Authors: Simon Wood
Hayden drove Rebecca back to Shane’s house. They googled Kenneth Eskdale’s name and hit pay dirt. Debbie Fuller had remembered right. Kenneth Eskdale was a college professor. He taught out of Redwood University in Arcata. Eskdale was the head of the molecular biology department. His credits were impressive, with a lengthy list of published papers not only in molecular biology, but also in chemistry.
“Aren’t you surprised that with Eskdale’s background he would be a professor in a state college?” Rebecca said. “He should be working out of a UC college at the very minimum.”
“Maybe he doesn’t like the limelight,” Hayden replied. “And how did Marin Design Engineering find him?”
“We’ll only know if we ask him.” Rebecca checked her watch. “If we leave now, we’ll reach Arcata around two. Early enough to catch Eskdale, don’t you think?”
“If he’s there.” Hayden picked up the phone and dialed the number off the university’s website. He asked if Eskdale was teaching and was told that he was. They got in the car and drove north.
When it came to Eskdale, Hayden didn’t know what kind of man they’d encounter, but if he was embroiled in the goings-on at MDE, he wasn’t going to talk without some form of arm-twisting. Hayden thought he had just the right wedge to split Eskdale open.
“We need to make a quick detour,” Hayden said and drove to JD Engineering. As he parked, he said to Rebecca, “Do you mind staying here while I go inside? I won’t be long.”
“Don’t you want me to meet your dad?”
“It’s not that. Family relations are a little strained at the moment. Last time I saw my father things were a little tense.”
Rebecca nodded her understanding, although the smile had gone out of her.
Hayden let himself in and walked to his father’s office. He stopped in the doorway. John Duke, JD Engineering’s only employee, was on the phone placing an order. He gestured at Hayden to close the door and Hayden did so.
“You’re back. What do you need this time?” His dad’s harsh tone said he hadn’t mellowed since their last encounter.
“I need those drawings back.”
“Wait here.”
Hayden leaned against the side of the desk while his dad left the office to open the safe. He returned a few minutes later with the drawings and the flash drive. Hayden went to take them, but his father sidestepped him.
“What are you going to do with these? You can’t return them to their rightful owner, because everyone’s dead. You were damn lucky not to end up dead, too. I saw the news. So did your mother. I don’t understand why you didn’t see fit to tell us. We’re your parents, for Christ’s sake.”
“I meant to tell you.”
His dad shook his head in disgust. “Sit down.”
“Dad, I don’t have time for this.”
“I said sit down.”
A lecture was coming. It couldn’t be avoided, and if he was honest with himself, he deserved it. Hayden did as he was told and sat down.
His father sat behind his desk and put the drawings between them. He weighted them down with the flash drive. Hayden could have easily snatched the drawings away, but that wasn’t an option.
“When I saw the fire on the TV, I almost came here to burn all this crap,” John Duke said, nodding at the plans, “but I didn’t because that should be your decision.”
“I’m sorry. I should have called you and Mom.”
“Yes, you should have.”
His dad let that hang in the air for longer than was comfortable.
“The last time I saw you, you said you were getting answers. Did you get them?”
“No.”
John Duke reached inside a desk drawer and tossed a Zippo lighter at Hayden.
Hayden caught it and ran his hand over its polished surface. It would be so easy to burn the drawings, destroy the evidence and break his ties with the deaths, but he couldn’t. He’d been left for dead once. The danger wouldn’t go away just because he burned the plans. Someone out there saw him as a threat. He tossed the lighter back to his dad.
“I can’t.”
His dad caught the lighter but made no attempt to put it away. “Why?”
“Fifteen people have died at Marin Design Engineering. Every one of them worked on this project.” Hayden tapped the drawings with an index finger. “The only surviving engineer contacted me after the fire and warned me that I was in danger. He’s dead now. I’m the only one left and I don’t understand a damn thing that’s going on, but it’s wrapped up in these plans. I found a college professor who consulted on this job. He might know something. I want to show him these plans. If he knows anything, then I’m not letting him out of my sight.”
“Let it go.”
“I can’t. I’m not in a position to put my head in the sand and pretend this didn’t happen. I have to keep asking questions.”
“Even if those questions get you killed? There are a lot of dead people. You’re lucky not to be one. Walk away while you still can.”
Hayden had squeezed that outcome from his mind and put his faith in denial. He was walking a tightrope. If he looked down, he’d fall.
“You’re scaring me, Hayden.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry, be safe,” John Duke said, tossing Hayden the plans and the flash drive.
C
ontingencies and problems. Lockhart always planned for both. Nothing in life ran smoothly. Humans were far too random for anything to follow a predictable path. Unpredictability had led to the elimination of Chaudhary, Fallon, and the others who’d disturbed the delicate nature of his plans. His acceptance of problems and contingencies made him a glass-half-empty kind of a guy, but it also made him successful at what he did.
The breakfast hour presented a fresh problem, which evoked another contingency. He checked his bank account in the Cayman Islands and saw the stage payment hadn’t been deposited. Twenty-five percent of the agreed sum was to be deposited when manufacturing began. Manufacturing had begun days ago. The clients knew this. Still, no money.
Sadly, he’d expected this problem. He didn’t like it, but he was ready for it when it came. These clients weren’t fools. He’d dealt with many that were. He’d once sold three Russian-made helicopters, not a one with solid airworthiness, to an Angolan outfit. He smiled remembering that one. Fools and their money. He didn’t make a habit of selling substandard merchandise, but those who didn’t know an AK-47 from a hole in the ground needed a harsh lesson in the arms trade.
But no fools this time. They’d hired Zhou Zeguang to front for them. Zeguang was good. He kept things professional, straightforward, and tight. He operated out of his native China, and Lockhart viewed him as his counterpart from the East.
Bringing Zeguang in also kept things clean. He wasn’t on any watch lists and could come and go as he pleased. He worked with government approval and protection. He brought a lot of money into Beijing.
Lockhart liked dealing with Zeguang, but one aspect always irritated him. Zeguang took confidentiality to lawyerlike levels. Lockhart didn’t know who he was fronting for on this occasion. “Africans” was all he would say. Lockhart knew his industry well. He knew who possessed the finances to pay for what he was selling and who possessed the hate to use it. He’d narrowed Zeguang’s clients down to four possible candidates and counted himself satisfied.
Bottom line, he trusted Zeguang. Well, as far as anyone trusted anyone in this line of business. Despite Zeguang’s straightforward approach, the missed stage payment smacked of his influence. It didn’t worry Lockhart. It was just part of the negotiations.
The question now was whether he should be the boy or the girl in this relationship. Should he call Zeguang or wait for Zeguang to call him? He didn’t want to play the needy girl. No doubt if he did, he’d be making a concession today and dropping his panties before he was ready to go all the way. He wasn’t going to call Zeguang and ask why he hadn’t been paid. No, if Zeguang wanted to make a point, he could call him. When playing hardball, you couldn’t afford to play the pussy.
He didn’t have to wait long. He barely had time to finish his breakfast and get through the
Chronicle
. Zeguang called at precisely ten a.m., obviously his deadline on this matter. His eagerness not to drag things out told Lockhart something. He wasn’t after a discount. Pricing had been determined. But Zeguang and his clients wanted something. Lockhart felt good about this. Providing things was what he did well.
“Morning,” Lockhart said.
“My clients haven’t paid you as arranged,” Zeguang said.
“So I see. Is there a problem?” Lockhart kept his tone unemotional. If he became emotional, everyone became emotional. Emotion led to rashness. Contingencies rarely combated rash behavior.
“We need to meet.”
“OK, let’s meet. The usual place?”
“Yes. Shall we say in thirty minutes?”
Oh yes, Zeguang and his clients were after something special. They weren’t giving him any time to prepare. They wanted him vulnerable and exposed. They thought they’d get more from him that way. They wouldn’t. They’d get what he saw fit to give them.
He left his condo and took the elevator to the parking structure. He spotted the silver Chrysler 300 with Zeguang’s people inside the moment he exited the garage. Parked across the street from his building, it slipped into traffic behind him. Zeguang definitely wanted to control the situation. Lockhart would let him think he was calling the shots.
He punched Beckerman’s number into his cell. Beckerman answered on the second ring.
“Zeguang’s clients are playing hardball. They’ve balked on this payment and Zeguang wants to meet now.”
“You need me there?”
“No, I want him to think he has the upper hand. Just stay local. I’ll need you at short notice.”
Lockhart hung up and continued his drive. He kept a keen eye on the Chrysler and for a second tail. A second car, another 300, picked him up half a mile later. They made the operation look easy, but that was because it was: they knew his origin and destination. It was hard to screw up. Their test would come later, after the meeting.
The meeting was at the Peace Plaza in Japantown. The irony of the location wasn’t lost on Lockhart.
All the street parking had been snapped up, so he parked in a lot. The Chryslers didn’t follow him in. He spotted the first one parked illegally in front of a fire hydrant. The second one was nowhere to be seen. He imagined it was circling a perimeter to ensure he hadn’t invited anyone to the party.
He walked along Post to the Peace Plaza and stopped in front of the commemorative pagoda. It was an interesting structure, spoiled only by the rusting access ladder contained inside. Zeguang wasn’t waiting for him at the pagoda, but he’d be close by. This wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment idea. He would have had this spot scoped out long before he called him in, but he’d do his best to make it look improvised. No matter. Lockhart played along and waited diligently.
He liked outdoor meeting spots. They were easy to flee from and made spotting watchers easy. No doubt, a shooter had him in his sights from a nearby rooftop, but he didn’t want to show his concern. Everyone working Zeguang’s side of the deal needed to believe he wasn’t expecting trouble.
The doors to the Japan Center slid open and Zeguang stepped through, accompanied by a bodyguard. Zeguang had just crossed fifty and sported a build similar to a fire hydrant, whereas his bodyguard was in his late twenties, equine looking, and chock-f of steroids. Zeguang called Lockhart’s name. He smiled and waved back. He didn’t have a reason to be unpleasant—yet.
“Zhou, good to see you again.” Lockhart shook hands and examined Zeguang. He looked for worry, fear, anger, avarice, or anything that would clue him into his mind-set. He saw smugness. An interesting emotion. He really thought he had something on him. “Do we have a problem?”
“There is no problem,” Zeguang said. “Not for a man of your abilities.” He smiled. The smile failed to exude friendship. Lockhart didn’t like this, but he didn’t let his concern show in his expression.
“I’m glad to hear it,” Lockhart said.
“My clients and I have seen the plans and we are most impressed with your progress. I know you should have received the wire transfer today, and we have every intention of paying.” Zeguang kept his smile burning, but his eyes were ice-cold. “My clients have invested a considerable amount of money in this venture. Money they have, and money they are only too happy to invest, but only as long as what they’re buying actually works.”
This wasn’t some move to back out of the deal. This felt like a delay tactic. The Africans had sank too much money into this project to walk away. He’d get his money. All the same, he felt they wanted to change things up. Get a little something for nothing thrown in. He didn’t like it.
“Do you doubt that I can provide what I’ve said I can?”
“No, no, not at all. Your reputation goes a long way, but your reputation is built on mature technology. This isn’t. You claim you have a working product from a previously untried and untested design. That is a cause for a concern.”
Lockhart let the “claim” remark slip. He wouldn’t be provoked. He needed to reassure Zeguang, not start a fight.
“Two million dollars is a lot of money to pay without any indication that what my clients are buying actually works.”
“You want a demonstration,” Lockhart suggested.
“Yes, a demonstration.” Zeguang beamed. “I knew you would understand. We would like a demonstration, before my clients pay you any further funds.”
A demonstration had made the list of contingencies he’d planned for. He’d hoped it wouldn’t be necessary. Zeguang was right about one thing: the project involved technology he’d created, not bought. He’d switched jobs from a dealer to a manufacturer. Manufacturing required much more capital investment. He could afford to complete the project without the stage payments, but he’d be cutting his funds to the bone. The real money would be made when he marketed the product to organizations, factions, and governments long after Zeguang and his pals were finished.
“I’d be happy to set up a demonstration. Do your clients have a particular target back home that they wish to use it on?”
Zeguang smiled a shark’s smile and shook his head. “I think you misunderstand. The demonstration is to take place here.”
Lockhart went cold and failed to keep the shock from his expression. A live demonstration on American soil, on American people, wasn’t a contingency he’d planned on.
“Preferably something public,” Zeguang said. “Something that will capture people’s attention. Is that going to be a problem?”
“It won’t be a problem.” The words tasted like ash on Lockhart’s tongue.
“Excellent,” Zeguang said. “When can we expect a demonstration?”
Lockhart’s mind was still reeling, but he slammed on the brakes and thought hard about how he could do this. Options presented themselves to him. He saw a way out.
“In the next few days.”
“Good,” Zeguang said and walked away with his bodyguard.
Lockhart headed back to the parking lot. The Chrysler shadowing him remained in place. He still felt the shooter’s scope tracking his progress on the street. The Chrysler picked him up the moment he left the parking lot. The second Chrysler picked him up soon after, both cars taking turns at being the vehicle sticking closest to him.
It was time to lose them.
He drove toward downtown. The traffic thickened the closer he got, forcing his tails to jockey for position. He needed a break with the traffic and got it. He ran a red. The taxi between him and the Chryslers forced his tails to stop for the light. It wouldn’t stop them from regaining position, but he needed only seconds.
He turned on Powell and dumped his car with valets at the Sir Francis Drake Hotel. His tails saw him stop, but he didn’t let it worry him and ducked inside the hotel. He strode through the lobby like he was a guest. No one questioned him. He fit in too well with the clientele. He guessed one of his tails would be on foot by now, but it was too late. He emerged from a side entrance on Post, ran against traffic to cross the street and disappeared down the slope into the underground parking lot beneath Union Square. He went straight to the parking stall containing an aging Mercury Sable that Beckerman kept there for such emergencies. It was one of three cars stashed around the city while this operation was in play. He grabbed the key from under the rear passenger wheel arch and let himself in. He emerged from the parking lot. Neither Chrysler was in sight, and he drove sedately out of the city.
As he crossed the Bay Bridge, he called Beckerman and told him to meet him. He drove to Piedmont, parked on a residential street in the shadow of Mountain View Cemetery, and waited.
He tapped the steering wheel impatiently. He would have killed for a cigarette, but he’d quit nearly three years ago due to his wife’s concerns for his health. Admittedly, his health had improved and, unlike most ex-smokers, his weight hadn’t increased. Giving up smoking was a win-win situation, except when he needed to do something with his hands.
It began raining. This was as bad as it got in the Bay Area. The rain clung to the windshield until it totally obscured his vision. Lockhart pulsed the wipers once to clear the windshield. Nobody walked the street, and who could blame anyone in this weather? His rapidly disappearing view consisted of parked cars and a row of homes on both sides of the street. At this time of day, he expected most to be empty.
He waited twenty-two minutes before Beckerman appeared. He didn’t see a car park on the street or Beckerman walk toward him. The passenger door simply opened and the interior light came on. The noise of the rain was amplified as Beckerman slid into his seat.
Beckerman’s stealth pleased him. This was the reason Lockhart employed the man. He couldn’t imagine many getting the better of his attack dog. But Beckerman’s persona was his weakness as well as his strength. Dogs had a habit of turning on their owners if treated poorly. That left Lockhart vulnerable, which wasn’t a good place to be. One day, Beckerman would have to be put down.
Beckerman combed a hand through his hair, squeezing the water out. “Problems?”
“Yes, but first things first. Malcolm Fuller. Did his death have to be so extravagant?”
“I have no control over what people do once I’ve dosed them. Blame the drug, not me.”
“How did you track him down?”
“Rebecca Fallon. I captured a call between her and Fuller’s wife. She led me straight to him.”
Fuller’s death cut Lockhart’s stress levels. All of MDE’s technical staff had been eliminated. He’d finished what Trevor Bellis had started—as far as the police and public were concerned. For all intents and purposes, the MDE chapter couldn’t present any further leaks.
Lockhart pulsed the wipers again. A man with his head down and his hands stuffed in his pockets approached the car. Lockhart stopped talking. Casually, Beckerman removed a small oil-black pistol from an ankle holster and released the safety. He produced a silencer, as long as the automatic, and carefully screwed it on to the barrel of the gun. He performed the task with deft and practiced precision.
The man dashed past the car without giving Lockhart and Beckerman a glance.
“Anyone to worry about?” Lockhart asked.