Smart.
Kent drove past, along with five or six other cars.
Natadze would be looking for people stopping behind him, so that was Kent’s only real choice.
Half a block ahead was a big truck with a piano on a hydraulic lift parked in front of a music store. Kent pulled in behind it.
He saw Natadze edge back out into traffic. Kent slouched in his seat, then lay on his side as Natadze’s car approached.
Kent pulled away from the curb, four cars behind Natadze. Too many. If his quarry got through a light turning yellow ahead of him, he’d be screwed.
Kent moved over one lane and sped up.
He passed Natadze on the man’s left, got a couple cars ahead, and then pulled over in front of him.
A front-tail was risky, but at this point, it was all risky.
He picked his virgil and thumbed a programmed button. That got him into Net Force’s secure database.
“ID Colonel Abraham Kent confirmed,” a woman said. “Query, sir?”
“I need information on an automobile license number,” he said. He rattled off the plate number. “It’s probably a rental car. Renter ID and local residence, please.”
“One moment, please.”
As Kent approached the next intersection, he watched Natadze in the outside rearview mirror. Kent went through the green light.
Natadze stopped, even though the light was still green.
Drivers behind Natadze honked their horns. Probably called him some foul names, too, though Kent couldn’t hear that.
Kent watched the traffic signal and Natadze’s car in his mirror. The light turned yellow. Just as it turned to red, Natadze stomped on the gas and burned rubber through the intersection.
Anther smart move. Anybody following him would also have to run the red light and Natadze would be watching for that.
Nobody did, because nobody else was following him.
“The car is an Avis rental, checked out at the San Francisco airport this morning at 6:16 A.M. The driver’s license says that his name is Fernando Sor, a Spanish national, and the local address on the rental agreement is the Hotel Alhambra in Lucas Valley. However, a cross-check of the address given shows that there is no such hotel there — or anywhere else in Lucas Valley.”
“Thank you.” Kent recognized the phony name — a classical guitarist, one whose works had been featured in the concert he’d attended just before Natadze had broken into his room that night.
Not that it was any help.
“Does it say where and when he is supposed to return the rental car?”
A beat, then, “Yes, sir. At the San Francisco airport, tomorrow morning.”
“Can you check and see if Fernando Sor is booked on any flight leaving San Francisco tomorrow?”
Kent couldn’t stay where he was. Sooner or later, Natadze would turn, and by the time Kent made it around the block to catch up to him, he could be gone. He slowed, and as he did, swapped the Giants baseball cap for a Seattle Mariners cap and a different pair of shades.
Behind him, Natadze had moved into the center lane.
“Sir, Fernando Sor is booked on a Left Coast shuttle to Los Angeles at 9:40 A.M. tomorrow.”
Kent nodded. “Thanks again. I appreciate it.”
He clicked the virgil off and dropped it onto the seat. Well. That was something. If he lost Natadze, he had a place to look later. Of course, that flight information could be bogus, but it was what he had. If Natadze didn’t think anybody was following him, then maybe it was valid.
Natadze passed Kent on the left.
Kent pretended he was a delivery man with a stack of books and magazines in the back of the van, just a guy doing his job. The intel op who had taught him how to follow and spy on people had told him that such an attitude made a difference. If you looked at your subject — or didn’t look at him — as an operative following him, a wary man might detect something in your posture. People in the game had a sixth sense, some of them, and by the act of pretending you weren’t watching them, they might pick up a subliminal clue that you were doing just that. If you were just a guy on your way home, then you weren’t ignoring the quarry or concentrating on him — he was nothing to you one way or the other, and he might believe that.
It had seemed weird to Kent at the time, but the few times he had tried it in practice sessions, it had worked, so he followed that advice every chance he could.
Natadze drove past.
It went that way for fifteen more long and nerve-wracking minutes. A couple of times, Kent was sure Natadze had spotted him, but apparently not, because eventually, Natadze wound up at a Night’s End Motel, where he pulled into the parking lot.
Kent parked his van just past the motel’s entrance, got out, and quickly walked to where he saw Natadze park and alight from his car. Natadze took the guitar out of the back, then walked to a room, where he let himself in with a key card.
22
The business jet was fairly quiet for a craft its size, and the air was still, so flight was smooth. It was also still daylight, and, this time of summer, probably would be for another hour or so.
It was just the two of them, plus the pilots. Thorn had thought about having an attendant, but thought that might be too much. They could walk to the plane’s bar and get their own drinks.
Marissa shook her head. “I still can’t believe you did this.”
“You said surprise you.”
“Well, I was surprised, I confess. Do you do this a lot?”
“Only once before, after I heard the Elvis story, just to see how it felt.”
“The Elvis story?”
Thorn nodded. “Supposedly, Elvis and his crew were sitting around at Graceland and one of them started talking about this place in Denver that made these great sandwiches. So Elvis says, ‘Let’s go!’ They warmed up his private jet, and flew from Memphis to Denver just to get supper.”
“Really?”
“That’s not the best part. When they got there? They had the sandwiches delivered to the plane. Never got off. Ate, cranked it back up, and flew home.”
She shook her head again. “Sounds just odd enough to be true. So, what is this little trip going to set you back?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Not enough so the accountants will worry.”
She said, “Ah. The old Cornelius Vanderbilt line about yachts — if you have to ask how much one costs, you can’t afford it?”
He frowned. “Marissa, are you really going to bust my chops for having money? I was lucky enough to come up with some software that people found useful, and it paid real well. I’m not in the same class with Arab sheiks or major rock stars or basketball team owners, but I can live high and not run out in my lifetime. What Sophie Tucker said is true—‘I’ve been rich and I’ve been poor. Rich is better.’ ”
She grinned at him. “Relax, Tommy. I’m just pulling your chain.”
He smiled back. “And I’m defensive about sitting on a fat wallet.”
“Most self-made men are, at least the ones I’ve met. They feel as if they lucked into it, and on some level don’t deserve it.”
“Date a lot of rich guys, do you?”
