It was very easy to see how Mr. Gambiage exercised his power. But out loud Feigerman said, his voice cracking, “How many shares have you got left? A million or two?”
“My associates and I have quite a few, yes.”
“Do you know we could all go to jail for that?”
“Feigerman,” said Gambiage wearily, “that’s what you pay lawyers for. The whole transaction can be handled offshore anyway, in any name you like. No U.S. laws violated. Grand Cayman is where the options are registered right now.”
“What happens if I say no?”
With his fingers on the bas-relief, Feigerman could feel the ripple of motion as Gambiage shrugged. “Then Albany doesn’t release the funds, the project dies and the stock bounces back to where it belongs. Maybe a hundred.”
“And the reason you come to me,” Feigerman said, clarifying the point, “is that you think I come cheaper than a couple of dozen legislators.”
“Somewhat cheaper, yes. But the bottom line comes out good for me and my associates anyway.” The needles tickled Feigerman’s palm as the man stood up; irritably Feigerman froze the image. “I’ll be in touch,” Gambiage promised, and left.
It would be, Feigerman calculated, not more than three minutes before his stepson would be on the intercom.
He wasn’t ready for that. He slapped the privacy switch, cutting off calls, locking the door.
The important thing, now, was to decide what was the important thing forever. To get the project built? Or to get it built in a fashion in which he could take smug and virtuous personal pride?
Feigerman knew what he wanted—he wanted that sense of triumph and virtue that would carry him through that not-long-to-be-delayed deathbed scene, for which he found himself rehearsing almost every day. His task now was to reconcile himself to second best—or to find a way to achieve the best. He could fight, of course. The major battles had been long won. The general outlines of the project had been approved, the land acquired, the blueprints drawn, the construction begun. Whatever Gambiage might now deploy in the way of bribed legislators or court injunctions—or whatever other strategies he could command, of which there were thousands—in the long run the game would go to Feigerman—
Except that Feigerman might well not be alive to see his victory.
He sighed and released the hold button; and of course his stepson’s voice sounded at once, angry: “Don’t cut me off like that, Dad. Why did you cut me off? What did he say?”
“He wants to be our partner, David.”
“Dad! Dad, he already is our partner. Are you going to change the recommendation?”
“What I’m going to do is think about it for a while.” He paused, then added on impulse, “David? Have you been picking up any stock options lately?”
Silence for a moment. Then, “Your seeing-eye kid is here,” said David, and hung up.
When Marc came in to help Mr. Feigerman get ready he was prepared for a bad time. The other guy, Mr. Tisdale, was all in a sweat and grumbling to himself about trouble; the trouble centered around old Feigerman, so maybe the day’s walk was off, maybe he’d be in a bad mood—at his age, maybe he’d be having a stroke or something.
But actually he was none of those things. He was struggling to put his camera thing on his head by himself, but spoke quite cheerfully: “Hello, Marcus. You ready for a little walk?”
“Sure thing, Mr. Feigerman.” Marc came around behind Feigerman to snap the straps for him, and his glance fell on that pinboard thing the old man used to see.
“What’s the matter?” Feigerman said sharply.
“Aw, nothing,” said Marc, but it was a lie. He had no trouble recognizing the face on the pinboard. It was not a face he would forget. He had seen it many times before, arriving at his father’s candy store in the black limousine.
Inmate 838-10647 HARVEY John T. did not merely have one of the best jobs in Nathanael Greene Institute for Men, he had two of them. In the afternoons he had yard detail, up on the surface. That was partly because of his towering seniority in the prison, mostly because he had been able to produce medical records to show that he needed sunshine and open air every day. Inmate Harvey had no trouble producing just about any medical records he liked. In the mornings he worked in the library. That was partly seniority, too, but even more because of his special skills with data processors. Inmate Harvey’s library work generally involved fixing the data-retrieval system when it broke down, once in a while checking out books for other inmates. This morning he was busy at something else. It was like putting together a jigsaw puzzle. Under the eyes of two angry guards and the worried head librarian, Harvey was painfully assembling the shards of broken glass that had once been a ten-by-twenty-six-inch window in the locked bookshelves. When it was whole it had kept a shelf of “restricted” books safe—books that most of the inmates were not permitted to have because they were politically dangerous. Now that it was a clutter of razor-sharp fragments it was something that inmates were even less permitted to have, because they were dangerous, period. On the edge of Harvey’s desk, watched by a third guard, sat the two other inmates whose scuffling had broken the glass. One had a bleeding nose. The other had a bleeding hand. Their names were Esposito and La Croy, and neither of them looked particularly worried—either by their injuries or by the forty-eight-hour loss of privileges that was the inevitable penalty for fighting.
Those were small prices to pay for the chance of escape.
Hardly anyone ever escaped from Nathanael Greene. Of course, a lot of inmates tried. Every inmate knew that there were exactly three ways to do it, and that two of them were obvious and the other one impossible.
The obvious ways, obviously, were the ways through which people normally exited the prison—the “visitors’ gate,” which was also where supplies came in and manufactured products and waste went out; and the high-security “prisoner-transfer gate.” Trusties lucky enough to be working on the surface, farming or cutting grass, could pretty nearly walk right out of the visitors’ gate. Sometimes they made the try; but electronic surveillance caught them every time. The prisoner-transfer facility had been a little easier—three times there had been a successful escape that way, usually with fake transfer orders. But after the third time the system was changed and that way looked to be closed permanently.
Scratch the two obvious ways. The only way left was the impossible one. To wit, leaving the prison through some other exit.
What made that impossible was that there wasn’t any. Nathanael Greene was underground. You could try to dig a tunnel if you wanted to, but there wasn’t anywhere to tunnel to nearer than a hundred yards—mostly straight up—and besides there were the
geophones. The same echo-sounding devices that located oil domes and seismic faults could locate a tunnel—usually in the first three yards—assuming any prisoner could escape the twenty-four-hour electronic surveillance long enough to start digging in the first place.
That was why it was impossible, for almost everyone, almost all the time. But inmates still hoped—as Esposito and La Croy hoped. And even took chances, as Esposito and La Croy were willing to do; because there never was a perfect system, and if there was anyone who could find a way through the safeguards of Nathanael Greene it was Inmate 838-10647 HARVEY John T.
He never did get the jigsaw put back together to suit the guards, but after two hours of trying, after he had crunched some of the pieces twice with his foot and it was obvious that no one was ever going to reconstruct the pane properly anymore, the guards settled for picking up all the pieces they could find and marching Esposito and La Croy away. They had no reason to hassle Inmate Harvey. That didn’t stop them from threatening, of course. But when the lunch-break signal sounded they let him go.
The trip from the library to his cell took three flights of stairs and six long corridors, and Harvey did it all on his own. So did every other prisoner, because no matter where they were or what they were doing the master locator file tagged them in and out every time they came to a checkpoint. You lifted your leg to present the ID on your ankle to the optical scanner. The scanner made sure you were you by voice prints or pattern recognition of face or form, sometimes even by smell. It queried the master file to find out if you were supposed to be going where you were going, and if all was in order you simply walked right through. The whole process took no longer than opening an ordinary door, and you didn’t screw around if you could help it because, anyway, you were under continuous closed-circuit surveillance all the time. Inmate Harvey, carrying his book and his clean librarian’s shirt, nodding to acquaintances hurrying along the same corridors and exchanging comments about the methane stink that was beginning to pervade the entire prison, reached his cell in less than five minutes.
His cellmate was a man named Angelo Muzzi, and he was waiting for Harvey. “Gimme,” said Moots, extending his hand for the copy of
God-Emperor of Dune.
Harvey entered the cell warily—you watched yourself with Muzzi. “You’re fuckin up the whole plan,” he pointed out. “You don’t need this.” But he handed the volume over just the same, and watched Muzzi open it to the page where the shard of glass lay.
“It’s too fuckin short, asshole,” Muzzi growled. He wasn’t particularly angry. He always talked that way. He ripped a couple of pages out of the book, folded them over and wrapped them around the thick end of the glass sliver. When he held it as though for stabbing, about three inches of razor-edged stiletto protruded from his fist—sharp, deadly and invisible to the prison’s metal detectors. “Too fuckin short,” he repeated fiercely, but his eyes were gleaming with what passed in Muzzi for pleasure.
“It’s the best I could do.” Harvey didn’t bother to tell him how long he had sat with the fragments, pretending to try to reconstruct a complete pane; Muzzi wouldn’t be interested. But he offered, “The screws were going to give me a twenty-four.” Muzzi would be interested in that.
And he was. “Shithead! Did you fuck up your meet with the kid?” This time the voice was dangerous and Harvey was quick in defense.
“No, it’s cool, Moots, that’s not till Thursday. I was just telling you why that was the best I could do.”
“You told me. Now shut up.” Harvey didn’t wait to see where Muzzi would conceal the weapon. He didn’t want to know. Fortunately he and Muzzi didn’t eat on the same shift, so Harvey left without looking back.
The thing was, Muzzi didn’t need the shiv. It would be useless in the first stages. When it stopped being useless it would be unnecessary. But you didn’t argue with Muzzi. Not when he told you to steal him a glass blade. Not when he added more people to the plan and made two of them break the glass to get it. Not ever. It wasn’t just that Muzzi’s connections made the whole project possible, it was the man himself. “Man” was the wrong word. Muzzi was a rabid animal.
Tuesday lunch was always the same: sloppy-joe sandwiches, salad from the surface farm or the hothouse, milk. What they called “milk,” anyway; it had never seen a cow, being made of vegetable fats and whitener. What made it worse than usual was the methane stink from where the digging of the new sewer pits had seeped through the soil into the cellblocks themselves. Harvey didn’t join in the catcalls or complaints, didn’t let sticky soup from the sloppy-joes spill on the floor or accidentally drop a meatball into the Jell-O. He didn’t do any of the things the other inmates did to indicate their displeasure, because the last thing Harvey wanted was to get even a slap-on-the-wrist twenty-four-hour loss of privileges just now. All the same, he suffered with every bite. Inmate Harvey was used to better things.
Inmate 838-10647 HARVEY John T. had a record that went back thirty years, to when he was a bright and skinny kid. He hadn’t intended to get into violence. He started out as a Phone-Phreak, rival of the semilegendary Captain Crunch. When Ma Bell got mad enough to put the Captain in jail, young Johnny Harvey got the message. Making free phone calls to the Pope on his blue box just wasn’t worth it, so he looked for less painful ways to have fun. He found them in proprietary computer programs. Johnny Harvey could wreck anybody’s security. No matter how many traps Apple built into its software, Johnny Harvey could bypass them in a week, and make copies and be passing them out, like popcorn, to all his friends before the company knew they’d been screwed. Apple even got desperate enough to offer him a job—don’t crack our security programs, design them—but that got boring. So did program-swiping. For a while Harvey worked for the city, mostly on the programs for electronic voting and the Universal Town Meeting, but that was kind of boring, too, in the long run, and then somebody came along with more larceny in his heart than Harvey had ever owned, and saw what treasures the young man could unlock.
He unlocked six big ones. Two were major payoffs from insurance companies on life policies that had never existed, on assureds who had never been born. Three were sales of stock Harvey had never owned, except in the tampered datastore of a brokerage house’s computers. One was a cash transfer from branch to branch of a bank that thought its codes could never be compromised.
When the bank found out how wrong it was, it set a trap. The next time Harvey tried to collect a quarter of a million dollars that didn’t belong to him, the teller scratched her nose in just the right way and two plainclothes bank security officers took Johnny Harvey away.
Since it was a white-collar crime and nobody loves a bank anyway, the prosecutor didn’t dare go for a jury trial. He let Harvey go for a plea-bargained reduced charge. No one was really mad. They just put him away for eighteen months. But they put him in Attica, world’s finest finishing school for street crime and buggery. After that Harvey couldn’t get a job, and the codes had got a lot tougher, and, by and large, the easiest way he could find to support the habit he had picked up in stir was with a gun.
And when that went wrong, and they put him away again, and he got out once more, the situation hadn’t improved. He tried the same project. This time things went very wrong, and when he finished trying to shoot his way out of a stakeout there were three people dead. One of the victims was a cop. One was a pregnant shopper. The third was her three-year-old kid. Well, the forgiving State of New York could make a deal on a homicide or two, but this time they were calling him “Mad Dog” on the six o’clock news, and he was convicted in public opinion before the first juror was called. He was looking at three consecutive twenty-five-to-life sentences. If he was the most model of prisoners, he could hope to get out two months past his one hundred and ninth birthday.
That wasn’t good enough.
So Johnny Harvey summoned up his resources. He still had his winning ways with a computer, and Nathanael Greene was a computer-controlled prison. The central file always knew where every inmate was and whether he had a right to be there, because at every door, every stair, every cell there was a checkpoint. Each inmate’s anklet ID checked him in and out for all the hours of his sentence, everywhere.
That wasn’t good enough, either, but then two more events filled out the pattern. The first was when his first cellmate, No Meat, stuck his hand in the microwave oven. It was Harvey’s fault, in a way. He had told No Meat how to bypass the oven’s safety interlocks. But he hadn’t really thought No Meat would carry his protest against prison diet that far until he didn’t show up at evening lockup, and the screw told him No Meat was now well on his way to a different kind of institution, and the next day Harvey got a new companion. His name was Muzzi, and he looked a lot like bad news. He was short and scowling. He came into the cell as though he were returning to a summer home and unsatisfied with the way the caretakers had kept it up, and Harvey was cast in the role of the caretaker. His first words to Harvey were: “You’re too fucking old. I don’t screw anybody over twenty-two.” What struck Harvey most strongly, even more than the violence and the paranoid brutality in the man, was his smell: a sort of catbox rancor, overlaid with expensive men’s cologne. What struck Harvey later on, when Muzzi finished explaining to him who he was and how Harvey was going to behave, was that here was a man who was well connected. Not just connected, but holding. Muzzi was serving his sentence without the clemency he could have had in a minute for a little testimony. Muzzi chose instead to serve his time. So he was owed; and by somebody big.
The other event was that excavation started, no more than ten yards from the retaining walls of the prison, for the Bed-Stuy methane generating pit.
On Thursday morning Inmate 838-10647 HARVEY John T. returned to his cell after breakfast, along with all the other inmates in his cellblock, for morning showdown. Bedding stripped. Mattress on the floor. Personal-effects locker open. Inmates standing by the door. As always, the guards strolled past in teams of three. Usually there was just a quick glance into each cell. Sometimes a random dash and a shakedown: body search, sometimes going over the mattress with handheld metal detectors, sometimes even taking
it away to the lab and replacing it with a new one, or rather an even older, worse-stained, fouler-smelling one off the pallet the trusty pulled behind them. Harvey and Muzzi stood impassively as they went by. This time the reviews didn’t bother them; but from the end of the cellblock Harvey could hear cursing and whining. Somebody, possibly the black kid who had just come in, had been caught with contraband.