Invasion of Privacy: A Novel Read online

  Mary pried the phone from his hand. “Jessie?” she said. “It’s Mom. Where are you?”

  A man answered. “Mrs. Grant? This is Linus Jankowski. I’m returning your message. Calm down, okay? Everything’s just fine.”

  “Linus? Is she with you? Can I talk to her?”

  “No, ma’am. She isn’t. I thought she might have called to tell you.”

  “Where is she? Is she all right?”

  “She’s fine, Mrs. Grant. At least, she was when she left. I told her to call you.”

  “What do you mean she left? Where is she?”

  “Right about now, I imagine, she should be landing in Vegas.”

  “Las Vegas?”

  “Yes, ma’am. She’s going to DEF CON.”

  74

  Ian set down his cup of tea, eyes watering from the strain of staring at so many screens for so long a time. His job was done. In the morning Mary Grant would discover the vastly altered landscape of her living situation. She was prideful and obdurate, to a fault. But she was not stupid. She would choose the carrot, not the stick.

  Yawning, Ian crossed the office and sat on the corner of a credenza. You’d be proud, Father, he said silently, eyes on the black satchel. I’m not a bloody savage. You didn’t raise me to do harm. I’m a diplomat like you. Or at least as you had us all believe. I know better, don’t I? That’s why you left your satchel behind. You wanted me to know.

  Ian kneeled and with care unfastened the satchel’s brass locks. He opened the case as a scholar might open an ancient text. Inside were files. Day-to-day circulars from the Prague consulate, circa 1988. Upcoming holidays. Office hours. A strictly worded communiqué stating that only the head of station and his assistant were to use the newly installed telefax machine. There was also a checkbook. The balance stood at £750. A study of the register showed regular checks written to one Off-Track Betting. The amounts came to £400 in the register alone. Further investigations had showed the sum total of all Peter Prince’s wagers to be significantly higher: £137,000 over a fifteen-year period, to be exact. Nearly $250,000. Chump change today, but to a diplomat earning £38,000 a year, a tidy sum indeed.

  Ian dropped the checkbook. There was one last item inside the case. He picked it up and laid it in his palm. Exhibit A: one Walther PPK nine-millimeter semiautomatic pistol. Government issue. Serial number 9987C.

  Peter Prince wasn’t a second-rate diplomat or a lousy gambler. He had not simply walked out on his family after squandering their savings, leaving them destitute. Rumors of his suicide were just that. It was all cover. Part of a carefully woven tapestry to obscure the facts of his true position. Ian’s father was a spy. He’d died on duty for Her Majesty’s government. Ian was certain of it.

  Tomorrow he would finally gain the means to learn if he was correct.

  He smiled in anticipation, replacing the pistol and closing the satchel.

  That was when he heard the voice.

  “Briggs?” he said. “That you?” Ian looked around, sure that no one else was in the office.

  Briggs’s voice was emanating from a screen inside the tower. Ian retook his position inside the curtain of websites. He scanned the tower top to bottom, side to side. Briggs spoke again and he pinpointed the source.

  It was a screen displaying the surveillance feed courtesy of the Grants’ desktop.

  Ian stood straighter, his fatigue banished to a later time. He was not surprised, only disappointed. For now he paid close attention and watched until there was no longer need.

  75

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  Mary entered the kitchen to find Carrie Kramer pressing a bag of ice to Grace’s leg and Tank hovering nearby like a concerned uncle.

  “Just a bruise, Mom,” said Carrie. “We’re all going to be fine.”

  Tank broke away and walked to her, using his bulk to provide them with a moment’s privacy. “What took so long?”

  Mary stepped closer. “They tried again,” she whispered. “I had to knock him out.”

  “To kill you? He’s there now?”

  Mary swallowed and her throat ached. “I’ll tell you everything in a sec.” She continued past him and sat down next to her daughter. “What is it, mouse?”

  “My leg hurts,” said Grace. “I tried not to let it bother me. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry.” Mary gave her daughter a hug. “If something bothers you, tell me right away. Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  “Now let me take a look.”

  Grace lifted the ice bag off her leg. “It got bigger.”

  Somehow Mary managed a smile. “You know what I think? I think it’s just a big bad bruise from falling on the trampoline.” She was lying. She’d never seen a bruise like that from a simple tumble. She prayed it was a reaction to the new medicine Grace was taking.

  Grace poked at her leg. “It isn’t coming back, is it, Momma?”

  “Doctor Rogers said you’re doing just fine. But tell you what—we should probably go to the hospital to have them check it out.”

  “Now?”

  “I think that’s best.”

  “Can they give me something to make it stop hurting? Carrie gave me an Advil, but it’s not doing anything.”

  “I’m sure they can. Now can you wait here with Carrie for a few minutes while I talk to Tank?”

  Grace replaced the ice bag. “Did you find Jessie?”

  “She went on a little trip, but she’s just fine.”

  “Where?”

  “I’ll tell you in a second.”

  “Did you talk to her?”

  “Not yet.”

  Grace considered this with genuine concern. “Then how do you know she’s fine?”

  Mary laughed off the question as if it were part of some larger, amusing misunderstanding, then led Tank into the dining room. Once inside, her smile dimmed and she collapsed onto a chair.

  “What happened?” asked Tank, taking the chair opposite her. “You look like hell.”

  “Jessie’s in Las Vegas. She went with her friend Garrett to compete in some kind of hacking game. Apparently someone’s there who might help her figure out who hacked into my phone originally.”

  “Slow down. Catch your breath.”

  Mary cradled her head in her hands until her breathing returned to normal. She felt the color coming back into her cheeks. Even better, her forearm stopped throbbing from the collision of bowl and bone.

  It took her ten minutes to relate all that had transpired inside her home—finding the Ferrari key, hearing the intruder enter and the shots being fired upstairs, hiding beneath Joe’s desk while the intruder sat inches away telling an associate that no evidence had been located on Stark’s body, and finally hearing the call she’d thought was from Jessie but was from Linus Jankowski and her rash decision to attack the man.

  “It was Keefe,” she said. “He’s the one who betrayed Joe. He told them that Stark was the informant. The South African said that Keefe didn’t know how Joe’s informant was bringing out the evidence and that Joe was on to Edward Mason. You were right. They won’t stop until we’re all dead.”

  Tank sighed. “I hate it when that happens.”

  Mary stood, feeling stronger, if only because she knew what was required of her. “I may be able to reach her. Linus gave me Garrett’s number.”

  “Tell her to get somewhere safe. The sheriff or the police. Even the fire department.”

  “But the South African didn’t speak to Linus. They don’t know where Jessie is.”

  Tank stood and stepped closer to her, suddenly angry. “Be real. If you know she’s in Vegas, so do they.”

  Mary left the room to borrow Carrie Kramer’s phone and took it into the bathroom. Despite her prayers, Garrett Clark didn’t answer his phone. She left a message. “Garrett, this is Mary Grant. Listen to me. I don’t care that you and Jess are in Las Vegas. But you need to get away from that convention and go someplace safe. The people that hurt
my husband—the men that killed Jessie’s dad—know where you are. Go to the police station now. I’ll be on the first flight out this morning to get you guys. Just go to the police station and stay there. Oh…and don’t use your phones. Either of you.”

  Mary put down the phone and stared at her reflection. She was a mess. Her eyeliner was smeared. The circles beneath her eyes were dark enough to tar a driveway. She splashed water on her face and washed off the remaining makeup, then found a comb and tried to make sense of her hair. Standing straighter, she looked into her own eyes, trying to access some untapped reservoir of courage, to drum up some last measure of strength, or maybe just a little hope. After a moment she dropped her eyes. She had none. Still, what was she supposed to do? Give up? Throw in the towel? She couldn’t. She was a mom.

  —

  She found Tank lying on the couch, drifting off. She roused him and told him her plan.

  “You’re sure?” Tank asked her when they’d finished hashing it all out.

  “Can you think of anything better?”

  “And your friend will help?”

  “I think so. For Grace.”

  “Okay, then. Let’s get moving.”

  “You still haven’t told me where the car is.”

  “The Ferrari? Don’t worry. I know exactly where it is.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I saw it yesterday.”

  76

  The knot on his skull was the size of a grenade.

  Staggering to his feet, Peter Briggs drew his fingers away from his scalp. There was no blood, only a feral and incessant hammering. All in all, he decided, it might be wiser to sit for a minute. He landed in the nearest chair and after a good deal of reckoning concluded that he’d been out for five minutes.

  Briggs knew that he’d sustained a concussion. By rights he should be inside an ambulance, rushing to the hospital to undergo an MRI. The idea had as much appeal as a case of the clap. Ian Prince would not appreciate learning that his chief of security had been brained by the woman he’d been forbidden to interfere with, let alone murder.

  The hospital was out.

  Briggs arranged his commo headset, bringing the mike to his mouth. “You there?”

  “What happened? You sound like you’re dead. Must be some woman. Killed Shanks and got the best of you, too.”

  “Forget about the woman. Just tell me you captured the incoming call.”

  “I got the whole thing.”

  “Who was it?”

  “You don’t remember?”

  Briggs’s last memory was of being in Joe Grant’s study looking at the flash drives. “Just tell me who it was.”

  “Someone named Linus Jankowski. He’s a postdoc at UT.”

  “What did they talk about?”

  “She wanted to know where her older daughter was.”

  “And he knew?”

  “According to Jankowski, she flew to Las Vegas. I checked the flights. A Southwest Airlines jet out of Austin is due in at two-fifteen.”

  “Do we have any confirmation she’s on it?”

  “I’m working on the passenger list.”

  Briggs struggled to take this in. It was his belief that the older daughter had merely sneaked out of the house with a boyfriend. “Why Vegas? Why now?”

  “She’s going to DEF CON.”

  “You’re kidding. Why?”

  “I have an idea. Something I picked up off her texts yesterday.”

  Briggs forced himself to stand and get moving as the Mole revealed what he’d learned about Jessie Grant’s interest in hacking and her questions about a particular line of code. “Why didn’t you say anything about this before?”

  “Didn’t know we had any interest in the kid.”

  “Well, you should have.”

  “And that line of code she was interested in…”

  “Don’t worry about that,” said Briggs. “We can continue this later. I’ve got to get out of here.”

  Briggs picked up his pistol and made his way outside. On the street he struggled to regain a measure of clarity, but his short-term memory was undergoing a denial-of-service attack. Too much input. Too little processing power. He stumbled repeatedly, and before long gave up tramping through flowerbeds and the protection of the shadows for the safety of the sidewalk.

  He spotted his car and crossed the street, still weaving drunkenly. A vehicle approached, headlights on bright, traveling at high speed.

  “Slow down,” he called as a battered Jeep Cherokee whipped past him. He turned in time to see a large shaggy head at the wheel and a woman in the passenger seat.

  Tank Potter and Mary Grant.

  Briggs slid behind the wheel, tossing his pistol onto the passenger seat. His head no longer bothered him. His vision was back to twenty/twenty. His sense of purpose returned with a vengeance. He pulled the car into the street and accelerated, making sure to keep his lights extinguished. He rounded the first turn and saw their taillights mounting a gentle incline a hundred yards ahead. He closed the gap rapidly.

  Ahead, the Jeep barreled past a stop sign.

  For Chrissakes, thought Briggs, reinvigorated by the chase. Aren’t we in a hurry?

  He downshifted and ran the stop sign, too. He knew why they were driving so recklessly. They had the evidence. Mary Grant had risked returning home in order to retrieve the information that Hal Stark had smuggled out of his office.

  Briggs gripped the wheel furiously. This was his chance. Were he to recapture the evidence, Ian would be in the clear. Fail and Ian was finished, and Briggs close behind him. It came down to one thing: stop Potter and the Grant woman at all costs.

  The Jeep passed an elementary school and made a right onto Anderson Mill Road, wheels screeching so loudly Briggs could hear them a hundred yards back. Traffic was light, but there was enough to prevent him from taking active measures to disable the Jeep. Besides, there were electronic witnesses all around in the form of cameras posted on all traffic lights.

  He followed Potter and the woman onto the four-lane thoroughfare, turning on his headlights. He knew the road. There was a blind section ahead, a long, bending curve cutting through a patch of undeveloped scrub. No stoplights. No cameras. He would have one chance to take them.

  He punched the gas and came up on the Jeep’s tail. The road began its curve. He noted with satisfaction that no cars were approaching. No lights were visible in the rearview mirror. He swung to the left and accelerated, catching the Jeep. Briggs lowered the passenger window, pistol gripped loosely in his right hand. The gap between the vehicles was a foot, maybe less. He aimed at Tank Potter. He expected the Jeep to veer away, but it did nothing to evade him. A last look ahead confirmed that no cars were oncoming. Briggs could shoot with impunity.

  A burst of gas. He pulled even with the Jeep. He caught the driver’s profile. Strong jaw. Tanned skin. It was him, all right. He straightened his arm. A three-shot burst would do the trick. Aim low to compensate for the kick. He felt a spurt of optimism as his finger brushed the trigger.

  To be done with them…finally.

  The driver leaned to the side and poked her head out the window. She was a pretty woman in her late thirties, and she appeared angry and resolute. Next to her sat a pale, wide-eyed girl with flaxen hair.

  Not Tank Potter at all. And where was Mary Grant?

  The woman extended her arm out the window and gave him the finger.

  Briggs braked and watched as the Jeep pulled away and disappeared into the night.

  77

  “You flipped that man the bird!” shrieked Grace, slumping in her seat with embarrassment.

  Carrie Kramer kept her eyes on the rearview mirror as the BMW receded from view. “I sure did, sweetie. He deserved it.”

  “What did he do?”

  “It’s what he wanted to do that scared me.”

  “Are we safe?”

  “We are now.”

  Grace sighed and sat up a little straighter in her seat. “You can call
me ‘Mouse.’ My mom does.”

  Carrie ran a hand across Grace’s head. “Okay, mouse.”

  She turned south on Research. Even so late, traffic flowed steadily in both directions. The sight of so many headlights was a relief like no other. Mary’s plan had worked, but only just. She wasn’t sure she’d tell her about the man with the pistol. She looked over at her passenger. “How are you doing?”

  “I’m okay, I guess.”

  “We’ll be at the hospital in five minutes. Can you hold on that long?”

  “I think so.”

  “Thatta girl.”

  Grace nodded, her eyes keen. “When you drive fast,” she said, “it makes me forget all about my leg.”

  Carrie hit the accelerator. “You got it, mouse.”

  78

  “You’re sure it’s here?” asked Mary.

  Tank stared out the window. “I’m sure.”

  It was 3:30. They sat in Carrie Kramer’s Lexus SUV, parked on the shoulder across the street from Bulldog Wrecker on South Congress, five miles south of the river, more out of town than in it. A sheet-metal fence surrounded the impound yard. Vacant lots bookended the property. Every few minutes a tow truck arrived, dragging its prey. The driver rang a buzzer, looked into a camera, and waited for the gate to rattle open.

  “I picked up my car here Tuesday morning,” Tank went on. “The cops had it towed after I was busted for my DUI. Cost me four hundred bucks to get it out.”

  Mary surveyed the lot. The neighborhood was a step below seedy and hovering just above dangerous.

  “So what do I do?”

  “Same thing you did at the Nutty Brown Cafe. Drive in. Flash your badge. Say you want to look at the car.”