“No.” I forced myself to stay on track. “Something else. The Nova was going to be big. But the new thing—it doesn’t even have a name yet—it’s going to be massive.”
“Sounds interesting. But why are you telling me?”
“Because I’m offering you a slice.”
“How big of a slice?”
“Say, twenty-five percent?”
“What would I have to do?”
“Meet me. We’ll talk about it.”
“OK.” He paused. “Where and when?”
“Today. My hotel. The Buckingham. In Harrison, just off the 684. Let’s say, noon?”
“No can do. Too short notice.”
“Well, it has to be today. It’s a limited-time offer. Other people are interested. This thing’s going to be huge, and you’ll kick yourself if you snooze and lose.”
“OK.” He paused for longer. “You’ve got me. I’ll be there. What room number?”
“I haven’t checked in yet. I’ll text you as soon as I do.”
“I’ll be watching my phone. Ciao, partner.”
Friday. Morning.
CAVEAT EMPTOR.
Buyer, beware. The oldest rule in the book when it comes to business. And however you chose to read my proposition—whether Weimann was buying a slice of my product, or I was buying a piece of his expertise—I was going into the deal with my eyes open.
I called the Buckingham and reserved two rooms in the dead guy’s name, then I left the motel. I hadn’t formally checked out, but since I was wearing the sum total of my possessions, and I had no wish to run the gauntlet at reception again—dopey as the clerk had seemed the night before—I didn’t waste the time.
I recalled passing a giant Target store on my crazy drive from home, so after a brief stop at a gas station—one with a pay-at-the-pump option—I set off to find it again.
I parked close to the entrance and headed for the electronics aisle. First into the cart was a pair of Sony laptops. I didn’t need the bells and whistles, but when you’re shopping with a dead guy’s credit card, why hold back? My next pick was a handful of memory sticks—the same brand I’d been using at AmeriTel. Then a few changes of clothes, in a variety of colors. Three baseball caps. A pair of reading glasses—the weakest they had. And finally a suitcase, to carry everything in.
THE HOTEL WASN’T QUITE where I thought it was, but after five minutes of rising anxiety I tracked it down. I found an out-of-the-way space to leave the car, put on the glasses and one of the hats, and made my way to reception. The clerk looked surprised when I asked for the rooms I’d booked to be at least four floors apart, but when I mentioned teenaged kids and stopping en route to an anniversary getaway, he grinned and said no more.
The higher room was on the twelfth floor, so I texted its number to Weimann and took an elevator to the seventh. That’s where my second room was, all the way at the end of the corridor. Once inside I unpacked the new laptops, got them running—not hard, when you work with computers for a living—and set up a video link between them using the hotel’s free wireless. Then I picked up the nearer one, slipped one of the new memory sticks into my pocket, and headed to the stairs.
The room on the twelfth floor had exactly the same layout as the one I’d just left. A pair of twin beds against one wall, with gaudily patterned covers and giant heaps of unnecessary pillows. A wardrobe, dresser, and desk against the other wall, in some kind of pale, fake wood. A doorway to a small bathroom. An uncomfortable-looking couch beneath the window. All perfectly functional, but nothing you’d miss—or even remember—five minutes after you left. Typical of a place designed as a stop along the way to somewhere else, not a destination in its own right. Appropriate in more ways than one, I thought, as I positioned the laptop on the corner of the desk and made sure its built-in camera had a good view of the entrance. Then I sat the memory stick on the other corner of the desk and left, careful not to let the door close all the way and lock itself behind me.
Back in my room on the seventh, I set the camera to privacy mode and checked the screen of the second laptop. The view was perfect. When Weimann arrived, I’d see him without him ever knowing I was watching. I’d see how he reacted to finding the memory stick. I’d see if he wasn’t alone. I’d see if he’d sent anyone else in his place. And I was five floors closer to the exit. If I wasn’t one hundred percent certain everything was the way it should be, I’d be out of the hotel and back on the highway before anyone even knew I’d been there.
All I had to do now was wait.
——
I’M NOT USUALLY ONE for changing horses mid-race, but after ten hour-long minutes it dawned on me that I was missing an opportunity. I’d left the fresh memory stick displayed prominently for a reason. It was a tell. If Weimann came because he wanted to work with me, it wouldn’t mean anything to him. He’d ignore it. But if he came because he was already working with the crooks Carolyn was mixed up with, getting his hands on my memory stick would be his goal. He’d pounce on it. As would anyone else he sent. And if that did happen, wouldn’t it be better for me if they were satisfied with what they took? The only guy whose face I’d seen was dead. What good would it do them to waste time trying to find me once they’d recovered their prize?
I took a deep breath and plugged the original memory stick and another new one into the laptop and set the contents to copy between them. I figured the laptop would get infected in the process, but I wasn’t too worried. The one I’d used at AmeriTel had still worked fine, even once the virus had taken hold.
The file transfer took four minutes. That left eleven minutes before Weimann was due to arrive. Not much time to run to the other room, switch sticks, and get back to safety. I was wondering if I should just content myself with the original plan when my phone received a text.
Traffic brutal. ETA now 12:15. Sorry! KW.
I took that as a sign, said a silent prayer, and set off down the corridor with the freshly filled memory stick in my hand.
Friday. Lunchtime.
THE DOOR SWUNG OPEN, FIVE FLOORS ABOVE ME, AND A FIGURE appeared on my computer screen. Tall. Skinny. Slightly stooped. Shorter hair. But definitely Weimann.
And he was on his own.
He walked forward hesitantly, looking around, puzzled to find no sign of me. I could see his mouth moving, as if he was calling out, but no sound made it through to my computer. He shrugged. Then stepped over toward the desk. Stopped. And picked up the memory stick.
He turned it over a couple of times, peering closely at it, near enough to the computer’s camera for me to make out the lines of curiosity creasing his face. Then he tossed it down, turned his back, pulled out his phone, and started typing.
A couple of seconds later, my phone beeped.
I’m here. Where are you?
Just stepped out for a sec, I texted back. On my way back now. Please wait!
WEIMANN WAS SITTING ON THE BED when I arrived a few minutes later. He was wearing jeans and a black, pin-striped jacket over a purple paisley shirt, like one Carolyn had bought me once. The ensemble didn’t suit him at all.
“What the hell, Marc?” he said, before I could even offer him my hand. “I cancel a long-standing appointment and drive two hours to meet you, and you’re not even here?”
“Karl, I’m sorry. There was something I had to check on. It was important, believe me, or I’d have been here when you arrived. Anyway, we’re both here now. This is going to be the start of a beautiful—and extremely lucrative—friendship, so let’s not argue. Would you like a drink?”
“No, thanks.”
“Lunch, then? I could order room service.”