kind of relationship.”
“It doesn’t take a relationship to father a child,” Jack points out.
Jonny Bing laughs, a little too sharply. “Believe me, I know that! But seriously, someone has been pulling your leg. Not Joe. No way.”
“Okay,” says Jack, letting it go for the time being. “What about enemies, threats, anything of that nature? Something connected with QuantaGate, perhaps?”
Bing thinks about it. “I’m the prime investor, but that doesn’t mean I have anything to do with the day-to-day operations. Quite the opposite. Still, I would know if there was anything to be concerned about. Corporate espionage is always a worry, but those types steal information—trade secrets and so on—they don’t kill.”
“But there is something worth stealing?”
“Absolutely,” Bing says, folding his spindly little arms.
“So what exactly do they make at QuantaGate?” Jack asks, pressing.
Another big, boyish grin as Bing raises his eyes, looks directly at Jack. “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you—sorry, bad joke under the circumstances. The truth is, I don’t know or understand the technical specifics, but it’s public knowledge that the company has an exploratory contract with the Defense Department to develop a new way for computers to communicate over long distances. Joe had a theory about that, which he believed had practical applications. That was the basis for the company, taking one of his ideas and finding a way to make it work.”
“And did he? Make it work?”
Jonny Bing smoothes the thatch of hair away from his eyes, grimacing slightly. “No, not yet. There are many difficulties, which is to be expected with a breakthrough technology. To my surprise, the DOD has shown remarkable patience and has continued to fund the project. They seem to understand that they’re dealing with the future, and that it will take a while to get there.”
“And now that Professor Keener is gone?”
The smaller man shrugs. “The project continues as long as there is funding. We will continue to work on developing practical applications to Joe’s theories. Beyond that, I have no way of knowing. Time will tell.”
“Who gets his share of the company?”
Bing winces, looking slightly embarrassed. “I was looking into that just before you arrived. The answer is, I don’t know, not yet. Voting control of the shares, which are privately held, reverts to the partners. That’s me, mostly. But any income derived will go to his estate.”
“So you won’t benefit financially?”
A somber expression adds years to his youthful appearance, making him look closer to forty than thirty. “I don’t benefit at all, Mr. Delancey. No, no, no. Joe dying is absolutely the worst thing that could happen. If faith in QuantaGate collapses the whole investment is in jeopardy.” Bing sighs, fishes a vibrating cell phone out of one of the guayabera’s many pockets, checks the screen. “Sorry, it’s been really cool talking with an action dude like you, but I have calls to catch up on. Can you find your way out?”
“No problem.” Jack stands up, shoots his cuffs. “Just one thing. You mentioned a concern about corporate espionage. Who handles security for QuantaGate?”
“The usual rent-a-cops, I suppose,” Bing says vaguely, as if he couldn’t care less. “Sorry, but that kind of day-to-day really isn’t my thing. I’m a big picture guy.”
“I can see that,” Jack says affably, offering his hand.
“Tell Dane to have her people call my people. Joke, joke. She has my number.”
“Thanks again for your time,” Jack says. “And have a blast in Bermuda.”
Kidder observes the marina from his vehicle, from a carefully chosen location not covered by any of the security cameras he’s been able to identify. Most of the cameras are along the shoreline, focused on the floating dock area, which makes sense, and presents a mild level of difficulty. All part of the game. As is the constant awareness that he has an item in the trunk that will be defrosting in the heat, and that must be delivered before it goes bad.
Tick tock.
Watching through his pair of small Nikon binoculars, Kidder sees the lean, athletic man in the sharp suit exiting the big yacht, striding purposefully toward the security gate, obviously leaving the area. This is good. Every inch of the guy says “senior investigator,” and Kidder doesn’t need the complication of dealing with a professional, not when he has to find a way around the security cameras.
Using the Nikons, he follows the sharp dresser to the back of the marina parking lot, and manages to pick up the plate number on the gleaming Lincoln Town Car as it makes the turn. What is the guy, a glorified chauffeur? Would any self-respecting investigator have an uncool ride like that? Maybe he’s misread Mr. Sharp, maybe he’s an empty suit, but that can all be resolved later, when he runs the plate.
For now, keep to the task at hand. Kidder glasses the big yacht, notes again that it’s tied to the farthest of the floating piers, just inside the breakwater. Kidder grunts, having arrived at a solution. There’s more than one way to skin a cat—not that he’s ever skinned one, he sort of likes cats, cats are killers—and more than one way to board a fat-cat yacht.
One if by land, he thinks, grinning to himself, two if by sea.
Chapter Thirteen
Life Is Short But She’s Not
Dane Porter perches at a sidewalk table in downtown D.C., seething. Her arms are firmly crossed, her brow furrowed. She has never been so humiliated. First she’s refused entrance to the FBI by a pudgy female with a smug attitude, and then she’s ordered to cool her heels—and heels is where the trouble began—at a Five Guys hamburger joint.
As if. A French fry hasn’t passed her lips in two birthdays, at least, which is part of how she maintains her lithe and youthful figure and a body mass index of nineteen. She’s in the open air, but every time the restaurant doors open she can feel deep-fried calories exuding through the atmosphere.
Twenty minutes, the voice on the cell had promised, and sure enough in twenty minutes exactly Assistant Director of Counterterrorism Monica Bevins comes striding up the sidewalk, all six foot plus of her, looking in every way formidable. Smart, no-nonsense hairdo, power pantsuit, black executive handbag on a long strap slung from her wide athletic shoulders. Ready to leap tall bureaucracies in a single bound, save the planet, no problem that can’t be solved.
“Attorney Porter?”
Dane stands, formally shakes the big lady’s hand, figuring that’s what you do with high-ranking feds, you tug the forelock and curtsy, or whatever.
Bevins towers over her.
“Let’s go inside, shall we?”
Dane opens her mouth to demur—she loathes the smell of frying cow—but AD Bevins is already moving through the door. A force-of-nature type, obviously, and used to assuming full command of any given situation. Bevins marches to a recently vacated table in the back of the place, sweeps away the peanut
