Mark Young - Off the grid

Redneck, straddling a chair, looked up at Gerrit. “So, Mr. J squared you away? How to control us and all that?”

Gerrit leaned on the counter. “He told me specifically how to control you, RD.”

Redneck squinted. “ Artie…what kind of name is that? Sounds like a loser Pea brain might hang around with. You know, someone a little light in the loafers?”

“Not Artie…R. D.,” Gerrit said, emphasizing each letter. “Since you like to shorten everyone’s name, well, I’m throwing one back at you and Mr. W.”

The big man seemed to think about it, and his expression telegraphed his displeasure. “I don’t know. How about you just call me Redneck?”

“ Arrrrtie, ” Willy said, slurring the letters together. “I don’t know… Arrrrrtie. I like it. It has a certain flair.”

Redneck stood. “And I can tell you where to shove that flair, Stickman.”

Excited, Willy raised up until he was even to Redneck’s gut. “Stickman. You-”

“Stop it. Both of you.” Alena picked up the knife, waving it for emphasis. “You guys help me set the table. Quietly.”

The two men approached the dining table like two male lions, warily eyeing each other. Just as things settled down, Gerrit heard Willy whisper, “ Artie…hand me the silverware, you sweet thang.” As Redneck roared back, Willy scurried away, grinning from ear to ear. Alena tried to look stern, but she finally turned away to hide a smile.

Gerrit looked around the room and saw Joe standing off in the corner. The man seemed oblivious to all the bantering, his eyes focused somewhere in the distance. The man’s expression looked troubled, his forehead creased and wrinkled with worry.

Then Gerrit remembered what Joe had just asked. “If something happens to me, Beck Malloy will make contact. I want you to follow his direction-whatever he tells you, do it! Promise me.”

It was a promise Gerrit hoped he never had to keep.

Seagulls angrily screeched above as Gerrit emerged from a Starbucks, handing a caramel frappuccino to Alena. He peered warily at the fog-riddled gray clouds, waiting for one of those circling dive-bombers to strike.

She cupped both hands around the Styrofoam cup and sniffed. “Oh, how I love that smell.”

Gerrit took one sip of his plain cup of house blend and scorched his tongue. “Whoa. Better let that cool.”

Alena shouldered a backpack, handed him a cell phone, and began walking along the Embarcadero. “Joe asked that I give you a phone since you lost that last one I gave you in the bombing. Use it only to contact one of us. Once you use it-toss it.”

He looked at the phone. “That must get expensive. And how do you know each other’s cell number if you keep tossing them each time?”

They crossed the broad thoroughfare in front of the Ferry Building, then made their way along the sidewalk before she replied. “We only use them in emergencies; we have other ways to communicate.”

“Carrier pigeons?”

Alena grinned. “We might consider it one of these times.” A man in a business suit came up from behind, walking briskly. She eyed the stranger for a moment, waiting until the man was out of earshot before continuing. “We have a common e-mail service we can all access. The account is listed under a…how do you say boggie name?”

“You mean bogus name? Fake name? But they can track those messages.”

She gave him a patient smile. “We draft an e-mail but never send it. Each of us can access the account, read the draft, then add to it if we need to share information or need clarification. The last person to read everything is responsible for deleting the entire file.”

“Ah, so there’s no way to intercept those messages. Sweet. I heard of drug dealers and terrorists using that method to communicate. Fashioned after the old dead-letter drop.”

“Try to access the account each day. If there is any hint that the account has been compromised, alert everyone and go to the next. We have a number of accounts, all inactive, all unconnected, until we are ready to use them. Each of us knows the order of those accounts.”

Alena slowed down, finally stopping. She turned and looked over his shoulder-searching the sidewalk and street beyond. “Get used to this, Gerrit. Always be on the alert, looking for the unusual.”

He was already looking beyond her shoulder, visually scanning the area. “As a cop, I come by this naturally.”

“You are no longer a police officer, as you pointed out yesterday,” she said, slightly above a whisper. “Everyone is the enemy-cops and crooks alike.”

“You talking specifics?”

Her eyes, darker that her coffee drink, looked at him for a moment. “Just before your house was bombed, Kane called someone inside the Seattle Police Department.”

Gerrit tensed. “Who?”

She shrugged. “We don’t know. The number returned to a secretary’s desk in the department. Investigations. However, it was a late-night call and that particular employee was home in bed. We checked.”

“So, someone waited for Kane’s call.”

“After everything was blown sky high, Kane received a call from that same phone. The caller never used that line again to make contact. They probably have a more secure way to communicate. Unfortunately, a number of people from other agencies had access to that area. Federal and local. Someone from any of those agencies could have used that phone.”

Gerrit looked down at the sidewalk for a moment. “You know, there is a way-”

“We know. Joe is following up on that. Contacts he has in NSA. People he trusts. We might even be able to get a voice print off the phone if no one on the other side learns of our efforts.”

He looked up. “Kane may have people in place to monitor these requests. Like those he has searching Joe’s background and my information right now.”

She nodded. “We must be very careful. So far, Joe and Willy have kept our backstory and communications protected-as far as we know. This world is getting so complicated.” She shifted her backpack. “Okay, Mr. G. Time to go to work.”

“Lead the way, Al.”

In the distance he saw the blue-gray markings of Pier 39, a high-rent tourist attraction he was sure Alena stayed away from. Too many eyes. Instead, she turned toward one of the older buildings connected to a pier that jutted out into the San Francisco Bay. The building, close to the Embarcadero, had a tan stucco front and stone cornices protruding from the edges. A half-oval entryway, like the entrance to an immense cave, gave large trucks access to a colossal warehouse beyond. To the left of that, a doorway-flush with the building’s facade-provided pedestrian access from the sidewalk.

She fished out a set of keys and opened the door. He followed her up a flight of stairs to the second floor, then down a narrow hallway to an office set back in the building. She slipped a key into the lock of an ancient door, opaque glass on the upper half and wooden panels below, with Golden Gate Book amp; Document Restoration Company etched on smoky-colored glass.

He watched as she quickly opened it. “Do you actually do any restoration?”

“Not if I can get out of it.” She shoved open the door. “But I could if someone insisted.”

A musty odor of old paper and books greeted him as they entered. He walked into a larger open-spaced room with an enclosed office at the far left. They made their way toward this office, and as she opened the door, he saw a view of the Bay beyond. “Hey, nice place to hang out. Great view.”

Without saying a word, she knelt before a large safe and punched in a code. The safe clicked open. She reached inside and pulled out a small package, handing it to him. “I’ve been working on these for some time. Just in case you might need them. I hope you like the name David Marshall. You’re stuck with it for now.”