Courage Stolen Page 6

“How was your trip to Germany?” Start with niceties. Rule Two from the Ray Courage Manual.

  “It sucked. Cold as hell over there. After five days of German food, I got a case of the runs. The damn Krauts at the university were a bunch of cold bastards. Waste of time, the whole trip.”

  “Then you come home to find your project is missing.”

  “Helluva week.” He went back his computer, which I guessed meant he was making another run at the Minesweeper record. “Do you surf?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Do you surf? You know, ride the waves. Skim the tide.” He gave me a “hang lose” gesture with his right hand.

  “I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “I was at Mavericks out at Half Moon Bay last month. Gnarly stuff going down out there. Those dudes can ride. Too much for me, but I love watching ’em. Heading out to Maui next month to surf Jaws, though. That’ll be awesome.”

  Totally.

  “You don’t seem concerned about the fact your project has gone missing,” I said.

  “Not true. But what can I do about it right now?”

  “Do you have any idea who would’ve wanted to steal it?”

  “There are at least a hundred different assholes around the world who would know enough about the kind of work we were doing to want to rip us off.”

  “Would you consider any of them suspects?”

  “Yeah.” He laughed. “They’re all a bunch of cutthroats. I’d say half of them would steal it if they had the chance. That’s why I kept the data and research limited on an obscure server, where a hacker would have a near impossible time finding it. Didn’t think someone would walk in and steal the server. Insane.”

  “Then there’s the matter of them removing the project data from Jack’s and Candace’s computers. How do you think that happened?”

  “Hell if I know. My data went missing, too. Someone hacked into all of our accounts and took it in one swoop.”

  “You had a cloud backup that got hacked into, too.”

  “Yeah. I didn’t want to put it out there, but Candace and Jack said we needed it. I was like, if you say so.” His surfer dude act baffled me. He was not at all devastated as Candace Symington had predicted.

  “Who had the ability to do that? To hack into your system?”

  “Who knows? I talked with the head of IT, and he said there appeared to be some breach, but it’s one of those deals where the hacker routed his way through multiple computers. Kazakhstan, Mongolia, Russia. He said they couldn’t trace it. They’re bringing in an IT security consultant. I’m not getting my hopes up they’ll do much better than our own IT guys.”

  I’d planned on talking to IT security staff, though I guessed they’d tell me exactly what Wiggin relayed. The “how” of the crime—or the details of the technical breach—seemed less relevant than “who.” The theft seemed to be well-executed, and I doubted any forensic trail would lead me to the perpetrators. Narrowing down the list of suspects might give me the best chance of finding out who did it.

  “What about your colleague in Davis, Corey Truxel? Do you think he could have done it?”

  “Hell no. I bet Candace or Jack gave you his name. They don’t trust him, but Corey’s an old friend. We were smoking weed together in the sixties before it became cool.” He shook his head at some memory his statement had conjured. He hummed the first few bars to the Grateful Dead’s Truckin’.

  “What about Stone Creek Saviors? Did Candace show you the note from them?”

  “Yeah, yeah. They might have done it. But nobody knows who the hell they are.”

  “Did they contact you?”

  “Check this out,” he said, turning his laptop around towards me. He pulled up a YouTube page and started a video of a guy riding a wave at least fifty feet high. “Mavericks from last year! Is that crazy or what?”

  “So this note to Candace is the only contact from Stone Creek you’ve received?”

  “Yes.”

  He continued watching the Mavericks video, turning the sound up so we could both hear the roar of a massive wave.

  “Candace thought you’d be devastated over losing the project.”

  He smiled as he watched the video and then glanced over at me. “I’m not happy. But at my age, you’ve got to go with it. I still have a cool job and get paid the same either way. Besides, I think our corporate sponsors might want to pay the twenty million dollars.”

  He gave me another “hang loose” sign, my cue to exit the nineteen sixties and return to the twenty-first century.

  eleven

  I ran into Candace Symington outside Professor Wiggin’s door. Her face was drawn tight, and it appeared she might not have slept in some time.

  “Hi,” I said. “He’s a bit busy right now. There’s a Minesweeper record that needs breaking.”

  Despite her apparent stress, she uttered a token laugh. “So you met him.”

  “Is he always like that?”

  “You mean a combination of ADD, too much LSD, and ‘Don’t Worry, Be Happy’?”

  “Not what I expected.”

  “Are you going to the meeting?”

  My blank expression gave her my answer.

  “Our corporate investors called a meeting. They heard about Monarch. They’re not very happy at the moment.”

  “When’s the meeting?”

  “Five minutes in the faculty conference room down the hall. If you can, you might want to make it.” That must have been the meeting Wiggin referred to earlier.

  “Sure.”

  She excused herself and went in to talk to her boss. They were a strange pair. Candace Symington, the epitome of uptight and straight-laced. Kenneth Wiggin, a cross between Jerry Garcia and Homer Simpson. It was hard for me to imagine them communicating without driving the other crazy, let alone running a multimillion-dollar research project.

  The faculty conference room featured a large rectangular table with at least twenty chairs. A row of seats rested against three of the wood-paneled walls in the narrow room, while the fourth wall consisted of a floor-to-ceiling window providing a nice view of campus. The room felt more corporate than academic, a place where in the old days deals were made over cigars and brandy.

  A man and a woman in business suits commanded one side of the table, the woman in her mid-forties, dressed in a beige jacket over a wide-collared navy blouse. She sat upright and confident, as if she had called the meeting. The man next to her looked a bit older, with stooped shoulders, a bad comb over, and a physique suggesting an expense account diet and an exercise regime comprised of watching golf on TV. A blue blazer groaned from his heft, the days long gone when it could be buttoned closed. He stole an occasional deferential glance at the woman, confirming their pecking order.

  Across the table, two more suits hunkered down. The older man wore an expression of self-importance and imminent flatulence. Next to him, the thirty-something man’s hair had been cut, gelled, and tousled into stylish disarray. I could have sworn his coat and tie had been modeled by Derek Jeter on the cover of GQ the month before.

  All four of them toiled away on smartphones, checking e-mails, text messages, or just avoiding eye contact or chitchat with anyone else in the room. I chose one of the chairs against the wall. At various times, each of the four others in the room sneaked a glance at me. I waved and smiled each time, not once receiving even a smile or a sneer in return.

  Wiggin, Cassidy, and Candace arrived a few minutes later. Before they could take their seats at the head of the table, the woman started in on them.

  “This isn’t going to do, Ken,” she said. “How long have you known about the theft? Huh? Tell me.”

  “Do you want that in American time or German time?”

  “Don’t be funny.”

  “You need to answer her question, professor,” said her colleague.

  “Hold on, hold on, everybody,” Candace said, raising her hand in an attempt to calm the rising emotions. She sat in a chair, as did Wiggin and C
assidy.

  “And who is that?” asked one of the men across the table from the woman. He was pointing at me.

  I was about to stand, take a bow, and introduce myself, when Candace spoke again. It appeared her pre-meeting with Wiggin had been to establish herself as the facilitator of this meeting. After my ten minutes with the man, I believed she was wise to do so.

  “Let’s start with introductions. I know we’ve all communicated the past few years by e-mail and by conference call, but this is the first time we’ve all been in the same room together. I’ll start. As you know, I’m Candace Symington, one of the leads on Monarch. And Dr. Wiggin is, of course, the head of the project.”

  “Call me Ken,” he said. Candace shot him a quick look.

  “And I’m Jack Cassidy, lead engineer.” Jack half stood and then settled back in his seat.

  “Now let’s go around the room and have you introduce yourselves,” Candace said. “Let’s start with you, Mr. Courage.”

  I introduced myself, and a buzz filled the room.

  “An investigator?”

  “What about police?”

  “The feds!”

  “Does he have a security clearance?”

  “I’m not sure I like this.”

  And so on.

  It was nice to be wanted.

  “Please, everybody,” Candace said, trying to regain control. “We’ll explain where things stand, including Mr. Courage’s role, in a minute, but let’s continue with the introductions. Trudy.” She nodded at the woman to her left.

  “Trudy Nichols, director of private sector investment, Sunrise Oil Corporation.” She struck me as an alpha type who ran marathons, ate vegan food, and didn’t take flack from anybody. Sunrise Oil. Seth Seeger had known they were one of the investors in Wiggin’s project. I pondered why an oil company would invest in a technology destined to eliminate the need for their product, deciding Sunrise probably wanted to grab the next big thing in energy and profit from it rather than have it bury their company.

  The puffy guy next to her spoke next. “Dick McBright, chief financial officer, Sunrise Oil.”

  Across the table, an older man, pushing seventy, in a gray suit and red tie introduced himself. “Arnie Chipperfield, chief investment officer, North America Fuel Cell Corporation.” He turned to look at the younger man to his right.

  “Tyler Ball, investment analyst, NAFC.” Ball, the youngest and lowest-ranked of the corporate representatives, seemed to be the most peeved. He reminded me of a petulant twelve year old in a too-big suit who might erupt any second into a foot-stomping tantrum.

  “Very good then,” Candace said. “What I’d like to do is recount, step by step, the events of the past three days, then talk about the plan going forward. I would like to respectfully ask you to allow me to finish before we go to questions and discussion.”

  Ball rolled his eyes at the idea, drawing a stern look from old Arnie.

  Candace walked through the events starting three days ago with her ill-fated return to the lab soon after she had left for the day. She ended by holding up a copy of the note demanding the twenty million dollars in exchange for the project.

  “Shouldn’t the police have that?” Trudy asked.

  “No,” Candace said, shaking her head. “The note says if we go to the authorities the project will be gone forever.”

  “How would they ever know?” Dick asked.

  “I don’t know,” Candace said. “You have a lot of money invested in Monarch. Do you want to take that chance? We want to get your input first before deciding what to do about the note. If the police get in the middle of things we could risk scaring off these ‘Saviors’ and losing the project for good.”

  “The question is,” Wiggin said. “Do we want to spend twenty million dollars to retrieve the project?”

  “You mean do we,” Arnie said, pointing at his team and then at Trudy Nichols and Dick McBright across the table. “Sunrise and NAFC.”

  “Pretty much,” Wiggin said with a chuckle. “Candace, Jack, and I don’t have that kind of bread.”

  “What a fucking mess,” Tyler said.

  “What assurances do we have that even if we pay the twenty million dollars these people—whoever they are—will return the project intact?” Trudy asked. “Hell, they might not even have it.”

  “We have no assurances they’ll return it or if they have it,” Candace replied. “But we could ask for a show of good faith. Make them turn over part of the project—maybe some of the genome sequencing—to make sure they have it. But we can’t guarantee they’ll return it.”

  “I think the authorities should be brought in,” Arnie said.

  “I disagree,” Trudy argued. “I think Candace is right on this one. We can’t risk losing the project. We’ve got more than a hundred million dollars invested in it and NAFC has fifty million. We’re seeing this as an investment that’ll be worth billions to us in a few years, and I’m sure you do, too. Do you want to put that on the line? Would your board of directors?”

  The meeting broke down after Candace’s comments, the employees from the two companies breaking into their own sidebar conversations. Arnie Chipperfield pulled out his phone and stabbed at the keypad with his fingers.

  “Please!” Candace said. “Everybody, please. Arnie, put down your phone. We need to decide what we’re going to do here.”

  “Chill everybody!” Wiggin said.

  The clamor subsided, Arnie returned his phone to his coat pocket, and Candace turned her attention to me. “What do you think, Mr. Courage? What do you think we should do? You’re the expert when it comes to security and investigation.”

  “Or as close as we’ve got, which isn’t saying much,” Tyler said.

  Prick. I gave him a withering stare, evoking a return smile. I needed to practice my withering stare in the mirror. I stood to address the group. “I should look into the S-SOP organization to see if I can shake anything out of them.”

  “Who’s S-SOP?” Trudy asked.

  “It’s an eco-group on campus that’s alleged to have resorted to terrorist tactics in the past. We think they could be behind this,” I replied. “In the meantime, if you receive another note or other form of communication, I think we should play along with them, starting by asking them for proof they really have the project. Candace, I think your idea of asking for a piece of the project in advance is a good one.”

  “What about going to the police?” Arnie said.

  “Or the FBI?” Tyler added.

  “This would be an FBI matter. It’s up to you, but at some point you have an obligation to tell them about the theft of Monarch and the note. Campus security also needs to know before you go to the feds.”

  Trudy looked worried when I said that. “You may be right,” she said. “But can we all agree to wait until we hear back from these extremists? I, for one, would be willing to commit Sunrise to paying half the twenty million in exchange for the safe return of the project.”

  “I agree,” said Dick.

  After several seconds, Arnie gave a slight nod. “Okay, but only for a day or two. If we don’t get Monarch back by then, we call the FBI.”

  “Trudy, you said Sunrise would be willing to pay ten million.” Candace then turned to the NAFC side of the table. “Arnie, what about your company? Could you come up with ten?”

  “I suppose,” he said. “We’re not a big oil company like my colleagues across the table. But we’ve budgeted for more research with Granderson this year. It will blow my budget, but if it gets the project back then it’ll be worth it.”

  “All right, it’s settled then,” Candace said. “I’ll let you all know when I hear back from these creeps, and we’ll take it from there. Would video teleconference work? I know how hard it is for Sunrise to get here from the Bay Area.”

  Everyone nodded.

  “Good. And one last thing, I would suggest limiting who you tell about this to those who absolutely need to know. We can’t risk losing Monarch.
We’ve got too much invested in it.”

  twelve

  I opened a bottle of Rubicon IPA and poured it into a glass, the creamy, billowing head receding to reveal the amber red surface. I took a thirsty sip, and then another. While the gas grill heated up, I threaded cubes of sirloin, button mushrooms, and pieces of yellow bell pepper and red onion onto wood skewers. I had already prepared a Tandoori sauce I’d serve with the kebobs over rice. From the kitchen speakers connected to my iPod, Steely Dan belted out “Deacon Blues” from the Aja album. When the last track from the album played out, it segued into Gaucho, my favorite Steely Dan CD.

  After dinner, I cleaned the dishes and put the leftover kebobs in the refrigerator for lunch the next day. About eight o’clock, I was contemplating a third beer and reflecting on the events of the day. Harry Terrick’s and Roger Talbert’s stories about their dealings with Chan nagged me. Had Chan and Benzer come up with a hundred and fifty thousand dollars to grease the palms of the Chinese? And who knew what they gave Terrick? It was a lot of money for two guys right out of grad school. And that was just for those two deals. How many more palms did they grease, on either the Chinese or US side of the equation?

  Chan’s relationship with Candace Symington and Chan’s shady business tactics kept drawing me back to Chan International. Too much was going on there for it not to be connected to the Monarch theft.

  I picked up my phone and called Chan International, hoping the call might forward to Chan’s or Benzer’s personal cells. It didn’t. Chan’s house was less than five miles from mine, and only two beers into the evening, I felt fine to drive.

  When I pulled in front of his house, disappointment washed over me. The place was dark; not even a porch light had been turned on. Maybe he was reading, working, or watching television in a back room, the light not visible from the street. I walked to the porch and noticed the doorframe had been splintered, the door ajar. From inside the house, heavy metal music banged, so loud there on the porch it had to be intolerable inside, even for the most resolute metal head.

  “Thomas?” I shouted, parting the door and sticking my head inside.