Reciprosity Page 3

  “Alice, is this live?”

  “Yes, Thomas.”

  Holy shit! “Alice, how long has this signal been in operation?”

  “You activated it forty-two seconds ago, Thomas.”

  “I activated it? How? You said Looking Glass was shut down.”

  “You used the passphrase. Don’t you recall, Thomas? This signal, like the other, is being transmitted directly through our satellite network. They never passed through the DOD operation. “Thomas, this signal will only remain active while there is a heat signature in the room. It requires broadcasting the compressed recording at a very high data rate within a very short transmission time piggybacked onto the building’s security coms. It run’s the risk of being detected. Shall I disconnect?”

  Virna and I exchanged a silent agreement.

  “Yes, Alice. Show us the other signal.” Virna and I both knew what we would see.

  It was an overhead, live feed of the very room we were standing in. We both looked up at the glass-covered ceiling again and waved. Wall to wall glass. Novak really knew his shit.

  I asked, “Alice, does the glass wall also record?”

  “Only when it is closed, Thomas. Thomas, why do you keep asking questions when you know the answers? Are you suffering from a head injury? Should I call your doctor?”

  Smart girl. “Simply a test, Alice to check...” Virna whispered in my ear. “To check to see if your self-diagnostics are functioning properly.”

  “I understand. I am functioning at ninety-nine point nine percent of expected parameters.”

  Couldn’t simply say one-hundred percent. “Alice, last December when we were here, did you record everything then?” That was when we learned everything about Looking Glass and had the shootout with the DOD goon squad. Same time, same channel, different cast.

  “Yes, Thomas. It was deleted by your assistant, Virna.”

  “What about since then?” Virna asked.

  “Virna, from my analysis of the servers, you reprogrammed them to divert all new incoming signals to this IP address.” Alice read out the number and also displayed it on her screen.

  “That’s correct,” added Virna. Then she turned to me. “Luke, if that’s what these FBI agents are after. The recordings from that room...”

  “…But I only just activated it,” I injected. “That must mean if there are other recordings from that source they were only transmitted when I was viewing the live feed...” She knew I meant Thomas, not me.

  “…Which means if there are recordings they will only be on my servers,” she concluded.

  I kissed her on the cheek. “Let’s take a look at those phones. Check Glenn’s cell first, look for family photos, contacts. You know the drill.” She sat cross-legged on the sofa. It was time to call Ray and bring him up to speed. I asked Alice if she could place a call using my personal cell number to another cell.

  “Is this another test, Thomas? I ask because this is not your mobile number. It belongs to—please wait—a Mr. Luke Cassine.”

  Smart girl. “That is correct, Alice. I want the person on the other end of the call to think I’m Luke Cassine. In fact, please do not monitor or record the conversation. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Thomas.”

  Della answered Ray’s cell on the third ring and after pleasantries, handed it to Ray.

  After exchanging stories—they were worried sick; I was shot in the arm; Mark is calling his contacts; all Virna could think about was sex; Della is making tacos; the FBI is involved; I killed one and caused two others to be wounded; did I mention the FBI kidnapped us, honest; no I’m not positive they’re FBI, give me some credit—I said, “Ray, contact Kate. She’s most likely in danger because of her husband and the Looking Glass files. I’m gonna try and get the so-called signed orders agent Glenn claims are in his pack upstairs. Check with your contacts at Justice, and be very careful.”

  I told Alice to disconnect, but answer any calls from the number I just called. Then I sat down next to Virna. “What time is it?”

  “Where?”

  “Here. Where else?”

  “You sure I can tell you that without thinking about sex?”

  Uh-oh. Here we go. “Well, you are pre-occupied with sex. That’s why I love you.”

  “Not because I’m smarter than you. Better looking than you.”

  “Those are given, babe.”

  “What about my tits? You told me just yesterday how much you love them.”

  “I love all of you. Your legs and ass and blonde hair and blue eyes and baby-soft skin and lips and tongue.”

  “And tits?”

  “Especially your tits.”

  I knew exactly where this was leading and said, “Alice, stop recording this room and turn off the lights.”

  “No!” Virna ordered. “Leave the lights on and turn on the intercom so those goons outside will know what they’re missing.”

  Virna was an exhibitionist at heart. A true, passionately hot Italian. She undressed us and threw our cloths aside. Then climbed on top and gave the goons a good ten-minute peep-show. When she was finished with me, she climbed off, walked to the glass barrier, and gave the goons the traditional Italian salute, “Andate a farvi fottere!” go fuck yourselves.

  After we dressed she said, “Grazie signore. How much do I owe you?”

  Now that’s why I love her.

  “By the way, signore, the time will be three-twenty-two, Monday morning at the beep. PEEP!”

  Back on the couch I asked Alice to mute the intercom. I asked Miss Pieralisi to tell me what she learned from agent Glenn’s cell.

  “He is what he claims, Luke. Family man, tons of photos of the kids and wife. Contacts are your usual list of extended family and friends, businesses, services, you name it. Give me a little time and I can hack it, title and verse.” She gave me her serious look. The one that says “I know you want to get that signed order from upstairs, and I know you’re not going to listen to me, so please be careful.”

  I kissed her on the cheek. “If I’m not back in 20 minutes, Get out of Dodge, hunker down, and call Uncle Vito.”

  “I was planning on calling him anyway.”

  I returned the sat-phone, told Alice to kill the lights, and headed for the exit at the far end of the data center. I didn’t want the goons to know I was gone. Mom and Dad are only taking a nap boys.

  The exit turned out to be a large freight elevator concealed behind more wood paneling. I was pretty certain I wouldn’t run into any more goons at the top, because if there were more they would already be in the cellar waiting for Virna’s next performance. It was a short ride up and I held the Glock at the ready, just in case. I looked up and saw a shaft of moonlight stream down through an opening.

  The elevator deposited me at the end of the driveway, near the guesthouse. Totally exposed like I just rose from a grave. I crouched, looked around, listened, heard an owl hoot, saw a large van parked near the main house, and scampered toward the front entrance of the Novak estate.

  The main house was mostly dark except for a few exterior security lights illuminating the grounds and light coming from the great room windows. The estate faced the lake and was terraced. The house was on the uppermost terrace with road access. The second terrace was a patio and lawn area. The lower terrace was mostly swimming pool territory. A fancy satellite dish was clearly visible on the tiled roof of the guesthouse. The entire estate, in fact, most of the region, is forested. Thirty yards to the right, a small field had been cleared for construction of a helipad. It was never built. The field was just a field.

  The Novak house was Bohemian Chic meets Naples Distressed meets SoHo Modernism meets the tasteless rich. A stainless steel, glass, brick, stucco and timber frame structure. Three stories, a basement, and a partridge in a pear tree, clinging to the edge of Mont Bre. It was a beautiful moonlit night and the lights from the lakefront communities rimmed the black waters like a necklace of colorful jewels laid out on velvet. Bluestone st
eps led down to the shoreline and a boat dock. Halfway across the lake was Italy.

  The entrance was unlocked. The ground floor was all living and eating spaces. Definitely decorated by Mrs. Kate Novak. Bohemian Chic meets California Casual. All in hues of soft peaches and cream. The great room where Virna and I woke up was empty. The lights were on. The two Bauhaus tubular metal chairs stood cold and silent. A testament to great design, if your goal was to make the person sitting in them as uncomfortable as possible—or torture.

  It only took me two minutes to find the snatch-squad’s gear stacked on the large dining table. Five small back-packs made of matching black nylon. There were various brands of snack food wrappers and empty water bottles scattered around. I searched all of the packs. Changes of underwear and socks, a handful of 9mm mags, two 9mm mags with yellow labels, one night-vision binocular, a fishing magazine, flashlights, first-aid kits—and recent photos of me and Virna at a restaurant in San Francisco. This alarmed me because the third person at our table was Katherine Novak. We had been under surveilance for at least the past two weeks since that dinner. I hoped Ray was having luck contacting Kate.

  And as expected, I didn’t find any written orders. That and the yellow labeled magazines and the first-aid kits puzzled me.

  Why would Agent Glenn lie? He surely imagined I would try to find it? Why were the two goons in the wine cellar treating their wounded buddy by pouring hundred-dollar wine on his leg wound and using a daisy-chain of plastic ties as a tourniquet? Why didn't they carry him up here where he could be treated properly?

  I thought on these questions while I explored the rest of the house. The beds in the upstairs sleeping quarters were, as Virna described in our last visit, just waiting for us to use them. The kitchen was one of the best equipped I had ever seen. Even more impressive than the one in the Novak mansion in San Francisco. This one even had a walk-in freezer. I know, never go into a walk-in freezer without making damn sure you can get out after the bad guy locks you in. I saw those movies, too.

  I opened the door and peeked in. There was indeed a safety bar inside and a square-button light switch. I slapped it on. The freezer was frost-free—and so were the two bodies lying face-up on the floor. One male. One female. Both about thirty. The man was black, the female, white. They both wore grey utility uniforms with NovaTech insignias on the left breast.

  They were employees of Katherine Novak, heiress and new CEO of NovaTech, the company her husband founded. The company that built Looking Glass. If I made a wild guess, they were here to dismantle the data center as part of Kate’s efforts to rid the company of all remaining Looking Glass installations.

  My second wild guess. They refused to tell the goon squad how to access Alice’s little hideaway in the wine cellar. The bodies showed no signs of abuse, if you don’t call bullet holes in the chest abuse. What little blood there was had frozen beneath their uniforms. I gently rolled each body on its side. No exit wounds. I memorized their names sewn below the company logo. Jim Cavendish and Lena Harvey. Cavendish and Harvey. Under any other circumstance I would have laughed. I knew as I exited the freezer, I would think of them every time I sucked on a sour lemon drop. I also knew it was time for a reckoning.

  At the entrance to the wine cellar the puzzle of why the goons never carried their wounded mate to the first floor and the first-aid kits, was answered. A steel door stood in their way. Agent Glenn didn’t know the door was here because he was spending the night with Virna and me.

  Bonus question. When I told Alice to close the glass barrier, she also closed this door and sealed everyone in. Alice didn’t close this entrance the last time Virna and I were here. Why now? There was a glowing flat panel near the right doorframe. About the size of your largest smart phone. I tapped it. A female voice said, “Which room please, or select from the floor plan.” A rotating 3D image of the house appeared.

  I said, “Show me the basement.” A plan-view replaced the 3D image. The wine cellar was labeled CELLAR. The room where Virna waited was labeled COMS. For security reasons, the data center was not shown. I asked, “Is there a live feed of the rooms?”

  “Passphrase, please.”

  I showed my brilliance and answered, “Alice.”

  “Insufficient response.”

  Fuck. I wanted to see where the goons were hiding. Did insufficient mean I was on the right track? Then I remembered what worked with the security service when we first entered the property last December. “Alice in Wonderland” I said.

  “Thank you. Which area do you wish to view?”

  “The cellar.”

  Three windows popped up—in infra red. Basically black and white video, and clear as day. Only one view showed the goons. They were sitting with their backs against the wine rack nearest the glass barrier. Virna would not be able to see them. One man was drinking from a bottle. The wounded man was lying down. The third man was talking with great animation into his sat-phone. Shit! Time was running out.

  I dashed back to the dining room, grabbed the night-vision binocular and a flashlight, and ran back to the door. I cleared the screens and said, “Coms.”

  Virna was in the middle of hacking Agent Glenn’s cell when she heard the buzz. She looked around then rose from the couch and walked toward the sound. A glass window was flashing on the desktop, next to Alice. She tapped it. “Luke?”

  “Yea. Listen carefully.”

  Before they could continue, Alice interrupted, “I am receiving a call from a Ray Mattock. Will you accept the charges?”

  “Now your’e a comedian!” Virna said.

  “I do have the ability to mimic human emotions if...”

  “Never mind, Alice. Can you conference the call to the active intercom?” Alice confirmed. “Put the call through. Did you catch all that, Luke?”

  “Yea.”

  Six-thousand miles away, Ray Mattock said, “Listen carefully, kids. Senior Special Agent Scott Glenn and Special Agent Jake Samson are not—I repeat—are not FBI agents. They were both summarily dismissed from the agency thirteen months ago. Don’t know why because the files are sealed. Mark learned through a contact that they are currently employed by a private military contractor in Virginia. The company is called Overwatch. And get this, the board of directors list includes a name I know you are familiar with, Luke. William Richard Laenker (deceased). Don’t interrupt, there’s more. Overwatch has a dozen facilities or offices in the states and Europe. One is only four hours away from you in Geneva.”

  I killed that fucker, Laenker, in the Maldives earlier this year when I caught him abusing a young boy.

  “Ray,” I said. “I gotta run. If the cavalry is coming we need to be outa here pronto. Call you back. Alice, you still on?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Can you open the safety door leading down to the cellar without opening the glass barrier?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Open it now.”

  The sound of the door opening was quieter than I imagined. One obstacle down. I wrestled one of the two guns out of my waistband and crept down the steps to the still darkened cellar. The stone was cold against my bare feet. My eyes were already adjusted to the moonlit darkness above. Below was a different world altogether. Pitch black. I had a good map of the layout in my head, having been here once before. I also had the night-vision binocular. It wasn’t ideal, but, as I read somewhere, advantage is a better soldier than rashness.

  The wine cellar was about the size of a large three-car garage. Roughly forty-feet wide and thirty-feet long. A six-foot wide aisle ran the short length toward the Alice room where Virna waited. Four tall racks, separated by narrow isles, stood on either side, like a grocery store. From my surveilance, I knew the three goons were hanging out behind the last rack on the left.

  I took a quick look through the binocular. I could see Virna on the LCD screen—pacing near the desk. Through the optical magnification we were practically nose to nose. I couldn’t see the goons but I could hear them talki
ng. I quietly placed the binocular on the floor, pulled the flashlight from my waistband and held it in my left hand so I could instantly thumb the rear button. I held the 9mm in my right. I crept down the long aisle until I was even with the third rack, took a breath, stepped into the aisle between the last two racks, thumbed the light and said, “Make my day!” Seriously.

  The sudden bright light after sitting in pitch black for twenty minutes had the effect I wanted. Like deer in the headlights, hands lifted to ward off the light, they gave up like babies. Didn’t even attempt to reach for their holstered weapons. Odd! I made them secure each others wrists with plastic ties, took their weapons, and dragged them by the collar into the main aisle where I could watch them. Before I could tap on the glass to alert Virna, the lights came on and the glass barrier opened.

  She rushed into my arms. “Dio, ti amo, grosso pezzo!”

  I think I got the gist of it. “I love you too, you big hunk o’lov’n.” Thank you, thank you very much. Eat your heart out, Elvis.

  “Do you think bad news is on its way? she asked.

  “Best not wait around to find out.”

  “What about them?” She nodded to the three tied up on the floor. “And ex-Agent Glenn? We can’t just leave them here. They know too much.”

  I agreed, but I was never one for shooting unarmed men, especially when they’re tied up. I guess I could let them go, like in Mexico—and then shoot them. But they weren’t all bad, just a lot misguided. Plus I had more questions for them. “Did you contact Uncle Vito?”

  She smiled that smile that made me want to carry her upstairs to one of those beds she was so interested in. “Yes. He says they have a small compound on the Italian side of the lake. He’s sending a boat and a few men. He knows this house well. Did his homework after we gave him all those juicy recordings last December. Should be here soon.”

  And right on cue a voice shouted from above. “Virna Pieralisi, è tuo fratello, Giovanni. Vito ci ha mandato.”

  It was Virna’s oldest brother. I met him this past Christmas at the Cassine family compound in Italy.