He’d been in situations before where a bug needed to be surreptitiously examined. The basic rule was that the audio camouflage needed to be appropriate to the environment. A blender or food processor could mask just about any other sound, but there were very few situations in which they could be employed with any credibility. Ordinary conversation lacked the necessary volume. Percussive music, bursts of laughter, running water—any of those could work in the right setting, but none seemed quite right in the current circumstances.
He was surveying the room for inspiration when a solution was provided by Madeleine in the form of a startling sneeze.
After a moment’s consideration he went to his duffle bag, pulled out a small notebook, and opened it to a blank page. He wrote as Madeleine watched: “Follow along with whatever I suggest. Respond naturally. Whenever I nod to you, make a sneezing sound or clear your throat or cough a few times. Start now by sniffling and coughing.”
She sniffled loudly and cleared her throat.
He affected a worried tone. “Jesus, sweetheart, I was afraid of that, earlier in the car. That you were coming down with something. Or maybe that your allergies were kicking in.”
“It could be an allergy. It feels like that.”
“You have any idea what might be causing it?”
“I don’t know. Something in the room? The car? The air? All I know is my nose and throat have that itchy feeling.”
She spoke with such conviction he almost believed her. “Did you bring anything you can take for it?”
“No.”
“Maybe we can find something tomorrow.” He waved her closer to him as he approached the Harding portrait. He reached up over the row of bottles on the bar and gave her a nod as he gripped the frame.
When she burst into a fit of sneezing, he lifted the bottom of the frame up and away from the wall and checked under it, paying particular attention to the cable from which the portrait hung. He noted immediately that the ends of the cable were encased in tubular housings, either of which could easily accommodate a device as large as a disposable lighter. The cable itself would be an ideal disguise for an aerial. Nothing about the nature of the hiding place suggested anything but a standard, easily available audio bug. Under cover of another fit of sneezing, he eased the frame back against the wall.
Inspecting Madeleine’s phone would be a trickier challenge.
He gestured for her to move toward the end of the couch by her phone. He attempted a worried tone. “Sweetheart, why don’t you just settle down for a while and try to relax? Maybe cozy yourself up in a blanket?”
“I’m not really tired. It’s just that scratchy, uncomfortable feeling in the back of my throat. You know, kind of raw? Maybe I’m getting a cold after all.”
“At least have a seat. You can put your feet up on the hassock. Relaxing can’t hurt.”
“Okay, fine. It can’t make me feel any worse.”
She sounded cranky and authentic. In Gurney’s experience, an irritated tone always made a faked conversation sound more real.
She sat on the couch, sniffling and repeatedly clearing her throat.
He went to the end table and placed his hand on her phone to check its temperature. It was quite cool, which was not what he’d expected.
The most common violation of a cell phone’s integrity was accomplished through hacking into its software in a way that allowed the hacker to remotely manipulate the phone’s functions—for example, to turn on its microphone and transmission capabilities, converting the device into an audio bug under the control of the hacker.
But this approach did leave concrete signs—the simplest being the generation of battery heat. Since the scanner had indicated an active transmission from the phone, Gurney had expected it to feel warm. The fact that it didn’t meant something odd was happening.
Finding out more would require getting inside the phone itself.
He and Madeleine had the same make and model, so he took his out to make a preliminary assessment of the process. Studying the back panel, it appeared that the first item he’d need would be a very small screwdriver.
Fortunately, among the items that Madeleine packed automatically whenever they went away was a repair kit for her glasses—a kit that included a supply of the tiny screws that hold frames together and the tiny screwdriver needed to tighten them.
The screwdriver appeared to be about the right size.
In order to maintain an appropriate-sounding conversation, he said, “There have to be some differences in the head-cold feeling and the allergy feeling. Can you put your finger on which feeling you’re closer to?”
She responded with a rambling, sniffly description of the discomforts associated with each problem. He busied himself meanwhile opening his own phone—so he’d have a visual reference with which to compare hers and note any anomalies.
Once he had his open, he set it on the end table and gingerly picked up Madeleine’s. Giving her the signal for more sniffling and coughing, he removed the back panel, then laid the phone with its inner components exposed on the table next to his.
At first glance they appeared identical. As he looked closer, however, he noticed a difference between them in the corner where the microphone was located.
He got their camera out of his duffel bag and took close-up photos from several angles. Then, with Madeleine alternately coughing and complaining hoarsely about the raw feeling in her throat, he replaced the backs of both phones and tightened the screws.
“You might feel better if you took a nap?” he suggested.
“If I sleep now I won’t be able to sleep tonight.” She sounded so miserable he had to remind himself that it was a performance.
He checked the time. He was due for his appointment with Peyton in less than five minutes. He hurriedly addressed an email to Robin Wigg and attached his photos of the interior of Madeleine’s phone. He included the make, model, and serial number; indicated the transmission frequency that had been detected; and added a brief message: “Scanner indicates active transmission. But there’s no discernible battery heat or power drain. Possible implanted device in mic area? Need guidance.” Then he hit “Send.”
CHAPTER 30
At the end of the lake road the security gate at the imposing Gall residence was already open. A guard, dimly visible in the failing light, pointed to a curving driveway that led toward a looming gray structure.
He followed the driveway several hundred feet to a paved floodlit area in front of a stone porch and a huge wooden door. He got out of the car into a whirling wind.
As he reached the door it swung open into a broad, high-ceilinged, polished-pine entry hall. The design was a grander version of the ubiquitous Adirondack style. The illumination came from a series of three enormous wagon-wheel chandeliers.
From where he stood in the doorway Gurney could see, high on the far wall of the entry hall, a framed portrait of an imperious man in a dark suit—perhaps, he thought, the ill-fated subject of the Gall legend. There was an off-putting chilliness in the cerebral forehead and wide-set eyes. An iron-willed jaw created the impression of a man dedicated to getting his own way.
“You come in, please,” called a heavily accented female voice.
Gurney stepped inside.
The door swung slowly shut behind him, revealing to his startled gaze a blonde woman wearing nothing but the bottom half of a thong bikini. She was holding a small remote controller in her hand, perhaps to operate the massive door. Her body, too sumptuous to be entirely the product of nature, was dripping wet. Her gray eyes were as cold as any Gurney had ever seen.