John nodded to keep him talking.
“We are willing to go to extraordinary lengths to acquire that which we consider to be ours. If you were able to persuade Ms. Maxwell that the item should be ours, then I’m certain we could arrange a worthy finder’s fee for yourself.”
“Above what you’re willing to pay her for the item?”
“Certainly,” he said. “We have no reason to deny Ms. Maxwell a profit, even though it is totally unearned. You, however, will be earning your profit.”
John nodded again. “Just what size finder’s fee are we talking about here?”
“That can be negotiated, but let’s start with the equivalent of five years’ salary.”
“You know how much I make in a year?” John asked.
“I know how much the Blalock Agency reported on their taxes last year. It is a respectable figure.”
John didn’t ask how he’d gotten his information. The IRS computers were about as easy to enter as a nun’s dormitory room after midnight, but bribing an official or hiring a code breaker were easily within Mr. Hosokawa’s means.
“That sounds like a generous offer, Mr. Hosokawa. I can’t make any promises, but I will see what I can do.”
“Make no mistake, Mr. White,” he said. His voice grew even softer than before. “Our displeasure can be even greater than our pleasure.”
John nodded. “Message received and understood. Do you have a number where I can reach you?”
Hosokawa’s left hand dipped into a pocket and came up with a business card. He slid it across the table. John palmed the card without reading it.
Hosokawa stood, and the driver appeared at his elbow.
“Don’t take too long in responding, Mr. Blalock. Events are rushing down time’s highway, and I fear it is a one-way road.”
John didn’t have an answer to that.
Hosokawa left without even the eyebrow dip.
***
Holdren’s cell phone buzzed as they were leaving the offices of the NCIX at San Francisco’s federal building.
A stiff ocean breeze swept through the crowded streets. It temporarily removed some of the smell of car exhaust, rotting garbage, and human urine. San Francisco was once again going through a period of social permissiveness that allowed bums to fill the streets, defecating in alleys, living on park benches, and clogging the sidewalks with their wasted lives.
Holdren had never had patience with the miscreants that made up the lower rungs of modern civilization. He supposed all ages had suffered the disease-ridden vermin, but in most ages, their very diseases helped thin the herd. In modern America, a permissiveness called social welfare maintained their numbers through feeding, clothing, housing, and caring for the teeming vermin.
He flicked open the phone. “Holdren.”
“This is Kirby again, sir. Maxwell is logged onto the Web.”
“Do you have a location?” Holdren asked.
“Downtown, near the Trans America building.”
“We’re close. Do you have anyone closer?”
“Yes, sir. There’s a car not two blocks away.”
“Excellent. Get them on her. Have them keep her in sight until I arrive, but under no circumstances are they to move in before I get there.”
“Yes, sir.”
Holdren returned the phone to his pocket.
“This time, we have her,” he said.
CHAPTER 17
Darkness had swept over the city by the time John reached The Gleaning Cube. Its cool embrace was comfort to many, fear to others and opportunity to the slime inhabiting the city’s more notorious areas. For John, it was simply night. That half of the day that provided cover from prying eyes, solace to eyes weary of the world’s cruelty, and as always, freedom. However, this night was business, and he found no pleasure in its embrace.
He parked near the end of the small wharf behind The Gleaning Cube, backing the car in only after his headlights illuminated every niche where someone could hide. The encounter with the Frenchman had reminded him that caution was a lifetime pursuit. When caution lapsed, death soon followed.
John got out and activated the car’s alarm. It wasn’t one of those noisy things that honked the horn and flashed the lights. No, if someone was trying to get into his car he wanted to know about it before they knew he knew. His alarm system beeped his remote and signaled what caused the alarm, whether it was the motion sensor, the hood or trunk lock, or one of the doors. If the ignition was tampered with, another signal would notify him it was being hot-wired.
John took another careful look around the wharf before he walked to the back door of the bar. It was unlocked. He opened it, slipped inside, and locked it behind him. You could never tell when the door would be locked, but there was a buzzer that usually brought the bartender or the bar-back.
He eased down the hall until he reached the men’s room. A quick check told him it was unoccupied. He did the same at the ladies’ room and the storeroom, which also served as an office. Both were empty.
The jukebox played not-so-modern jazz.
John checked the bar from the shelter of the hallway. There were a couple of customers he recognized, but, for the most part, the clientele at this hour were tourists. He entered smoothly and went to the bar, taking note that no one appeared interested or even surprised that he had come out of the back. The bar was small enough that it was possible to keep up with everyone even when crowded, but this crowd was only interested in themselves.
“Evening, Becky,” he said to the bartender.
Becky was a student at Stanford. She had a scholarship that paid her books and tuition, but not for her room and board. For nearly two years, she had worked afternoons and early evenings at the Gleaning Cube. They’d talked on several occasions, sometimes at length. Tonight her auburn hair was pulled back in a French braid. John recognized it as
