Chris Jordan - Measure of Darkness

They know that I know that they know.

Having established the mutual awareness, I give a friendly wave to the young lady dropped off by the SUV and carry on, speed-walking up Beacon. Take a left for six short blocks on Charles Street, and thence-as boss lady might say-into Mass General, and up to the secure floor where Randall Shane is being treated.

I’m not cleared to enter his room-that privilege has now been restricted to his attorney, no casual visitors allowed-so Dane meets me at the end of the hallway, near the nurses’ station, where I make a show of handing over a tube of my own lipstick.

“What, no Pale Peach?” she says with a grin.

“Just so you know, I was tailed from the residence. A team effort.”

Dane seems not the least surprised. She links her arm in mine and says, “I think we need a trip to the ladies’.” Steering me farther on down the hallway, until we’re out of sight of the uniformed officer stationed outside of Shane’s room.

To my surprise, Dane walks us past the public restroom, and into a small utility closet, shutting the door and blocking it with her hip. Obviously a location she’d scouted for just this eventuality as a place unlikely to be bugged. The utility closet-a small room, really-reeks of Pine-Sol, with a distinct and recent whiff of illicit cigarette smoke. Custodians sneaking a puff, or maybe nurses. Or doctors, for that matter. Whoever, it won’t be long before some needy nicotine addict tries the door.

“Shortly after his giant girlfriend left, the big guy beckoned me.”

“Beckoned?” I say.

“With the hand that isn’t cuffed,” she says. “Wanted me to bend down so he could whisper in my ear.”

“That’s great,” I say. “What did he tell you?”

Dane, eyes lively with conspiratorial glee, puts her lips to my ear, quite literally, and imparts, in nine succinct words, an extremely important piece of new information.

Back at the residence, I confer with boss lady, who seems to be slightly peeved that I didn’t mention the particulars of my errand before leaving.

“It’s not the being followed, that’s to be expected,” she says, giving me the cold eye of her disapproval. “It’s that you could have been snatched from the street upon your return and interrogated, or worse.”

“I took a taxi back.”

Boss lady is not impressed. “These people smashed their way into this residence and dragged our client out in a net. You think they wouldn’t stop a taxicab?”

I shrug and say, “Trust me, this isn’t the same crowd. If a special-ops team had me under surveillance, I doubt I’d have spotted them. This was more like the FBI we all know and love. Could even be a local police operation, but I seriously doubt the locals have the resources to dispatch an entire surveillance team whenever one of us leaves the residence. Hence my vote for our pals at the Bureau.”

Naomi shakes her head. “Maybe, maybe not, but from now on no one leaves without letting me know where they’re going and why.”

“Fine, but tell me again why we can’t be bugged? Why you’re so sure they’re not listening to us right now?”

She rolls her eyes but indulges me. “Intruders could well have placed bugs in the residence, but it doesn’t matter because there’s no way any bug can transmit from this location. When the building was gutted and renovated it was made secure against electronic surveillance of all types. There’s no radio frequency or variable signal that can penetrate, meaning any and all bugs are inoperable or will fail to transmit. That’s why cell phones have to be routed through the roof antenna. The same signal interference system is used in the shielded areas of U.S. embassies deemed vulnerable to espionage. London, Moscow, Beijing, Baghdad. So we’re good. Speak freely.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” I say, grabbing a pencil and a steno pad. “But I prefer to write this down.”

“If you must,” she concedes with a sigh.

Kendall Square. Behind Dumpster. Shane’s laptop. Jack will know.

Naomi’s big brown eyes are suddenly all aglow. This is potentially our biggest break in the case thus far, assuming that the hidden laptop can be recovered. When she gets like this, stoked by her keen intelligence with positive energy, I sometimes get the impression that she’d like to give me a hug, share the glow, but she never does. Touchy-feely is not part of her outward nature, or if it is she manages to keep it firmly under control.

“Okay, we’ll play it your way, on the off chance,” she says, feeding the piece of paper into the shredder. Then she leans out the command center doorway and calls out, loud enough to be heard at the FBI field office at One Center Plaza, with or without bugs. “Teddy! Stop whatever it is you’re doing! Alice wants to take you shopping!”

When it comes to shedding tails, Teddy Boyle is a mere tadpole, but surprisingly enthusiastic at being given the opportunity.

“This is sort of what Matt Damon does,” he confides as we head out on foot.

“Matt Damon has stunt doubles,” I remind him. “He’s not really driving cars a hundred miles an hour on a wrong-way street.”

“Cool,” Teddy says. “But you should know I don’t have a driver’s license.”

“You won’t need one. We won’t be wrecking Lamborghinis or jumping from rooftop to rooftop. All we’re going to do is go into the Nike outlet and shop.”

“That’s it?” he says, sounding disappointed.

“The cool thing about this, you get to buy something, for real. I’m thinking, at the very least, a hoodie and kicks.”

“I hate the swoosh,” he says scornfully.

“Think of it as taking one for Team Nantz.”

So far, the black SUV is hanging back, but I have to assume they’ve got someone cruising the blocks ahead of us as we approach Newbury Street, which is to Boston what Rodeo Drive is to Beverly Hills, except with way less celebrities and movie stars. Way less, but not none-I once spotted the aforementioned Mr. Damon coming out of Daisy Buchanan’s, all on his own, no entourage. Take my word for it, he’s even better looking in person.

“I think I see ’em!” Teddy hisses.

“Pay no attention. We’re almost there.”

I’m not old enough to be Teddy’s mother, but big sister fits comfortably, and that’s the role I assume upon entering Niketown, on the corner of Newbury and Exeter streets. Handing over my own credit card, an act of faith I’m reasonably sure the young hacker won’t abuse. And if he does I’ll cancel his ass so fast he’ll be gulping like a guppy. Actually, he’s quite attentive when I explain the drill.

“’Kay, first I pick out shoes, then we go upstairs and find a hoodie,” he says, repeating the instructions. “Try it on, pay for everything and then leave with the hood up.”

“You got it.”

“And somewhere along the way, you’ll, like, vanish or something.”

“Or something.”

“It’s way too warm for a hoodie.”

“Look around, it’s never too warm for a hoodie. Guys your age wear them down to breakfast while Mom pours the cheery little O’s. Inside, outside, the hood is always up.”

“Guys like that are morons.”

“No argument. But the peepers will think you’re attempting to disguise yourself. They’ll pay attention.”

“Peepers? Is that even a word?”

“Try to stay focused. This is very important.”

No fool, Teddy, when it comes right down to it, he selects a pricey pair of the Zoom Kobes and a green cotton hoodie, one of the retro styles-or as I like to think, timeless -and hands the charge card to a teenage clerk who, from the look in her doelike eyes, finds my little brother totally fascinating, from the tip-top of his gelled hair spikes to his soon-to-be zooming feet. Her glance at me is dismissive-clearly a late-twenties female lacking in neck tattoos is no competition. On the positive side she’s more than willing to clip away the tags so he can wear the product out of the store.