The Protégé (19 page)

“It really is. Now, the immortality issue has two main subproblems. The first is, who gets to be immortal? The answer, at least initially, is whoever has enough money.”

“Which has terrible social implications.”

“Right. If you knew there was everlasting life to be had, but you didn’t have the money, what would you risk to get it? Anything, of course.”

Gillette nodded. “Then the second piece to the puzzle must be, what do you do when
everyone
can afford it? When the technology becomes commonplace and for twenty bucks a year nanotechnology can touch up any little physical problem you have. Forty years ago, computers cost millions, now you can have one on your desk for a few hundred bucks. Eventually, it will be like that with nanotechnology.”

“The way it is with every technology,” Davis agreed. “Good for you.”

“What about the Big Brother aspect?” Gillette asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Could nanotechnology enable you to inject chips into the body that would allow you to remotely record what someone sees and hears, maybe even monitor what they think?”

Davis stroked his beard for several moments. “I’m convinced that anything will be possible with this technology, Christian. Anything.”

“How would you do it so they wouldn’t suspect?”

“You mean get the chip into their bodies?” Davis asked, making certain he was clear.

“Yes.”

Davis shrugged. “All kinds of ways. You could put it in food, drinks, cold medicines, perfumes, nose sprays, air fresheners. There’d be many options. There’re many ways into the body.”

Gillette hesitated, almost distracted by the pulse pounding in his brain. “Could someone be close?” he asked, his voice almost inaudible.

“You always hear about secret projects, particularly inside the government,” Davis replied, still rocking gently in his chair, “but I don’t put much stock in those rumors.”

“But could they be close?” Gillette asked again, his voice becoming stronger, his gaze focusing.

“They could.”

“Then what’s the barrier?”

“Primarily, the complexity of molecular structures. Do you remember those huge charts on the walls of your biology and chemistry classes?”

“Barely.”

“Imagine a chart thousands of times bigger with millions of permutations. Before you can build, you must understand and then master the tools to control. It’s an incredible proposition.”

“But someone could be close. It is possible.”

Davis stopped rocking and leaned forward. “What do you know, Christian Gillette?”

BOYD ENDED
the phone call quickly when Ganze walked into his office. “What is it?”

“We lost Gillette in Harlem this morning around ten-thirty,” Ganze explained. “We know at least one thing about the QS guys now, they sure as hell can drive. Our guy couldn’t keep up.”

Boyd cursed under his breath. “Where did he go?”

“Richmond, Virginia.”

“Who did he see?”

“We don’t know,” Ganze replied.

“Why not?”

“We didn’t find out Gillette went to Richmond until he got back to New York just a few minutes ago.”

“But we have the pilots. They’re supposed to let us know where he’s going before he takes off so we can have people on the ground when he lands.”

“The pilot couldn’t call. Gillette didn’t tell him where they were going until there was a QS agent sitting right next to him, and the QS agent didn’t leave the pilot’s side until they landed at LaGuardia. The pilot literally couldn’t take a piss by himself.”

“We’ve got to do better than that.”

“I know, I’m working on it.”

“What about the other thing?” Boyd asked.

“It’s in motion.”

“Good.” Boyd thought for a second. “Did you speak to Marilyn?”

“Yes, she’s ready.”

They had to keep Gillette interested. Had to make him think he was so close to finding all these things he’d been trying to find for so long. “Tell Gillette it’s all right to call her now.” Boyd reached for the phone. “Anything more on Clayton Gillette?”

“I’m getting closer. I should have something tomorrow.”

TOM MCGUIRE
reached into his pocket for the SUV keys. He wasn’t going to stay in Avalon another day. The guy on the beach had rattled him; he’d had the look of a hunter about him, and over the last thirty years, McGuire had learned to trust his gut.

What bothered McGuire most was, if his gut was right, then who was the guy on the beach? If he was a fed, he would have arrested him. If it was somebody he’d put in prison a long time ago when he was with the Bureau who’d just gotten out, had somehow found him, and was settling a vendetta, he’d be dead. But the guy had just asked him about seashells.

McGuire pulled the SUV keys from his pocket, pushed the button to unlock the doors, then took a last look out over the bay in the late afternoon sunlight. He liked it here. It was too bad he had to go, but there was no choice.

Then he felt a burst of searing pain at the back of his neck, and everything went black.

IT WAS FIVE-THIRTY,
and they were almost back to Everest after landing at LaGuardia thirty minutes earlier. Gillette was close to finishing the third crossword puzzle of the trip when his cell phone rang. He’d turned it back on when they’d landed.

“Hello.”

“Christian, it’s David.”

“Hey.”

“Christ, I’ve been trying to get in touch with you all day.”

Wright had sent him seven e-mails. “I’ve been out of touch.”

“No shit.”

“What’s the problem?” Gillette asked.

“I’ve got to talk to you about some of these reps and warranties Maddox wants in the Hush-Hush purchase agreement.”

“Is it that urgent?”

“He really wants to—”

Gillette’s phone beeped, indicating another call. “I’ve got to take this, David. We’ll talk when I get to the office in a few minutes.” He switched over. “Hello.”

“Christian, it’s Daniel Ganze.”

“Yes,” Gillette said, dropping the folded newspaper on the seat between Stiles and him.

“You can call Marilyn McRae now,” Ganze said simply, relaying a number that Gillette jotted down. “She’s really looking forward to talking to you. Also, I should have more on your father tomorrow, or maybe Monday.”

“Thanks.”

“We’ll be speaking to you next week about the move north as well. Understood?”

“Yeah.”

“Good, talk to you then.”

Gillette stared straight ahead for a few moments after Ganze hung up, then looked down at the Los Angeles telephone number. It was shaking in his fingers.

“You okay, Chris?” Stiles asked.

“Fine,” he answered, slipping the number into his wallet.

“Not even going to give me a clue about what’s up? I mean, I didn’t ask why we had to do all the CIA-wheelman driving this morning on the way to the airport, and I didn’t ask who it was you went to see in Richmond. I figured all that was business. But this is personal, I can tell by the look on your face. What was that call about?”

“It was one of the guys I saw in Washington yesterday,” Gillette answered, his voice raspy. “He called to give me my blood mother’s telephone number. Like I told you he was going to.”

“Oh.” Stiles looked away.

Gillette could tell Stiles was disappointed that something tangible had come of the Washington trip. Stiles didn’t trust these guys. “I’ll tell you how the call goes after I talk to her.”

“Thanks. I’d like that.”

When Gillette reached his office, he pulled Marilyn McRae’s telephone number from his wallet, put it on his desk, and stared. A lifetime he’d been waiting for this, he thought as he eased into his chair. A lifetime he’d thought it would never happen, and now here it was, thanks to Boyd and Ganze. Who were these guys?

“Christian.”

Allison. She was leaning into the office. Debbie must have gone to the ladies’ room and left the door unguarded. She usually didn’t leave until seven, and it wasn’t even six yet. “Hi.”

“Can I come in?”

“Um, yeah.” He slid a manila folder over Marilyn’s number as Allison closed the door, then came in and sat in the chair in front of his desk. “What is it?”

“I wanted to let you know that Jack called me this afternoon, and he’s very excited about working with you. To quote. He believes a Veramax-Everest partnership would be ‘unstoppable.’ ”

“Jack’s a salesman.”

“Sure, but all you care about is that he’s retaining counsel so he can start drafting documents for your investment. And he’s almost finished writing that apology letter to Rothchild for keeping him out of the Racquet Club. He’s doing what you told him to do. That’s good, isn’t it?”

Gillette couldn’t stop thinking about how easily Mitchell had climbed on board the Everest train. How he hadn’t negotiated at all. And how Veramax’s bread-and-butter products—aspirin, nose drops, and cold medicine—were perfect nanotech delivery options. His mind was becoming cluttered with puzzle pieces he hoped wouldn’t fit together. “Yeah, right.”

“Don’t get so excited.”

“Do you think it’s strange that he didn’t negotiate with me at all?”

Allison shook her head. “Nope. I’ve known Jack a long time. He’s a very gut-feel kind of guy. He liked you right away at dinner last night, I could tell. He must have liked your proposal, too.”

“Mmm.” Deals rarely went down like this.

“Jack talked to that friend of his again, too. The guy who owns the leasing company. He must have given you a great report because the guy wants to see you as soon as possible. I did some number crunching this afternoon while you were gone, and it’s an even better fit with our company in Atlanta than I first thought.”

Allison Wallace was a deal hound, and Gillette loved it. “Great. Talk to Debbie and set it up. It would be better if he could come here. But if not, I’ll go back to Pittsburgh.”

“Okay. By the way, where were you today?” she asked.

“Looking at a company.”

Allison crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back into the chair. “Remember we talked about full disclosure the other night?”

“Sure.”

“That explanation didn’t sound like full disclosure. How about some more specifics? I
am
your partner.”

Gillette picked up a pen and tapped it impatiently on the desk. “Look, I’m not going to tell you about every step I take during the day. I don’t have time to keep you up to speed on every detail.”

“Details, details,” she repeated slowly. “You mean like when you have your security guy check with people I know to see if I’m a coke fiend?”

Gillette’s eyes snapped to Allison’s.

“The least you could have done was let me know what was going on,” she kept going. “You didn’t like it when
People
put you in that article without telling you. And that was
good
pub.”

“Yeah, I—”

“So I sniffed a little over my cheeseburger,” she continued, her voice rising. “I told you, I have allergies.”

“I know.”

“But you didn’t take my word for it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What?” she said, putting a hand to her ear. “I don’t think I heard you.”

“I’m sorry,
okay?
”

“That’s it? That’s all I get? An ‘I’m sorry’?”

“What do you want?”

“I want to go out on the boat with you this weekend.”

Gillette pursed his lips. “How did you hear about that?”

“I overheard Faraday on the phone talking about it.” She hesitated. “So, do I get to go?”

“First, I want to hear about those conditions you have.”

“Conditions?”

“Yeah, what you’d need from me to join Everest full time.”

MCGUIRE REGAINED
consciousness to a panoramic view of the stars, the loud roar of engines, the smell of salt air mixing with exhaust, and a throbbing pain at the back of his neck. He tried to move his hands, but they were secured tightly behind his back.

The engines droned on a bit longer, then he heard them power down, then shut off completely.

McGuire heard voices as the fishing boat drifted silently through the water, waves lapping at its hull, then he saw shadowy figures standing above him.

“Who are you?” he asked. But they ignored him as they bound his ankles together tightly with wire. He didn’t fight them; that would have been useless. His wrists were tied, and there were at least four of them. His best chance was to cooperate. “Talk to me, come on.”

A moment later, two of the men hoisted him to his feet while another cut the rope binding his wrists.

“Now we’re making some progress,” he said to the one closest to him. “So, what’s going on here?”

Suddenly two of the men grabbed his right arm and pinned it to a chopping block used for cutting bait. A third man snatched a meat cleaver off the fishing chair and slammed it down on McGuire’s wrist.

McGuire screamed insanely, his body coursing with pain, his mind shuddering with anguish. He staggered backward as the two men who’d pinned his arm to the chopping block bent and picked up a huge anchor lying on the deck. Straining against the weight, they lugged it to the side of the boat. With a massive effort, they lifted it over the side and threw it in the ocean. It splashed loudly, disappearing into the black water, and a coil of rope began whipping after it over the side.

McGuire realized instantly that the other end of the rope was attached to his ankles, and he reached out with his left hand for the man standing next to him, but he was too late. The rope snapped tight around his ankles, sending him crashing to the deck, then yanking him over the side. He grabbed an aft cleat as he was going over, holding on with everything he had against the tremendous force pulling at his legs. One of the men moved to the cleat and with a grim look began peeling away the fingers of McGuire’s left hand.

As he was about to go down, McGuire looked up into the face, expecting to see the man from the beach. But it wasn’t him, it was someone else. Someone he recognized.

“You fucking—”

But that was all he got out before his hand wrenched free and he splashed into the water. He screamed as the anchor dragged him toward the depths, his voice muffled by the water. He thrashed, trying desperately to pull himself to the surface, but there was no chance; the weight was much too heavy. For a few moments, he could see the lights of the boat through the dark water, but then, as he passed fifty feet below the surface, everything faded.