Plot counterplot, p.10
Plot/Counterplot, page 10
The officer opened the back door of the car and steered Dylan in, pushing his head down and through the door. “Just two minutes to the station, pal. They’re keeping a cell warm for you.” He pulled Dylan up, cuffed his hands, and buckled his seat belt. “You’ll feel better after you’ve slept it off.”
Dylan grabbed the wire cage separating the front and back seats, as if using it to stay upright. “Annn...then what?”
“Standard procedure.” The officer climbed into the driver’s seat and started the car. “Booking, printing. Then you get one phone call.”
Dylan closed his eyes and smiled. One phone call.
Perfect.
Chapter 18
9:28 p.m.
Two hours, thirty-two minutes
After they booked Dylan and snapped the mug shots, a black-haired baby-faced police officer escorted him to a holding cell. Dylan was still handcuffed.
“Wait a minute.” Dylan saw no point in continuing the drunk act now that he was where he wanted to be. He suspected his time here would be limited. He’d refused the breathalyzer test—possibly the first person in history to refuse because he knew he would pass—so they took blood. Soon they would run the blood test and realize he was not intoxicated. They might have questions, but they wouldn’t have a case. He didn’t want to get kicked before he’d had a chance to do what he came to do. “Don’t I get one phone call?”
“You get to make your call inside the cell.”
“Inside? But—” Dylan pointed to a phone bank in the waiting area, in front of about fifty hardshell chairs filled with minor criminals watching CSI on the overhead television. “Everyone makes their phone calls over there.”
“Not you.” He opened the cell door. “I have a friend who’s arranged special privileges for you.”
Dylan didn’t like the sound of that. But before he could reply, the officer grabbed his arm and shoved him. The baby face contorted into something far less innocent. “Get in the cell.”
“You’re with them. You’re working for Xavier.”
“Get in the cell or I’ll be forced to persuade you.” He placed his hand on his nightstick. “I’d enjoy that. Haven’t gotten to beat anyone all day.”
“I want to speak to the duty officer. Sir—”
The kid cut him off. “Open your mouth and I’ll knock your teeth out. I’ll say you went for my gun and I had no choice.” Before Dylan could think what to do, the officer shoved him into the cell. He took the cuffs off and locked the door behind him.
Dylan pounded on the cell door. “What about my phone call?”
The officer walked away. “We’ll get there, chump. Have fun.”
Dylan paced in circles, teeth gritted. His brilliant master stroke had turned into a disaster. Instead of setting himself free, he’d given up his freedom. He couldn’t do anything in here. He couldn’t contact the FBI or the press. He couldn’t check on Leilani or Dobie.
He’d tried everything Fargo Cody would do. The instant disguise from The Sisyphean Sanction. The car heist from The Calcutta Conundrum. The untraceable cell phone from The Koljack Killing. None of it worked as well when he couldn’t rearrange the world to fit his plot.
What now?
Think, he told himself. That’s what you do best. Think!
He surveyed his new surroundings. The holding cell was miserable: one sink, an unbreakable sheet metal mirror fused to the wall, and a toilet. Not even a chair. Just a bench nailed to the floor. His chances of escaping were zero. His opportunities to talk to anyone were even smaller. And—
He checked his watch. Fewer than three hours until his twelve hours ran out.
Think hard, Dylan. Think clearly.
There were two primary problems. First, Xavier always seemed to know when he was trying to contact someone. Second, Xavier always seemed to know where he was. How?
They could have anticipated that he would contact the police. So they tapped the lines, or arranged for someone to monitor incoming calls. But he didn’t believe they could have anticipated that he would contact the NCTC. Perhaps they had a listening device in his necklace or cellphone. But how did they know about the rendezvous with Carlton Reynolds? Xavier couldn’t possibly foresee that Dylan would go there for dinner, or that he would attempt to contact Carlton. Why would they go there?
Unless they followed him there...
He was certain he hadn’t been followed. Not when he snuck out of his condo, not when he left Keona’s, never. He had utilized all the professional techniques for avoiding and spotting a tail. They couldn’t have put a tracking device on his car. He chose it at random. Did they plant that pickup for him to steal? No way. Even assuming they were that smart, they would have planted the Corvette he passed on. They couldn’t have predicted what clothes he would wear, either. He’d ditched the phone and the necklace. They could not track him.
And yet, somehow, they had.
What was it Sherlock Holmes used to say, back in those stories he loved when he was a kid? When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true.
They always knew where he was, always knew what he was saying. That was a fact. So what could he deduce from that fact?
They couldn’t have anticipated everywhere he would call and put a trace on every line. They couldn’t have put a tracking device on his car or his clothes.
So whatever remained, however improbable...
Dylan’s eyes flew open. He stared into the mirror.
They didn’t bug his car. They didn’t bug his clothes.
They bugged him.
* * *
“Save your lives?” Now Leilani had the attorney’s attention. “How can I do that?”
“Two ways. You’ve still got power of attorney, right? You can rearrange Dylan’s finances?” Because Dylan was out-of-town frequently, sometimes for long periods of time on research trips—what he called extended tax-free vacations—he gave his attorney POA so he could pay the bills and manage investments.
“Yes. And?”
This wasn’t going to be easy. But she had never let the lack of “easy” stop her before. “I want a hundred thousand dollars transferred out of investments and into Dylan’s checking account.”
“That’s a lot of money. Is he planning to make a large purchase? Another Bentley, perhaps?”
“No. I just want the money there. In case Dylan needs it.” Which was the literal truth. She didn’t know where Dylan was or what he might have to do to get free of those people. But if he needed money, she wanted him to be able to get it with a phone call. If he needed an emergenCy first-class fare to Shanghai, he could get it. If he needed a military-grade supersonic bazooka, he could get it.
“Okay. Is Dylan with you? I’ll need his authorization, of course.”
“No, Dylan isn’t here, and he isn’t going to be anytime soon. I need you to arrange it anyway.”
“Leilani—I can’t do that. I need Dylan to sign off on it.”
“Mark, I know for a fact that you can do it. You may not want to. But you can.”
“I’d feel more comfortable if—”
“I’d feel more comfortable if I weren’t here at all. But this is an emergenCy, and we all have to do our part. Including you.”
“Leilani, you’re not even on the account.”
“I don’t have time for a debate. Let me bottom line this. I sleep with Dylan. I think you know how tight we are. If you don’t do this for me, I guarantee he fires your ass before the end of the week. So you choose. Are you going to transfer the money or not?”
He pondered a moment. “Let me make a call.” He took a file out of his credenza, picked up his desk phone and dialed a number. “Bank of Hawaii, please.”
She listened patiently while he talked to the banker in charge. A minute later, she heard, “That’s funny.”
“What?”
Mark held a hand over the receiver. “Did Dylan move his account to another bank?”
“No. Why?”
“They say he has no account there.”
“That’s not possible.”
“That’s what they say. In fact—” He paused and listened another minute. “They’re saying there’s no record that he ever had an account there. I know he did, though. I’ve got it right here in my file. Must be some kind of bureaucratic snafu.”
Leilani could think of another explanation. Identity theft must be a cinch for people who could break into a penthouse condo, tap phones, and put someone like Pock-Face on their payroll.
“Okay,” Mark replied, “then I want you to open an account. You can do that, right? Sell the bonds in investment account H46732X and transfer the proceeds. No, it isn’t in his name. It’s a holding company. I’ll give you the routing number. Make sure the money is ready for Mr. Taggart when he needs it.” He chattered a while longer to make all the arrangements.
“The money should be there within the hour,” Mark said as he hung up the phone. “Anything else?”
“Yes. Put this in a safe place.” She pulled a folded envelope out of her back pocket. She had handwritten the document back at her office, while she waited for a likely DBA (dead before arrival) call to come in. She sealed it in an envelope to protect it from prying eyes. She’d written down everything that had happened, everything she knew and everything she guessed, with detailed descriptions of the three men who broke into Dylan’s condo. “In the event that anything should happen to Dylan or me, or both of us, you open this, send a copy to the Star-Advertiser, and hand-deliver another copy to someone in the police department you know is trustworthy.”
“In the event that anything should happen to you. Like what?”
“Mysterious death. Sudden disappearance. Violent assault resulting in vegetative state.”
“Leilani—what’s going on?”
“I wish I could tell you, but I can’t. And I can’t stay, either. Get it done.”
“I will.” He rose to his feet. “Take care of yourself. Dylan, too.”
“We will.” She rushed out of the office—then decided to make a quick stop at the ladies before she left. While she was in there, she remembered something else she wanted to discuss with Mark. He’d supervised the creation of the dummy corporation that purchased the cabin. She wanted to remind him he was not to tell anyone about it. In fact, she wanted him to destroy his records.
She left the ladies room and reentered his office. “Mark, you need to—”
She froze. Her heart raced out of control.
Mark was sitting in his desk chair—what was left of him. His assailant must have put the gun in his mouth, because what remained of his head was unrecognizable.
A thick pool of blood puddled on his desktop. Blood splatters highlighted the wall behind him like a Jackson Pollock painting.
The envelope she’d given Mark was gone.
They’d found her.
Chapter 19
9:47 p.m.
Two hours, thirteen minutes left
They must’ve planted something on him while he was unconscious, Dylan reasoned, staring at his image in the jail cell mirror. Mr. X said she gave him an injection. He assumed it was a stimulant, but it could’ve been an anesthetic. Maybe they gave him an anesthetic, and then, once they were done, gave him a counteragent to bring him around again.
The reflection in the metallic mirror was poor. His face shimmered from the harsh overhead light shining on the silvery plating. But he could see himself.
Where was it?
He stripped off all his clothes, down to his underwear. He didn’t see anything unusual. No signs of scars or incisions. But that could simply mean they were good at what they did. Or that they’d planted something very small. Where?
Think!
At Keona’s, he’d set off the metal detector. But his necklace had never done that before.
The alarm sounded when the wand passed over his head.
He took a step closer to the mirror and scrutinized his face.
What was his first thought, the moment he awoke in his condo after his job interview with Mr. X?
His head hurt. To be more specific—his temples throbbed.
He raised both hands and massaged both sides of his head.
He felt it. On the left side, below the surface of his skin.
There was something in there.
That was why Xavier had clubbed him on the side of the head before he passed out. So the bruise would disguise the incision.
He cursed himself for not thinking of this sooner. But he didn’t have time to waste. He wanted to be able to travel freely, without being tracked.
He paced frantically around the tiny cell, searching for some way to get this thing out of his head. Holding cells were designed to give those incarcerated no opportunity to harm themselves. The sink was riveted into the wall. He couldn’t budge the mirror. Since it wasn’t made of glass, he couldn’t shatter it. He couldn’t do anything with the toilet. Drowning himself wouldn’t get that thing out. The bench was nailed down firmly, sanded and painted. There were no rough edges or—
Wait a minute. Nailed down.
Dylan crouched on the floor and examined the four nails pinioning the bench on opposite ends. They were in firmly and painted over, the same muddy gray as the bench.
Except one of them. The head of one of the nails was tilted upward slightly. Just enough.
He pinched the head between his fingers but it didn’t budge. They had taken everything from him that might be useful, like pocket change or keys. They even took his belt.
They hadn’t taken his shoes.
What can you do with a pair of shoes, Mr. Novelist?
He unlaced his right sneaker. The shoes were new and the laces were sturdy. He wrapped the lace around the head of the nail, knotted it, knotted it again on the opposite end so he could get a firm grip, and pulled.
Nothing happened.
At first. As he continued tugging, he felt the slightest give. Not much. But enough to convince him that this was not impossible.
He used both hands and pulled with all the strength he could muster. He clenched his teeth. Harder. Harder. He pulled upward with his fists, so hard he was afraid the lace would snap before the nail gave any more. He could feel sweat trickling down his brow. He continued pulling. He knew from weight training experience that once he untensed those key muscles, he would probably never be able to mount the same magnitude of strength. He pressed his feet against the bench to increase his pulling power.
The nail gave again. It poked up at least an eighth of an inch above the floor.
He pulled even harder. He closed his eyes tight. He tasted blood in his mouth. But still he pulled. Fargo Cody wouldn’t quit and neither would he.
The nail shot upward, so quickly he lost his balance and fell backward onto the floor.
The nail was halfway out.
From that point on, he could work it out with his hands. It took a while. He yanked, twisting it back and forth, moving in a circular pattern, widening ever so slightly the hole into which it had been drilled. He pulled at it, and pulled, then gave it a sudden jerk.
He had the nail. Rusted at the tip and spotted with paint. But his.
Now for the hard part.
He washed the nail off in the sink, but it didn’t make much difference. The paint and the rust remained. Didn’t matter. He had no time to worry about germs and infection.
He felt his temple, reminding himself where the foreign object had been implanted.
He pressed the tip of the nail against his left temple and pushed it in.
It was a strange and challenging thing, poking an iron object toward your skull. It went against all instinct. Particularly at the temples, the softest part of the head, the part humans instinctively protected. He’d be lucky if he didn’t die of tetanus.
He pushed harder. Blood spurted out.
Ignore the blood, he told himself, just as he ignored the pain. Head wounds always bled excessively. The fact that blood rippled around his hand did not mean he was doing himself any permanent injury.
His hand shook. Steady, Dylan. Keep it steady. He could feel the nail penetrating layers of flesh, as if a worm were squirming into him, burrowing toward his brain. Like a doctor was performing surgery while he was still awake.
He felt a pop. The nail entered what felt like empty space, an air pocket between his flesh and his skull. Somehow, that was even worse than inching through his flesh. He slowly moved the nail in a circle. The tip of the nail brushed against his skull, sending a chill up his spine.
And then he felt it. The nail touched something solid. Something that didn’t belong there.
He tilted the nail so that the tip came down between his skull and the foreign object. The shaft of the nail tore at his flesh, widening the hole it made entering. Hurt like hell, but he kept on working. Slowly, a little bit at a time, he pushed the object outward. It was wider than the nail, so it made a larger tear in his flesh. But it was moving.
Sweat and blood comingled on the side of his head. His hand was sticky, making it harder to grip the nail. He concentrated and forced the object through his flesh, one millimeter at a time.
When at last it poked through the surface, he dropped the nail and seized the object. It was about half the size of the fingernail on his pinky and covered with blood and flesh. Careful not to drop it, he wiped it off in the sink, then took a closer look.
He’d read about devices like this. It was an incredibly small polymer transponder. A listening and tracking device, imbedded subcutaneously. He’d also read about nano-radios—transmitters too small to be observed by the naked eye. This one was huge by comparison.
He saw holes on one side—a tiny microphone, no doubt. He remembered the recording they’d played for him and the echo-chamber quality it had. Because the sound was being transmitted from within his own head.
On the other side, a tiny red light still lit. A GPS tracker. That’s why he never saw them following him. They didn’t have to follow him. They knew exactly where he was at all times. And they could hear it every time he dialed a phone, every time he started to talk to someone.
