? He was sick of hotels. And hell, he was so tired he could probably just put his head down at the library for a few hours.
He wanted to believe Ben could make everything right, but he couldn't. They'd killed two people for Obsidian. His own boss was part of it. They'd gotten into the patent office database, the law firm's filing system. These weren't the kind of people who could be talked out of what they were doing. Why did Ben think the fact that Alex was his brother was going to make any difference? It seemed more likely the connection would doom Ben than it would save Alex. Why couldn't Ben see that? And why couldn't Alex persuade him?
He pulled on a shirt and started pacing. Damn it, Ben was making a mistake. He thought about calling him and decided it would be useless. When Ben got an idea in his head, nobody could get it out.
He realized he was thinking only about what might happen to Ben. And then he realized something else: that's all Ben wanted him to think about. He didn't want Alex to be afraid for himself. He thought of the way Ben had led him gently from Katie's hospital room so many years before and wondered how they'd gone so wrong.
He kept pacing. What was he going to do, just sit around, hoping he was wrong, hoping Ben would somehow save the day?
This was crazy. He had to do something. He had to take a chance. He grabbed his cell phone and called Sarah.
He got her voice mail. “Sarah,” he said, “it's Alex. I'm sorry about this morning. Listen, I just saw Ben and he told me a bunch of things about what's going on that you need to know. And he's about to do something really stupid and I need… I need to figure out how to help him. Call me.”
He grabbed the laptop and headed out.
31
SQUEEZED
Ben drove into Palo Alto to reconnoiter. He hadn't been here in damn near a decade, and even if the layout hadn't changed, which assuredly it had, he couldn't trust his recollections. He had looked at the world differently when he was living here, and absorbed different things. Before he'd seen neighborhoods. Now he needed to see terrain.
He walked the grid of streets downtown, observing without any sentimentality the things that had changed and the things that hadn't. He paid particular attention to alleys and where they led, to which streets were one- way, to the positions of banks and jewelry stores and other places with security cameras. When he felt satisfied with his new familiarity with the tactical layout of the town, he started looking for a suitable place for a meeting. He found it in a restaurant called Coupa Cafe. It had a patio in front, set back from the sidewalk, sheltered under a portico supported by thick pillars. He stood in front of one of the patio tables and noted that he had a good view of the entrance to the Citibank across the street and two stores down, and that positioning himself behind one of the pillars would offer some cover and concealment from the street. The tables were all taken, but something would open up. If he had to, he'd make the opening himself.
He went inside. The restaurant was a long rectangle, with the window facing the street on one of the short ends, the coffee counter along one long end, and a painted wall opposite. The tables were crammed close together, and even though it was getting into late afternoon, the place was packed. There was a room at the rear, accessible through a large open doorway, only partially visible from the front. He walked back and found what he was looking for: a fire exit, not alarmed, locked from the inside. It led to an alley that connected with other alleys branching out in three directions. If things went south at the front of the restaurant, he could haul ass back here and vanish in the alleys.
He got in line to order a coffee and called Hort from his cell phone.
“I can't get up there,” he said. “I need you to come down here.”
“What do you mean? Where's ‘down here’?”
“Palo Alto.”
“What's wrong? Are you nervous?”
“I'm always nervous, same as you. I'll be in the Citibank on Ramona Street in Palo Alto, between University and Hamilton.”
“I see. Lots of cameras and tellers.”
“Something like that. It'll be comfortable for both of us while we sort this shit out. Is it just you?”
“Just me and a driver.”
“That's fine. Depending on traffic, should take you forty-five minutes. I'll be waiting.”
He clicked off and shut down the phone. He stood by the counter and sipped his coffee and waited. When the people behind the pillar started to get up, he went out and took the table for himself. It was a good position. His back was to the wall, he could see up and down the street, he was camouflaged by the people around him, and he had a good view of the Citibank.
He sipped and waited and watched the street. The people walking past all looked like natives: confident, prosperous, oblivious. He felt nothing in common with any of them. He was like an emigrant returning from some faraway country to the land of his youth, only to discover he had forgotten the language, the dress, the customs, the code. He didn't belong here anymore, if he ever had. He was a stranger to this place, and it was a stranger to him.
A green Hyundai pulled up to the curb across the street in front of the Citibank. The passenger-side door opened. A black man got out and walked inside. Even if he hadn't seen his face, Ben would have recognized him from the large shaved head, the broad shoulders, the proud stride bordering on a swagger. Hort.
Ben watched the driver. The bone structure was Asian and he looked about Ben's age, with close-cropped hair and eyes concealed by sunglasses. From minute movements of his head, Ben knew the man was checking his mirrors. Not someone you could sneak up on. Not someone who was just a driver. The backseat seemed empty, but it wouldn't have been difficult to place one or two men low enough to be invisible through the windows. Still, Ben doubted there was more here than he could see. Atrios had been operating alone. He didn't think they had immediately deployable reinforcements.
