'You bet your ass whoever's running things is on this coast overseeing this little imbroglio.'
'Won't they just call the cops on me?'
'Maybe,' he said. 'You'll be betting that they'll want to talk to you first.'
'Betting my life and Ariana's.'
'Yes.'
On the leather blotter rested a satellite cell phone. Distractedly, he reached over and spun it. The Glock was digging into my kidney, so I pulled it free and set it on the coffee table.
He eyed the pistol, unimpressed. 'That's useless. This is a power and intel game. You're not going to win it with that. You'll probably just shoot your kneecap off.'
I picked up the glass again, as if it had magically refilled with Stoli. 'I want Legal to go down. And I want Ridgeline. The business stuff you can handle however you see fit.'
'You've got a long row to hoe.'
'That's why I need your help. The only benefit to being stalked by a global defense and technology company is that their rivals are also global defense and technology companies.'
'That we are. Fire with fire and all that, sure. But what do you expect us to do?'
'They stitched a tracking device into my wife's raincoat. They don't know we know about it. My wife managed to grab her raincoat as they snatched her.'
'Resourceful woman.'
'Yes, you two would get along just fine. Is there any way to track that device?'
'Not unless you had the signature of that particular signal.'
'Like its characteristics?'
'Yes, radio frequency, period, bandwidth, amplitude, type of modulation--all the usual suspects.'
'An acquaintance of mine swept our house for us, and he found the thing using a signal analyzer. Would that have recorded the signature?'
'Any signal analyzer worth a damn would have saved the signature in its library. Can you get the analyzer?'
'I have an idea how I might. But I . . . uh, I might need you to offer the guy a job.'
'He get fired?'
'Not yet.'
Kazakov nodded. 'I see.'
'I need to make a call. If I turn on my cell phone, can Ridgeline source where I am?'
'This isn't 24. It takes a good amount of time to track a signal. If they're looking. Keep it to a few minutes and you'll be fine.' He gestured to the balcony, but his eyes had already moved back to his copied cell-phone bill, the one I'd used to track him down. As I stood, I noticed that his stare had caught on some of the underlined numbers.
'Whose numbers are those?' I asked.
'Advocates,' he said, not elaborating. 'May I copy this as well?'
'You can have it.'
'You've done me an enormous service. Now I need to do a bit of damage control.' He gestured to the sliding glass door again, and I left him to his vodka and satellite phone.
'Help you?' The weak cell-phone connection did nothing to stifle Jerry's indignation. 'Jesus, don't you learn?'
'Not quickly.'
'I'm hanging by a thread over here after Mickelson found out I swept your house. I told you this shit better not come back on me with the studio, and here I am--an ass hair from fired.'
'You said you wanted to get back to real security anyway. I have a job lined up for you with North Vector.'
'Everyone's looking for you, Patrick. Cops, press, not to mention whoever you're tangled up in. Forget fired. How 'bout aiding and abetting?'
'You haven't watched the news today,' I told him. 'You don't know I'm on the run.'
Beyond the closed sliding glass door, Kazakov sat in his plush white bathrobe, satellite phone tucked between ear and shoulder, gesturing with aggressive precision. I set my hand on the balcony rail, looked out into a tangle of branches. I closed my eyes, breathed in rain and mud, waited for Jerry to decide my wife's fate.
'No,' he said slowly. 'I guess I haven't. What kind of job?'
'You can sit down with the CEO and pick one.'
'The CEO?' He was breathing hard. 'This better not be a ruse.'
'They have my wife,' I said. 'They have Ariana.'
He was silent. I checked my watch, eager to turn the phone back off.
'Tell me what you're asking for.'
We talked through the details, made arrangements, and signed off.
Immediately after I hung up, an Asian chime sounded. With dread, I clicked to open the cell-phone message.
BY NOON TOMORROW, YOU WILL LEAVE THE CD WITH THE VALET AT STARBRIGHT PLAZA.
The screen opened to a live shot of Ariana, bound to a chair. The background was blurry, but it looked like a small room. Her hair was loose and wild, one eye was black, and blood trickled from the edge of her lips. There was no sound, but I could tell she was screaming my name.
The feed vanished, replaced by block letters: TWELVE HOURS.
Then darkness.
I turned off the phone. My mouth was dirt dry, and I had to clutch the balcony rail until I could feel my legs back under me.
A memory came, vivid and unbidden--that first time I'd met Ariana at the freshman-orientation party at UCLA. Her lively, clever eyes. How I'd approached on nervous legs, gripping that cup of keg beer. My lame line--'You look bored.' And how she'd asked if I was making a proposition, an offer to unbore her.
I'd said, 'Seems like that could be the challenge of a lifetime.'
'Are you up to it?' she'd asked.
Yes.
Out on the balcony, the midnight cold had found its way through my clothes. I was shivering violently. Inside the hotel room, Kazakov set down his satellite phone and beckoned me.
I pried my hands off the balcony rail and started in.
Twelve hours.
Chapter 56
The lobby was spotless and gleaming. Even the marble ashtrays, standing obediently at the elevator doors containing nary a butt, looked as though they'd been polished with a silk handkerchief. It could have been a hotel or a country club or the waiting room of a Beverly Hills dentist. But it wasn't.
It was the Long Beach office of Festman Gruber.
The elevator hummed pleasantly up fifteen levels. A floor-to-ceiling wall of thick glass--probably ballistic-- rimmed the lobby, funneling visitors to the bank-teller window of the reception console. The security guard behind the window had a sidearm and an impressive scowl for 8:00 A.M. Behind him was a beehive of offices and conference rooms, also composed of glass walls, with assistants and workers scurrying to and fro. Aside from the dollhouse view, it looked just like any other business, depressing in its sterility. The front barrier muted everything beyond to a perfect silence. All that classified work, taking place right in the soundproofed open.
It didn't seem that the guard recognized me, but the bruising on my face said that I was out of place here among the Aeron chairs and plush carpet. My palms were damp, my shoulders tense.
Four hours until Ridgeline would kill my wife.
'Patrick Davis,' I said. 'I'd like to speak to the head of Legal.'
He pushed a button, and his voice issued through a speaker. 'Do you have an appointment?'
'No. Just give my name, and I'm sure he or she will want to see me.'
The guard didn't say anything, but his face showed he thought that to be improbable. I prayed that the cops wouldn't be summoned before I had a chance to talk to someone.
