The Associate

"How fast?"

"Sixty megabytes per second, about a thousand documents, assuming you get the receiver within three meters of the transmitter, which should be easy. The closer, the better, Kyle. Are you with me?"

"Hell no," Kyle said as he sat in the chair in front of the monitor. "I’m supposed to somehow reach behind the computer, plug in the transmitter, leave it there, download, et cetera, while there are other people in the room and the video cameras are watching. How, exactly, do I pull that off?"

"Drop a pen," Bennie said. "Spill some coffee. Throw some papers around. Create a diversion. Go when the place is empty, and keep your back to the camera."

Kyle was shaking his head. "It’s too risky. These people are not stupid, you know. There’s a security tech on duty in a room next door. Name’s Gant."

"But does he work sixteen hours a day?"

"I don’t know when he works. That’s the point. You never know who’s in there watching."

"We know security, Kyle, and the grunts who are paid to watch closed-circuit screens all day are usually half-asleep. It’s terribly boring work."

"This is not a coffee room, Bennie. I’m supposed to be working in there. Stealing may be a priority for you boys, but the firm expects me to be plowing through the documents. I’ll have a project due and a partner waiting on it."

Nigel charged in. "It could be over in two hours, Kyle, assuming you can find the documents quickly."

Bennie shook off all concerns. "Priority one is the air-breathing engines that Trylon and Bartin developed together. The technology is so sophisticated that the Pentagon is still orgasmic. Priority two is the fuel mix. Do a search for ‘cryogenic hydrogen fuel’ and follow it up with one for ‘scramjet’." There should be a ton of research in the files. Priority three is called ‘waveriders’." Do a search. These are aerodynamic designs used to increase the B-10’s lift-to-drag ratio. Here’s a memo." Bennie handed over a two-page summary.

"Any of this sound familiar, Kyle?" Nigel pleaded.

"No."

"It’s there," Bennie insisted. "It’s the heart of the research, the crux of the lawsuit, and you can find it, Kyle."

"Oh, thank you."

For practice, Nigel withdrew the transmitter and handed it to Kyle. "Let’s see you do it." Kyle slowly got to his feet, leaned over the computer, shoved away some cables, and with some effort finally managed to insert the transmitter into the USB port. He sat down and said, "There’s no way."

"Of course there is," Bennie scoffed. "Use your brain."

"It’s dead."

Nigel bounced around to the blue box. "The software is some of my home brew. When you have inserted the transmitter, you reach down and flip this little switch, and the script automatically locates the computer and begins downloading the database. It will happen very quickly, Kyle, and if you like, you can take a break, leave the room, go for a pee, act like nothing at all is happening, and all the while my little gizmo is sucking up the documents."

"Bloody brilliant," Kyle said.

Bennie produced a black Bally briefcase identical to Kyle’s, a stand-up model with a short leather flap that latched on one side. There were three compartments, with the middle one padded for a laptop. The substitute was complete with a few scuff marks and Kyle’s Scully & Pershing business card firmly in the leather tag. "You’ll use this," he said as Nigel carefully lifted the blue box and placed it in the center compartment of the briefcase. "When you unzip this divide," Nigel said, "the receiver will already be in place. If for some reason you need to abort, just close the case and punch this button, and it locks automatically."

"Abort?"

"Just in case, Kyle."

"Let me get this straight. Something goes wrong, somebody notices me, maybe some alarm goes off in a supercomputer we know nothing about as soon as I start dickering with the database, and your plan is then for me to lock the flap on the briefcase, grab the transmitter that’s almost hidden, and then do what? Sprint from the room like a shoplifter who’s been caught? Where do I go, Nigel? Any help here, Bennie?"

"Relax, Kyle," Bennie said with a fake smile. "This is a piece of cake. You’ll do fine."

"No alarms, Kyle," Nigel said. "My software is too good for that. Trust me."

"Would you please stop saying that?"

Kyle walked to a window and looked out at the Manhattan skyline. It was almost 9:30 on Tuesday night. He had not eaten since he and Tabor had enjoyed a fifteen-minute lunch in the firm cafeteria at 11:30.

Hunger, though, was only a minor concern on a long, sad list.

"Are you ready, Kyle?" Bennie called from across the room. Not a question, but a challenge.

"As ready as I’ll ever be," he answered without turning around.

"When?"

"As soon as possible. I want to get it over with. I’ll stop by the room a few times tomorrow, check the traffic. My best guess is that it’ll be about eight tomorrow night, late in the day but with enough time to download, assuming I don’t get shot."

"Any questions about the equipment, Kyle?" Nigel asked.

Kyle walked stiffly back to the workstation and stared at the machines. He finally shrugged and said, "No, it’s pretty straightforward."

"Super. One last thing, Kyle. The blue box has a wireless signal so that I know precisely when you’re downloading."

"Why is that necessary?"

"Monitoring. We’ll be very close by."

Another shrug. "Whatever."

The blue box was still in the center compartment, with Nigel handling it as if it were a bomb. Kyle then added the materials from his own briefcase, and when he grabbed the handle and lifted it off the table, he was surprised at the weight.

"A bit heavier, Kyle?" Nigel quizzed, watching every move.

"Yes, quite a bit."

"Not to worry. We’ve reinforced the bottom of the Bally. It’s not going to drop out as you’re walking along Broad Street."

"I like the other one better. When do I get it back?"

"Soon, Kyle, soon."

Kyle pulled on his trench coat and made his way to the door. Bennie followed and said, "Good luck, Kyle. It’s all come down to this. We believe in you."

"Go to hell," Kyle said, and left the room.

Chapter 38

The briefcase grew heavier during the short, sleepless night, and when Kyle lugged it out of the rear of the taxi early Wednesday morning, he half-wished the bottom would indeed fall out, the blue box would crash onto Broad Street in a thousand pieces, and Nigel’s precious home brew would be sent down the gutter. He wasn’t sure what would happen after that, but any scenario was far better than what was planned.

Twenty minutes after he rode the elevator to the thirty-fourth floor, Roy Benedict entered the same elevator with two young men who were undoubtedly associates at Scully & Pershing. The signs were obvious. They were under thirty. It was 6:35 in the morning. They appeared to be fatigued and miserable, but they wore expensive clothes and carried handsome briefcases, black. He was prepared to see a familiar face, though felt it unlikely. It was not at all unusual to see attorneys from other firms in the building. Roy knew half a dozen partners at Scully, but with fifteen hundred lawyers arriving for work, he figured the odds were slim. And he was right. The two zombies riding up with him were just a couple of faceless souls who would be gone in a year or so.