Steven Gore - Final Target

“Unless he’s invented a perpetual motion machine, I’m not sure what excuse is good enough for waking me up at…at…”

“Five-fifteen.”

“So, can you make it?” Blanchard asked.

“Sure. Forty-five minutes.”

Instead of heading north to Berkeley, Gage took the tunnel toward the Central Valley, then looped back over the hills. Only after he was sure he’d shaken any surveillance he might have picked up after his meeting with Smothers did he drive toward the campus.

The professor was waiting at the entrance to the concrete and glass Cory Hall at UC Berkeley when Gage arrived.

“Matson is an idiot, a greedy idiot,” Blanchard said. “The detector video amplifier is brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.” He peeked out toward the dark campus, and then headed down the hall toward the lab. “If any of these nerds get here early, just say you’re my nephew from…where do you want to be from?”

“Tulsa. I’d like to be from Tulsa.”

“Okay, you’re my nephew from Tulsa. What’s your name?”

“Elmore.”

“What about your last name?”

“Blanchard. I’m from your side of the family. Did you forget or are you just embarrassed?”

“Embarrassed? Never. Even as a small child I was proud of you…Little League and all that.”

Gage gave him a thumbs-up. “I think we got the story down.”

Blanchard led Gage to a computer monitor, then spread his hands as if introducing Gage to a dear friend. “Look at this.”

Gage stared at meaningless oscillations with equally obscure labels, “Pulse Response,” “Rise Time,” and “Fall Time,” all measured in nanoseconds.

“I’d like to meet the team that designed this device. It’s pure genius,” Blanchard said. “Say you installed one like this in a submarine periscope. You could see a sardine do a backflip ten miles away.”

Blanchard punched a couple of keys, and a moving bar graph appeared on the screen.

“And footprint, talk about footprint. This draws so little power, you could run it off of a hearing aid battery.” Blanchard grinned. “Well, maybe not. I exaggerate when I get excited.”

“How much is it worth?”

“I could sell the design to Vidyne Industries for ten million by lunchtime. They’d just need to market a couple hundred of the devices and they’d have made their money back, including production costs.”

Gage found himself nodding slowly. “That’s it. That’s Matson’s exit strategy. The government seizes all his stock fraud profits, and he slips away with SatTek’s intellectual property while no one is watching.”

“And there’s also the low-noise amplifier. I imagine that’s worth a helluva lot, too.”

Blanchard glanced down at the monitor. “The funny thing is that Matson could’ve legitimately made a bundle on this if he was just patient and knew how to market it.”

Gage shook his head. “No. SatTek would have made a bundle. All he would’ve gotten was a salary and maybe a Christmas bonus, and only got those until the board members realized that they could find someone better.” He paused, trying to figure out how to set a trap for Matson and drive him into it. “I think it may be time to apply the stick.”

“Or perhaps the carrot?”

Gage looked over and smiled. “Professor Blanchard, you have an evil mind.”

A lex Z designed business cards for Gage and Blanchard and purchased pay-as-you-go cell phones. Gage was Mr. Green of Technology Brokers. Blanchard was Mr. Black of Detector Consultants. “Good morning, Mr. Black,” Gage said twenty-four hours later, as Blanchard sat down in the passenger seat of the rental car outside the Embarcadero BART Station in San Francisco. “I like your suit. But isn’t black a little cliche for a conspiracy?”

“It’s my funeral suit. You don’t know what a relief it is to be dressed up and not to be going to one, or the opera. And it still fits me as long as I don’t button it.” He sighed. “I thought I’d shrink as I aged but discovered Ben amp; Jerry’s just about when that was supposed to happen.” He patted his stomach. “Cherry Garcia.”

“Did you practice your part?”

“I didn’t need to.” Blanchard flashed a grin. “You’re used to fake people who play fake parts. I’m a real person playing a fake part.” He peered over at Gage.

“But there’s one thing that bothers me.”

“Shoot.”

“Isn’t this entrapment?”

“It’s only entrapment when the police do it. When we do it we’re just coconspirators.”

“My wife won’t be too pleased to hear me referred to as a coconspirator.” He laughed, then slapped Gage on the knee. “On the other hand, it could spice up the bedroom a bit. Maybe you can teach me gangster talk.”

“Maybe I’ll introduce you to a real gangster.”

“Maybe not. I think I’ll stick with the fantasy.”

“Here’s a little reality.” Gage pointed at the dashboard. “In the glove box you’ll find a cell phone, business cards, and a pen in a blue case.”

Blanchard removed the items and put the cell phone and cards into his coat pocket. He smiled as he inspected the pen. “It’s a transmitter, just like in the movies. What’s the range?”

“Fifty yards.”

“Maybe I can tweak it a bit for you later.”

Gage cast Blanchard a mock disapproving glance. “Are you done with the microwave?”

Blanchard drew back. “Whose side are you on?”

“Neither. I don’t get involved in domestic cases. It’s safer.”

The professor scanned the road ahead as Gage took the Highway 101 on-ramp. “Where’s our friend Mr. Matson meeting us?”

“A hole-in-the-wall diner in South San Francisco.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means he watches too much television.”

Gage and Blanchard rode in silence until they reached the Grand Avenue exit, halfway between the 49ers’ stadium and the airport.

“Give me the pen,” Gage said.

Blanchard removed it from his pocket and handed it over.

“I want a clean tape. So don’t say anything after I turn it on until we meet him. And then don’t say anything after the meeting ends, until we get back to the car.”

“Okay.” Blanchard licked his lips, and swallowed. “I’ll follow your lead.”

Gage looked over and smiled. “Don’t worry, you’ll do fine.”

“Just a few butterflies.”

“Play yourself. You’re the good guy in this-and don’t react to what I do. I’ll probably need to scare him. Remember, it’s just acting.”

Blanchard nodded.

“I’ll do an introduction as we get close. Date, time, and what we expect to happen. It’s for our protection and to use as evidence.”

Gage parked down the block from the cafe, then did the tape introduction.

As they entered the cafe, Gage spotted Matson sitting alone in a booth at the back. A few of the tables were occupied by what appeared to be regulars. Matson was dressed in a pink Izod golf shirt overlaid with a tan sweater vest. Gage caught Matson’s eye as they entered.

“I’m Mr. Green and this is Mr. Black,” Gage said after they sat down. Matson slid his unopened Wall Street Journal toward the wall. Gage and Blanchard then reached across the table and handed Matson their business cards.

Gage looked hard at Matson. “You make sure nobody followed you here?”

Matson nodded. “I’ve been driving around for hours. I went all through the Presidio and Golden Gate Park and Chinatown, and stayed off the freeway coming back down.”

Gage signaled the waitress and they turned their coffee cups right side up.

“Who goes first?” Matson asked.

“Me.” Gage glanced around the half-empty cafe, then leaned forward and crossed his forearms on the table. “As I told you on the phone, one of your competitors is interested in obtaining certain technology you possess.”