Джеффри Дивер - The Final Twist

For another, in an elevator you’re subject to someone else’s control.

On the second floor, he walked to their unit and undid both locks.

He stepped in and closed the door behind him. He was only three or four feet inside when he glanced up to where he’d hung the Davis & Sons frame, containing the halfway decent sketch of the stark view from Echo Ridge.

The wall was now bare.

They’d tagged him.

That’s how Droon and Braxton had found the new safe house.

Tagging.

“Got the back of your jacket.” Russell scanned the garment with a handheld device that looked like a noncontact thermometer. The display lit up with little yellow dots.

“How?”

“Where were you when you met with Devereux?”

“The backseat of the Rolls.”

“They coated it. RFID dust.”

Radio frequency identification.

In the Compound, where there was no high-tech, the three children were not exposed to the basic internet, much less the universe of other digital esoterica. In the years since he’d been out in the real world, as a reward-seeker, Shaw had embraced much that was electronic and he’d heard of RFID dust. It was a common technique used by security and military forces — those from countries with sophisticated SIGINT — signals intelligence — operations, and sizable budgets. Radio frequency tracking systems were complicated and worked only with state-of-the-art equipment. Satellites and drones were involved.

Once tagged, you could be trailed even when you ducked out of sight and moved via underground passages. Algorithms compared geographic mapping systems to predict where you would emerge. When you did, another sensor would pick you up again, then hand off to others.

Really remarkable.

“There was a passenger in the seat before me, one of Devereux’s dates.”

“She got tagged too but there was plenty to go around.” Russell added, “He maybe brought her along so you wouldn’t be suspicious.”

“You’ll have to dump your jacket and jeans. Dry cleaning doesn’t kill them. Your boots’ll be okay.”

So Devereux had indeed been lying. Braxton and Droon knew about his meeting and had arranged for the dust in anticipation of it.

Well, Shaw himself hadn’t been the model of honesty with the billionaire.

Shaw went into the bedroom, stripped and tossed his clothes into a garbage bag — the second set of clothing he’d lost in the space of twenty-four hours. He changed into new jeans and a black polo shirt, untucked to keep his Glock concealed.

He found his brother on the phone. Russell nodded to a spot by the door and Shaw dropped the bag there. When he disconnected, his brother said, “I’m going to swap out the SUV. There’s a place in South San Francisco we use. I’ll take care of this.” He picked up the bag. “I’ll let you know if Karin gets anything on Blond.” With that, he was out the door.

He didn’t bother to call the management of the Pacific Heights residence. Shaw was sure that there was no maid service in this particular building at this particular time of day. The woman in the hall was no maid, but a BlackBridge employee.

The brothers could now return to the safe house on Alvarez Street. Why not? They weren’t at risk any longer, since Devereux, Ian Helms and Braxton had the document in the plastic frame.

And what was happening with the vote tally now?

Shaw guessed it was already en route to Sacramento, probably via private helicopter or jet. The legal department of the state assembly would be gearing up to consider how to handle an issue that none of them had ever had to face in their collective years as legislators: a century-old amendment to the state constitution that allowed corporations to hold public office. There would be the matter of authentication and a flurry of behind-the-scenes meetings. Shaw had no doubt that Devereux was pulling strings and disbursing cash to key players in the legislative and judicial branches of government. Wielding threats too. BlackBridge would be putting its skills at blackmail and extortion to work to gin up support for the amendment.

He sat down at his laptop. A fast search of the internet revealed that Devereux, the governor, and the chief justice of the California supreme court played golf together with some frequency, and Banyan Tree employed one of the largest lobbying firms in the state.

He wondered what the reaction would be — in California, the United States, the world.

The intercom buzzer hummed. Police, canvassing after the shoot-out? Had somebody followed him from the Steelworks club last night?

“Yes?”

“Mr. Shaw?”

“Who’s this?”

“Connie... Consuela Ramirez. Maria Vasquez’s my dear friend. I’m Tessy’s godmother. I’m sorry to trouble you. Can I see you for a few minutes? I won’t be long.”

He hit the entry button, then pulled his jacket on and lifted his shirt hem over the gun’s grip. He could draw faster this way, rather than the two-step, which involved lifting a garment with one hand and drawing with the dominant. Sometimes seconds mattered.

He wasn’t, however, too concerned. BlackBridge and Devereux had the document. Why draw attention by racking up bodies? Besides, the visitor had dropped Tessy’s and her mother’s names.

When the doorbell rang, he looked through the peephole and noted a dark-haired, attractive woman in her early thirties. She was in a nicely cut business suit. For some long seconds, Shaw watched her dark eyes through the lens. If she were with anyone, not visible, she would have glanced to the side. This did not happen.

Finally he let her in, tugging his shirt back down over his weapon.

“I’m Colter.”

They shook hands.

“Would you like to sit?”

She picked the couch and Shaw a nearby chair. He detected an ambivalent floral scent, not jasmine, not lilac, not rose. Pleasant, though.

“Only a minute of your time.”

“Please.”

“Maria told me what you did. You saved Tessy’s life.” Her voice was breathless. “I don’t know what we would have done... if...” She choked back a sob and wiped at her eyes, which were tearing. She looked in her purse.

Shaw asked if she wanted a tissue and she nodded. He got her a napkin from the kitchen.

She dabbed and tried to wipe the damaged mascara, much as Vasquez had done in her Tenderloin apartment. “Maria said you were a kind man. You would not take any money, the reward.”

“She told me her situation, being laid off. I don’t need the reward. I sometimes do that in my business.”

More often than Velma Bruin liked.

“I don’t have any more money than she does, but I do have this.” She opened her purse and handed him a black velvet bag. “This was a gift from my mother. Diamond and gold.”

Shaw looked inside and shook out a necklace. It was a flower petal, a rose, he thought, with a diamond set in the center.

“I can’t take this.”

A firm smile crossed her face. “In this life, Mr. Shaw, there is not much good. I would say good with a capital ‘G,’ you know. I think good must be rewarded. I could not sleep if you didn’t accept it. You saved my goddaughter’s life.”

He had received stocks and bonds on his reward jobs, in lieu of cash. Original art too. Never jewelry.

He hesitated. “Then thank you. I will.” He put the piece back in the bag and slipped that into his jacket pocket.

And walked her to the door.

She turned. “One favor? Maria’s proud. She would be embarrassed if she knew what I did.”

“A secret, sure.”

She shook his hand with both of hers. “Good, with a capital ‘G.’”

Colter Shaw had returned to Hunters Point.