Ice Fire: A Jock Boucher Thriller (19 page)

“This is a French roast,” she said, pouring from a sterling silver pot into a fine china cup. “If you have a preference, please let me know.”

“French roast is fine. Next time I’d like a little chicory.” Boucher was testing. Accommodation to small details was a good sign.

“I like chicory too,” she said. “We don’t have any right now, but I’ll be sure to get some.” She handed him his cup, bending over and offering a view of her breasts supported by a push-up Wonderbra. She stood up slowly.

“Mr. Perry has assigned me to help you. Please let me know if there’s anything you need.”

Boucher nodded. “Thank you,” he said, “for the coffee.” He sipped. “It’s delicious.”

Dawn turned and left him—reluctantly, it seemed, or maybe the reluctance was his. He wasn’t alone for long. Perry and another man entered just seconds later, as if exits and entrances were all choreographed in this organization. Perry had said he was bringing his geologist, but the person with him could not have looked less like a man of science. He was in his fifties, wore a buzz cut, had a thick neck that grew out of a barrel chest. If there was a stereotype for a former Marine—there are no ex-Marines, the corps proudly claims—this guy was it.

“Judge Boucher,” Perry said, striding toward him, “I’d like you to meet Bert Cantrell, my right-hand man, and in the whole damn country he’s the best geologist and geophysicist—which means he studies rocks and reports, dirt
and
data. He and I built this company.”

Boucher stood and offered his right hand, anticipating and preparing for the bone-crushing handshake he knew was coming. He was not disappointed, but gave as good as he got. This man would challenge him. His grip spoke volumes.

“Bert and I have been discussing your offer,” Perry said. “I couldn’t make such a decision without him. We have decided to give you a trial run. If we feel what you have is of sufficient value to us, then the arrangement you and I discussed is on. If not, you go your own way and we go ours. Deal?”

Boucher looked at both men, studying their faces before answering. “I’m going to be parsimonious with my information until our arrangement is—”

“Parsimonious?” Perry interrupted. “Come on, Judge. This isn’t a courtroom.”

“It means you’re not going to get an information dump right off the bat. I’m going to dole it out carefully. It won’t take that long for you to decide to accept my proposal.”

“That’s fair enough.” He turned to Cantrell. “Parsimonious; I thought he was talking about the damned fruit.”

“That’s persimmon,” Boucher said.

“Whatever,” Perry said. “You agree to a trial period. You’ll turn your information over to Bert; he and I decide whether it’s worth anything. We’ve set you up an office down the hall, and Dawn will be your assistant. She’ll help you with anything you need.” He paused. “Well, then, I guess we’re in business. Welcome aboard, Judge.”

“I’d prefer not to be called Judge,” Boucher said. “My first name’s Jock.”

“Jock it is, then,” Perry said. “Bert will show you to your office.”

“Let’s do that, then I’ll excuse myself for the rest of the day. I will organize the material I’ll present tomorrow.” He turned to Bert. “And I’ll have it ready by noon. I’m assuming that typing is among Dawn’s attributes, in addition to the obvious.”

“Don’t underestimate Dawn,” Perry said. “I don’t pay her a six-figure salary because of her looks. She’s got an MBA from Wharton and speaks three languages. There’s no deadwood around here, Jock. The receptionist in the lobby is also a registered nurse. I hire based on merit. If it comes in a pretty package”—he smiled—“I try not to hold that against them.”

Boucher saw his assigned office, had a few words with Bert, then excused himself. He retrieved his pickup and drove home. There he waited. Palmetto had promised him that a package would be delivered today and that he’d better be home to receive it. The midday sun had softened the early morning chill and he could not sit still. He went out back and walked his garden, alternately looking at the plants, his cell phone, and his watch. It was after nine in L.A. He dialed. Malika’s phone was turned off or she was out of range. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d been unable to reach her on her cell. He put his phone back in his pocket and went inside. He waited, wasting hours staring at the inside of his historic home, feeling disconnected from the things around him that he had loved perhaps not for themselves but maybe as markers, symbols of his success. He didn’t feel too successful right now. He called Malika again. This time she answered. She was laughing, out of breath. He could hear a male voice in the background, then a muffled sound that told him she had her hand over the phone and was trying to get someone to be quiet.

“Hi, Jock,” she said.

“I tried to call you earlier.”

“Yeah, I saw. I’m sorry. I had to sleep late this morning. We went to a cast party last night and—”

“Who’s we?”

“Jerry and I. Jerry’s my client. We had the chance to meet a director who might do the movie of his book. He’d just finished a picture, and this cast party, well, it was outrageous. Guess what? He wants me in the movie too.”

“Who, your client?”

“No, the director. His name is—”

“I don’t care what his name is.” There was silence. “How much longer will you be in L.A.?” he asked.

“I’m not sure.” Malika’s voice was flat. “There are things I need to do here.”

“Well, call me when you get back to New York,” Boucher said. “I won’t interrupt you again while you’re so busy.”

“All right. Good-bye, Jock.” She hung up.

He stared at the phone in his hand as if it would offer some explanation for the terse conversation just concluded. What did this woman want? She had said she wanted to be with him. Now she’s out West doing God knows what. Was this jealousy he was feeling—or anger over his own uncertainty about their relationship? He shunted Malika and their unresolved issues to the back of his mind.

For the next three hours he sat reading in his living room, trying to ignore his century-old Seth Thomas mantel clock, each tick of the timepiece like a small mallet beating inside his skull. The sun was going down when he heard a truck pull up and stop in front of his house.

“Finally,” he said aloud to hear his own voice. Breathing a sigh of relief, he went to his front door and opened it as the courier mounted the steps to his porch.

“This the, uh, Boucher residence?” He pronounced it
butcher
.

“I’m Jock Boucher.”

“Package for you.”

He signed for the package, then took it back inside. It was about twelve by eighteen inches, three inches thick, weighed maybe ten pounds, and was very securely wrapped. He took it to the kitchen
and set it on the table, pulled a knife from the block of his chef’s knives, and carefully cut the tape, slit open the package, then pulled out the contents—a notebook computer, a cell phone, and a small box with bits and pieces of plastic. There was a four-page letter from Palmetto in small-font, single-spaced geek-speak, giving instructions on the care and use of the equipment he’d just been sent. He read the letter, then read it again. It was too much to comprehend in one sitting. He returned to the section dealing with the notebook computer, its adaptations, and its intended use. After several readings, Boucher did manage to ascertain that Palmetto was trying to teach him about cloud computing. Apparently, the information he would be turning over to Perry was somewhere in this cloud.

What he gathered was that the cloud was like some kind of a remote database that you could access from any computer but you didn’t keep the data on the hard drive. That meant you didn’t have to worry about your computer being stolen, only about the cloud being hacked. But that seemed like a good thing in his position. Boucher was about to access the cloud when the new cell phone rang.

“Hello?”

“This is Bob,” the caller said. “I see you got the package. I’ve been tracking it on the Internet. How are you doing?”

“I was about to go online.”

“You can do that in a minute. I wanted to tell you about your phone. We’ve installed a few apps.”

“A few what?”

“Applications. Programs. Listen to me carefully. First, any call to or from this phone is secure. You don’t need to worry about that. But don’t call any of Perry’s or Rexcon’s numbers with it, and don’t make
any calls with it from inside their offices. They’ll know it’s enhanced. Now, it has what I’ll call a combination camera, laser measuring device, and CAD software program. To start the program you press the icon that looks like an eye and put the phone in your shirt pocket. You need to take off your jacket for it to see. It sticks up just above the seam of your shirt pocket. The camera is at the top. There are a couple floors I want you to walk—”

“Wait a minute. What does it do?”

“It makes floor plans.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Do I sound like I’m kidding?”

“Why do you want floor plans of executive offices?”

“First, to know where you are in case there’s a problem.”

“That’s taken care of,” Boucher said. The disk Fitch gave him was at that moment taped under the insert in his shoe.

“Yeah, right. You’ve got a GPS locator in your shoe. I knew that when you answered the phone. That’s so James Bond. With this system we know not only precisely where you are but everything that’s around you: desks, cabinets . . . we even see hardware in the walls. But that’s not all. When you walk their laboratories—”

“What laboratories? It’s an executive office building.”

“They’re going to take you to their laboratories. When they see what I send you, they will take you to their hearts, clasp you to their bosoms, and—”

“You’re coming unglued.” He could hear Palmetto laughing. “And you’re off the reservation,” Boucher said. “I’m looking for evidence of criminal activity, not trade secrets. And where did you get this spy-phone?”

“It was augmented by a guy here at the Institute. We call him Squeeze because of what he can compress into a cellular phone.”

“What is an oceanographic institute doing making cellular surveillance equipment?”

“You of all people know how important communications are to every one of the Institute’s missions. This is just an adaption of applications they use every day. You take care of this phone. It just might save your life. Okay, it’s time to get you into the cloud. Open your laptop. Let’s get you started.”

B
OUCHER ARRIVED AT REXCON’S
offices early next morning, parking in a public lot two blocks from the office tower. At eight-thirty when he arrived things were already under way. Dawn had his coffee ready and he had documents for her. He asked that they be transmitted to Bert Cantrell. Sitting alone at an obviously expensive desk, he took his phone from his pocket, held it below desk level, and stared at it, half expecting Palmetto to appear on the screen and say howdy. That didn’t happen and he sat there with nothing whatsoever to do, feeling somewhat foolish. Dawn came in, refreshed his coffee, and said that Mr. Cantrell would be in to see him as soon as he’d finished reviewing the documents. Midmorning, Cantrell burst into the office.

“Brilliant,” he exclaimed, papers clutched in his hand. “Have you read this stuff?”

“I have,” Boucher said. “It looked to me like a simple and inexpensive solution to a complex problem.” Palmetto had coached him to say that.

Cantrell sat on the edge of a chair across from the desk and leaned forward. “The separation and storage of CO
2
—it’s incredible.
This process also makes for a safer transmission of methane. If his cost projections are accurate, this process can compete with onshore natural gas production. Outstanding.” He stopped, remembering that although on his own turf, he wasn’t necessarily talking to a member of his own team. He stood up. “It’s a good start, but there are gaps.”

“There’ll be more tomorrow,” Boucher said. “But with the next installment, my audition is over. Our deal goes firm.”

“Let’s see what you bring us next,” Cantrell said, “then we’ll decide.” He started to leave.

“I have a question,” Boucher said.

“Yes?”

“Where’s the executive washroom?”

“I’ll show you the layout of the floor,” Cantrell said, “so you know your way around.”

“Thanks,” Boucher said. He took off his sport coat and draped its shoulders over the back of his chair.

He was given the tour. They even stuck their heads into Perry’s office. He wasn’t there. Jock returned to his own office and was putting his sport coat back on when Dawn entered.

“Can I get you anything?” she asked.

“I’m done for the day. You know, I don’t think I’m going to be keeping you very busy. I hope you have other things to do.”

“There’s always something,” she said, collecting the cup and saucer from his desk. “Till tomorrow, then?”

“Till tomorrow.”

The moment he got in his truck, the phone in his shirt pocket rang and vibrated, tickling his chest.

“Works great,” Palmetto said. “I’m looking at a copy of the floor plans right now.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Boucher said. “There’s nothing of interest on that floor.”

“You don’t know that. Your phone’s sensors tell me that Perry has a very large safe built into the wall of his office. It’s behind the bar; quite a piece of work. I don’t think he had it built to keep his gold watch in. Cantrell keeps a lockbox in his desk. It’s not made of tin. There’s something I want you to do tomorrow. Your desk is too close to the window. Ask that it be moved closer to the door.”

“Why?”

“There’s a jamming system built into the exterior walls and windows of the building to protect against eavesdropping. It’s interfering with your phone. If you’re sitting closer to the center of the building, I think we can get it working better. It has a range of fifty feet, so get within that distance of your target and we’ll do the rest.”

“Could you please tell me what you are talking about?”

“Everybody there has a cell phone,” Palmetto said. “The men keep theirs in their shirt or jacket pocket and the women keep them in their purses. We can use your phone to turn every cell phone on that floor into a microphone, without its owner knowing. We can adjust their phones’ settings to silent ring and automatic answer, then just call them and we’ve got a remote listening device. Just stay away from the walls and windows. Now go on home, and, by the way, take the battery out of your old phone when you get there. They can do to you what we’re about to do to them.”