Off the Grid (A Gerrit O'Rourke Novel) (22 page)

Alena rose. “Come on. I’ll make something to snack on. Wouldn’t want Redneck to waste away to nothing.”

Willy grinned. “It’s all fat anyway. He can afford to lose a few pounds.”

Redneck smirked. “I could go without eating for a year and still have more meat on my bones than you’ll ever have on that sorry excuse of a body you carry around. Your legs are smaller than toothpicks, and your arms…what an embarrassment. How do you get any chicks with that pathetic body?”

“I attract them with my intelligence, Hillbilly. Something you’ll never have.” Their voices trailed off as they walked down the hallway toward the kitchen, bickering nonstop.

“You sure they like each other?” Gerrit asked, listening to the last of their conversation.

“Yeah, but they’ll never admit it.” Joe chuckled. “They’ve both changed. I mean, if you knew Redneck and Willy just a few years ago, they would have pulled guns on each other—not sit down and try to work together.”

“You call that working together?”

Joe’s expression seemed to shift, a look of concern in his eyes. “I needed to talk to you alone, Gerrit. In case something happens to me.”

“What are you talking about? I thought you had everything under control.”

His uncle shook his head. “Never get complacent. We’re at war. People get hurt—even die—in this type of combat. Just like your experiences in Afghanistan and Iraq. Only this is a quieter conflict, but just as deadly. Like you experienced last week. No rules. No prisoners taken—at least for very long.”

“Why are you telling me all this, Joe?”

“If they put me out of commission, I need you to take over. I need you to keep this team safe and functioning.”

“How am I supposed to do that? I haven’t even figured out how we fight this war yet.”

“It’ll come. Each of us will help you develop the tools you’ll need to lead this unit. I know you will do great. A real asset to our side. And when—or if—the time comes for you to lead, you must be prepared.”

Voices in the other room rose for a moment. Alena seemed to be trying to calm them down. Always the peacemaker.

“Beck Malloy will be your contact. I want you to follow his direction—whatever he tells you, do it! Promise me.”

“Sure, Joe. But I don’t even know the guy.”

His uncle gave him a folded-up piece of paper. “Memorize this phone number and then destroy the note. Alena is the only other person who knows about Beck right now. Don’t give his name out to anyone. If you ever need help—call it. The man on the end of that line can be trusted. With everything. He’s a true patriot. If he ever makes direct contact with you,” Joe said, clutching his hands, “it will probably mean I’m dead. It will be time for you to take over and lead the fight.”

“Let’s hope that day never comes.”

“Hey, I plan to be around awhile. Just in case, though, remember what I told you. Okay? No questions asked.”

Gerrit shrugged. “You know me, Joe. I never work well with others.”

“I’ve watched you over the years, my boy. You’re a born leader. Just remember that those working for you need to know they have your trust and respect.”

Again, he heard voices rise in the other room. Louder this time. More intense.

“Let’s join the others. The boys and I will need to leave soon.”

Gerrit followed his uncle down the hall and into the kitchen. Alena had donned an apron that captured actress Geena Davis portraying an assassin with amnesia in the movie
The Long Kiss Goodnight.
The apron depicted a scene where Davis hurls a long-bladed knife across her kitchen, sticking it in wood with pinpoint accuracy, after discovering she is very handy with sharp cutlery. Her boyfriend and daughter stare at her in shock. The apron quotes Davis saying, “Chefs do that.”

Alena looked across the kitchen at Gerrit, waving a knife in her hand, and caught him staring at the apron. “What can I say, I love Geena Davis.”

In the movie, he remembered that Davis was not what she appeared to be—a schoolteacher and caring mother. She turned out to be a highly trained assassin. Again, he wondered about Alena’s past.

He eyed the knife for a moment. She lowered it to the counter, watching him.

Redneck, straddling a chair, looked up at Gerrit. “So, Mr. J squared you away? How to control us and all that?”

Gerrit leaned on the counter. “He told me specifically how to control you, RD.”

Redneck squinted. “
Artie
…what kind of name is that? Sounds like a loser Pea brain might hang around with. You know, someone a little light in the loafers?”

“Not
Artie
…R. D.,” Gerrit said, emphasizing each letter. “Since you like to shorten everyone’s name, well, I’m throwing one back at you and Mr. W.”

The big man seemed to think about it, and his expression telegraphed his displeasure. “I don’t know. How about you just call me Redneck?”

“
Arrrrtie,
” Willy said, slurring the letters together. “I don’t know…
Arrrrrtie
. I like it. It has a certain flair.”

Redneck stood. “And I can tell you where to shove that flair, Stickman.”

Excited, Willy raised up until he was even to Redneck’s gut. “Stickman. You—”

“Stop it. Both of you.” Alena picked up the knife, waving it for emphasis. “You guys help me set the table. Quietly.”

The two men approached the dining table like two male lions, warily eyeing each other. Just as things settled down, Gerrit heard Willy whisper, “
Artie
…hand me the silverware, you sweet
thang
.” As Redneck roared back, Willy scurried away, grinning from ear to ear. Alena tried to look stern, but she finally turned away to hide a smile.

Gerrit looked around the room and saw Joe standing off in the corner. The man seemed oblivious to all the bantering, his eyes focused somewhere in the distance. The man’s expression looked troubled, his forehead creased and wrinkled with worry.

Then Gerrit remembered what Joe had just asked.
“If something happens to me, Beck Malloy will make contact. I want you to follow his direction—whatever he tells you, do it! Promise me.”

It was a promise Gerrit hoped he never had to keep.

S
eagulls angrily screeched above as Gerrit emerged from a Starbucks, handing a caramel frappuccino to Alena. He peered warily at the fog-riddled gray clouds, waiting for one of those circling dive-bombers to strike.

She cupped both hands around the Styrofoam cup and sniffed. “Oh, how I love that smell.”

Gerrit took one sip of his plain cup of house blend and scorched his tongue. “Whoa. Better let that cool.”

Alena shouldered a backpack, handed him a cell phone, and began walking along the Embarcadero. “Joe asked that I give you a phone since you lost that last one I gave you in the bombing. Use it only to contact one of us. Once you use it—toss it.”

He looked at the phone. “That must get expensive. And how do you know each other’s cell number if you keep tossing them each time?”

They crossed the broad thoroughfare in front of the Ferry Building, then made their way along the sidewalk before she replied. “We only use them in emergencies; we have other ways to communicate.”

“Carrier pigeons?”

Alena grinned. “We might consider it one of these times.” A man in a business suit came up from behind, walking briskly. She eyed the stranger for a moment, waiting until the man was out of earshot before continuing. “We have a common e-mail service we can all access. The account is listed under a…how do you say
boggie name
?”

“You mean bogus name? Fake name? But they can track those messages.”

She gave him a patient smile. “We draft an e-mail but never send it. Each of us can access the account, read the draft, then add to it if we need to share information or need clarification. The last person to read everything is responsible for deleting the entire file.”

“Ah, so there’s no way to intercept those messages. Sweet. I heard of drug dealers and terrorists using that method to communicate. Fashioned after the old dead-letter drop.”

“Try to access the account each day. If there is any hint that the account has been compromised, alert everyone and go to the next. We have a number of accounts, all inactive, all unconnected, until we are ready to use them. Each of us knows the order of those accounts.”

Alena slowed down, finally stopping. She turned and looked over his shoulder—searching the sidewalk and street beyond. “Get used to this, Gerrit. Always be on the alert, looking for the unusual.”

He was already looking beyond her shoulder, visually scanning the area. “As a cop, I come by this naturally.”

“You are no longer a police officer, as you pointed out yesterday,” she said, slightly above a whisper. “Everyone is the enemy—cops and crooks alike.”

“You talking specifics?”

Her eyes, darker that her coffee drink, looked at him for a moment. “Just before your house was bombed, Kane called someone inside the Seattle Police Department.”

Gerrit tensed. “Who?”

She shrugged. “We don’t know. The number returned to a secretary’s desk in the department. Investigations. However, it was a late-night call and that particular employee was home in bed. We checked.”

“So, someone waited for Kane’s call.”

“After everything was blown sky high, Kane received a call from that same phone. The caller never used that line again to make contact. They probably have a more secure way to communicate. Unfortunately, a number of people from other agencies had access to that area. Federal and local. Someone from any of those agencies could have used that phone.”

Gerrit looked down at the sidewalk for a moment. “You know, there is a way—”

“We know. Joe is following up on that. Contacts he has in NSA. People he trusts. We might even be able to get a voice print off the phone if no one on the other side learns of our efforts.”

He looked up. “Kane may have people in place to monitor these requests. Like those he has searching Joe’s background and my information right now.”

She nodded. “We must be very careful. So far, Joe and Willy have kept our backstory and communications protected—as far as we know. This world is getting so complicated.” She shifted her backpack. “Okay, Mr. G. Time to go to work.”

“Lead the way,
Al
.”

In the distance he saw the blue-gray markings of Pier 39, a high-rent tourist attraction he was sure Alena stayed away from. Too many eyes. Instead, she turned toward one of the older buildings connected to a pier that jutted out into the San Francisco Bay. The building, close to the Embarcadero, had a tan stucco front and stone cornices protruding from the edges. A half-oval entryway, like the entrance to an immense cave, gave large trucks access to a colossal warehouse beyond. To the left of that, a doorway—flush with the building’s facade—provided pedestrian access from the sidewalk.

She fished out a set of keys and opened the door. He followed her up a flight of stairs to the second floor, then down a narrow hallway to an office set back in the building. She slipped a key into the lock of an ancient door, opaque glass on the upper half and wooden panels below, with
Golden Gate Book & Document Restoration Company
etched on smoky-colored glass
.

He watched as she quickly opened it. “Do you actually do any restoration?”

“Not if I can get out of it.” She shoved open the door. “But I could if someone insisted.”

A musty odor of old paper and books greeted him as they entered. He walked into a larger open-spaced room with an enclosed office at the far left. They made their way toward this office, and as she opened the door, he saw a view of the Bay beyond. “Hey, nice place to hang out. Great view.”

Without saying a word, she knelt before a large safe and punched in a code. The safe clicked open. She reached inside and pulled out a small package, handing it to him. “I’ve been working on these for some time. Just in case you might need them. I hope you like the name David Marshall. You’re stuck with it for now.”

“David Marshall? I’ll have to get used to it.” He opened up the package and saw a wallet inside among other things. In the wallet, a California driver’s license with that name. He also found a U.S passport and several major credit cards. “So…David Marshall, huh? Are these credit cards any good?”

“You bet. Up to twenty-five thousand dollar limit on each card and a work history I’ll have to go over with you.” He examined the wallet and pulled out the driver’s license, looking at her for a moment. Alena smiled. “You knew already I like the name David. And Marshall, well I am a fan of that John Wayne movie
True Grit.
You are not like that old lawman, but I think you have the same traits.”

“You mean I eat too much, and I have a nasty disposition?”

She laughed. “No. That you are willing to take chances, not afraid of risks.”

“How would you know?”

“Remember, I have been watching. Like that incident you got involved with down in San Diego this month.”

That shootout in La Jolla seemed years ago in a different life. “I’ve been meaning to ask you. How soon after my parents’ deaths did you get involved with all this? With me?”