Brian crossed to the window and peered out.
“OK.” He stepped back after a moment and flopped into his chair. “Well, you’re here now, and no one’s kicked the door down. Yet. So, I’m thinking industrial espionage? Is that what this thing’s about?”
I shrugged.
“I bet it is.” He nodded encouragingly. “I bet there’s a secret on those memory sticks, and that’s what the motorcycle guys were after.”
“Maybe. But I can’t think what. There’s only a bunch of run-of-the-mill data on the sticks.”
“Not run-of-the-mill if there’s a new kind of virus, too.”
“New viruses appear all the time.”
“Maybe. But you thought the virus was to spy on your work. What if you’re wrong? What if AmeriTel’s the target? Like I say, industrial espionage.”
“If it was just the police after me, I’d buy that. Maybe. Or the FBI. But not Homeland Security. They don’t get out of bed for stuff like that.”
“If it was about a company’s secrets, I was thinking there might be a few dollars to be made.” Brian crossed to the couch and sat down next to me. “But sabotage of a government database? That’s big-time. Maybe you should think about turning yourself in. Homeland Security, you can’t outrun.”
“I would, but who do I trust? Peever? Or McKenna? What if I pick the wrong one? I need to figure out who’s on the level, first. And I need proof that I’m not involved, in case I get it wrong.”
“How do you do that? What do you need?”
“I don’t know. A bed for the night? I need time to think. I’m making this up as I go.”
“No.” Brian shook his head. “No way. You’re not spending the night here. That’s way too dangerous.”
“Brian, please. I’ve got nowhere else to go.”
“No. And don’t ask me again. Don’t make me the asshole.”
I looked around the room, taking in all his possessions. I thought about the years they must have taken to collect. The memories they must represent. And suddenly I was hit by a wave of guilt.
“You’re right.” I stood up. “It was stupid of me. I’ll go. And if I get picked up, your name will stay out of it. I promise.”
“Where?”
“What?”
“Where will you go?”
“I don’t know. But I’ll figure something out.”
“Have you got any money?”
“No.”
“What about your cell phone?”
“The Homeland Security agents took it.”
“Good. They can track your cell phone. You’re better off without it. OK. Wait here.”
He disappeared through the archway and I heard a couple of drawers and maybe a cupboard being opened and closed. When he came back he was holding four things, which he gave to me—an old flipstyle cell phone, a charger, a black suit jacket, and a wad of cash.
“That’s a pre-paid phone. It’s safe to use. And here’s two hundred dollars. That’s all the money I have in the house.”
“Thank you.” It took me a moment to overcome the surprise.
“You can’t keep wearing your own jacket. And you better lose the old guy’s suitcase. Just don’t dump them anywhere near here.”
“Right. Yes. And, Brian? I’ll pay you back. As soon as I can.”
“No rush. Now, listen carefully. This is what we’re going to do about getting a roof over your head for the night. First, you’re going to wash your face. And then I’m going to give you an address. It’s a house. It belongs to a friend of mine. He’s in Europe. I’m keeping an eye on the place. You should be able to walk there in ten minutes, quarter of an hour, tops. Find it, go to the end of the yard, and you’ll see a wooden summerhouse. It won’t be locked. You can sleep in there. But only for tonight. I’ll come by tomorrow to straighten up. And if you’re still there—”
The intercom crackled. Neither of us breathed for a moment, then Brian crept back to the window.
“A squad car.” He turned to face me. “I’m sorry, Marc.”
He’d been alone, when he was fetching the phone and the cash. For what? A couple of minutes? Long enough to call 911 …
“I didn’t call them, Marc.” It was as though he was reading my mind.
“I know.” I picked up Mr. Schmidt’s suit carrier, feeling guilty for the suspicion. “I’ll go down there. Give myself up. And don’t worry. I won’t drop you in it.”
“Don’t be stupid. I can take care of myself. I’ll go down. You—go through the archway. Second door on the right. It leads down to the gallery. Get out that way. I’m not going to screw myself, but I’ll buy you as much time as I can.”
Wednesday. Night.
I MADE IT HALFWAY ACROSS THE DESERTED GALLERY, THEN STOPPED. Running had almost got me caught. More than once. Maybe it was time to hide?
But hide where? I knew the gallery well, and nothing sprang to mind. There were no alcoves or storerooms, and all the sculptures in the place that night were too short. The only other option was the desk. But was that too obvious? It was a giant thing, antique, probably French, made from polished mahogany with gold inlays and grotesque Grecian statues supporting the four corners. It completely dominated one corner of the room. Brian couldn’t have found a more extreme contrast for the brand-new iMac he’d placed on it if he’d tried.
An iMac? That set my thoughts running in a completely different direction.
I rushed to the desk, woke the computer, and searched for a connection to the gallery’s security system. Twenty-nine seconds later I was inside the CCTV archive. I located the records for Monday. Identified the file for the parking-lot camera. Opened it. Skipped ahead to lunchtime. And found the image of me, striding back to my Jaguar.
Holding my breath, I isolated the video frames I needed—starting with me two paces from the car—and imported them into the Mac’s home movie program. A few keystrokes later, I’d made the background darker to roughly approximate the parking lot at night. I turned the computer around so its screen was facing the door to the stairs. Crossed to the main exit. Pushed it open, triggering the alarm. Then dived under the desk, taking the Mac’s wireless mouse with me.
The door crashed back on its hinges four seconds later, and I simultaneously clicked to start playing the doctored camera footage.
“Look!” A voice yelled above the racket. “He’s outside.”
Heavy footsteps sprinted across the floor, but I couldn’t be sure the cops had really left. And I couldn’t hear anything else above the screeching of the alarm, which was boring into my head, stopping me from thinking straight. Eventually I peeped out from behind the desk. I caught sight of movement. But it was only Brian, keying his code into the alarm console and shutting off the infernal noise.
“Marc, you devious bastard!” Brian spun around when he heard me emerge. “Amazing move, my friend! But the cops won’t be fooled for long. They’ll be back. You better hurry. Grab your things. You remember the address I gave you? Where the summerhouse is? Go there. Quickly. You’ll be safe.”
I retrieved the jacket and suit carrier, then Brian bundled me out through the door. He slammed it behind me and I was left silhouetted against the pale building. The hairs on my neck prickled in the chill night air. Somewhere to my left I heard a motorcycle engine. A deep growl like a Harley, not the trail bikes from earlier. But still, it broke my trance. I started to run, replaying Brian’s directions in my head, when another sound reached me. A siren. I changed course and dived behind Brian’s Rolls-Royce. Seconds later the parking lot was flooded with pulsing red and blue light. Then the sound and the colors abruptly died, the motor fell silent, two doors slammed, and a pair of heavy feet pounded away from me across the asphalt.
I peered out in time to see two officers disappearing around the side of the gallery, heading for the entrance to Brian’s apartment. If I was going to escape, this was my chance. I counted to thirty, giving Brian time to come down and open the door. Then I broke cover.