Steven Gore - Final Target

“Which one?”

“If I told you that, you’d cut me out. Right?”

Matson smiled. “It crossed my mind.”

“That wouldn’t be a good move. You’d lose your insulation.” Gage jabbed his own breastbone hard enough to make a thump. “And I’m your insulation.”

Matson’s smile faded.

“Suppose somebody figures out where my client got it?” Gage pointed at Matson. “You want a trail back to you?”

Matson shook his head.

Gage leaned back and spread his hands for a moment. “So what if it gets traced to me? I’ll already be Mr. White or Mr. Blue or Mr. Orange the second this deal is done.” Gage locked his eyes on Matson. “You understand?”

Matson swallowed, then nodded.

“So we’re not going to play any games,” Gage said.

“No. No games.”

They fell silent as the waitress arrived to fill their cups.

Gage tilted his head toward Blanchard after she walked away. “Mr. Black here will tell me what the technology is worth.”

Matson looked at Blanchard, whose face remained impassive, then back at Gage. “What if he’s wrong?”

“He’ll be right. When he’s done looking at the devices he’ll give me a number. It’ll be my only offer.”

“What if I don’t like it?”

“Then we never met. But you need to think about something.” Gage paused until he saw a glimmer of bewilderment in Matson’s eyes. “How many Mr. Greens have come knocking on your door?”

“Well…” Matson looked back and forth between them, then chewed on his thumbnail before finally focusing his eyes on Gage. “How do I get paid if we do the deal?”

“That’s up to you.”

Matson was quick to answer. “I want cash.”

Gage tapped his forefinger on the table. “Cash will cost me ten percent. I’ll need to deduct it from your end.”

“That’s a little steep.”

“It’s also a little risky. Money laundering will get me a lot more time than a little trade secrets beef.”

Matson’s eyes darted around the cafe, as if he was expecting FBI agents to spring from behind opened newspapers.

“If we can agree on a price,” Matson finally said, “I’ll take it in cash.”

“No problem. Why don’t you tell me what you think it’s worth?” Gage slipped his arm under the table and gripped the top of Blanchard’s thigh to keep him from reacting to Matson’s answer.

Matson took a sip of his coffee. The cup rattled slightly when he set it down. He leaned forward.

Gage tightened his hold on Blanchard’s thigh.

“Three million.”

Gage paused. “I think Mr. Black may find that a little high.”

“I’ll need to examine the devices,” Blanchard said.

Gage removed his hand.

“See,” Gage said with a slight grin. “That’s why I trust him. He doesn’t just tell me what I want to hear. When can he get a look at them?”

“There are a few more things I want to know,” Matson said.

“Shoot.”

“How do I know you won’t try to steal the technology?”

Gage smiled. “First, because I’m not in a labor-intensive business. I don’t work for a living. I merely put people who have something together with people who want something. Second, you know as well as I do that you can’t reverse-engineer these things. You need the code. And third, all Mr. Black needs is access to your facility to run a few tests. He won’t remove anything. Right, Mr. Black?”

“Right.” Blanchard sounded relaxed, friendly, now into the part. “That’s all I need. I don’t need to take anything and I don’t need to look at your code.”

Matson nodded. “Okay. I’ll go that far.”

“There’s one other thing,” Gage said. “Companies auction off their assets when they fold. I don’t want you including the intellectual property.”

Matson blanched.

Gage smiled to himself as he watched Matson’s plan to sell the IP twice evaporate, and then said, “I’ll arrange a leak to the financial press that the run-of-the-mill SatTek products are the same as everybody else’s and the higher-end technology is quickly becoming dated. Everybody will think the IP is more trouble than it’s worth. And I’ll throw in that SatTek conceded that one of your competitors makes the best devices in the field.”

“So then I just auction off the hardware?”

“Right. And if somebody wants to look at the IP, Mr. Black will screw around with the software until it travels in circles. Right, Mr. Black?”

Blanchard hesitated as if thinking through how he could rewrite the code, then nodded. “No problem.”

“When can he get in?” Gage asked.

Matson looked at his watch. “I want to get this over with. Let’s make it this afternoon.”

“We’ll be there at two o’clock.”

Gage and Blanchard slipped from the booth, then headed for the door, leaving Matson to deduct the three coffees from his end.

Once in the car, Gage retrieved the pen from Blanchard’s shirt pocket, repeated the date and the new time, then clicked it off.

“Matson has no idea what it’s worth,” Blanchard said as they drove away. “It’s a good thing you grabbed my leg, I would’ve laughed out loud.”

“As soon as he asked, ‘Who goes first?’ I knew he hadn’t thought everything through. He’s forgotten SatTek had a real product. For him it’s now just numbers. How much he needs, not what it’s worth. I’ll bet he was thinking he’d ask for five, but the words “money laundering” punched him in the gut.”

“It punched me in the gut. Why did Matson go for it so easily?”

“He hasn’t yet, but he will. There are only two things he needs to worry about. One, that we don’t rip him off. And two, that we’re not cops. And he knows we’re not cops.” Gage looked over and smiled. “When is the last time anybody your age worked undercover?”

Blanchard drew back. “In Berkeley we call that ageism. But what’s the real reason?”

“It’s because the one lesson he’s learned since he started cooperating with the U.S. Attorney is that the cops are on his side. He knows they need him. He’s told them lots of lies, held back things he didn’t want them to know. He’s figured out that they’ll believe anything he tells them because they want to believe him.”

“But wouldn’t they test him once in a while? Just to see if he lies.”

“It would be the end of their case.”

“Then why don’t you just take the recording of our meeting to the prosecutor?”

“Because Matson will say he was setting us up, trying to deliver something new in order to work more time off of his sentence-and they’ll believe him.”

Blanchard shook his head. “Suddenly electromagnetics and plasma physics seem somewhat less confusing than law.”

“This isn’t law, it’s called the gray area.”

Gage reached for his phone and called Milsberg.

“I need you to make yourself scarce this afternoon, and don’t ask why.”

He disconnected and made a quick call to Viz, then took the on-ramp to 101 South toward San Jose.

Matson met them in the SatTek lobby.

“How long will this take?” Matson asked Gage, eyes darting toward the entrance, then back and forth between the hallway toward the lab and the one toward the accounting and marketing departments.

“A couple hours. If anybody asks questions, just tell them we’re interested in bidding on the inventory.”

Matson stayed in the lab long enough to watch Blanchard hooking lines up to the RF input and the video output of the same model video amplifier he’d already tested.

“So what do you want to do for two hours?” Gage asked, after the door closed behind Matson.

“I’ll give you a lesson in how these things work.”

Matson looked in every fifteen or twenty minutes, each time observing Blanchard pointing at a device or at a computer monitor and making notes.