"You're drinking wine these days," John said to Kyle as he sat the small turkey on the table.
"Not much."
The two men served Patty, fussed over her, worked hard to make her comfortable. She prattled on about her art and about events in York that happened years earlier. She managed to ask a few questions about Kyle and his career in New York, and he made his life sound enviable. The strain from events in New York was palpable, but Patty did not notice. She ate almost nothing, but her son and ex-husband devoured the lunch as quickly as possible. After pecan pie and coffee, she announced she wanted to go home, to her work. She was tired, she said, and Kyle wasted no time loading her up for the ten-minute drive.
ONE FOOTBALL GAME blurred into another. Kyle, on the sofa, and John, in a recliner, watched the games between naps, and said little.
The air was heavy with things unsaid, questions that came and went, plans that needed to be discussed. The father wanted to lecture and yell, but the son was too vulnerable, too dependent at that moment.
"Let's go for a walk," Kyle said when it was almost dark.
"Walk where?"
"Around the block. I need to talk."
"Can't we talk here?"
"Let's walk."
They bundled up and put Zack on a leash. They were on the sidewalk when Kyle said, "I'm sorry, but I don't like to have serious conversations indoors."
John lit a cigarette with the ease of a longtime smoker, perfect coordination without missing a step. "I'm almost afraid to ask why not."
"Bugs, mikes, nasty little twerps listening to conversations."
"Let me get this straight. You think that my house might be bugged by these thugs?"
They were strolling along the street Kyle had roamed as a child. He knew the owner of every home, at least the owners back then, and every home had a story. He nodded at one and asked, "Whatever happened to Mr. Polk?"
"Dead, finally. Lived in a wheelchair for almost fifty years. Very sad. Back to my question. We're not walking down memory lane here, okay?"
"No, I don't think your house is bugged, nor your office, but there's a chance. These guys believe in surveillance and have an unlimited budget. Bugging is easy. Ask me, I'm an expert. I could make a homemade listening device in half an hour with a few items from RadioShack."
"And how did you acquire such knowledge?"
"Books. Manuals. There's a great little spy store in Manhattan and I drop in occasionally, when I'm able to lose my tail."
"This is unbelievable, Kyle. If I didn't know better, I'd say you're cracking up. You sound schizophrenic, like a few of my clients."
"I'm not crazy yet, but I've learned to play it safe and have the serious conversations outdoors."
"Your apartment is bugged?"
"Oh, yes. I know of at least three listening devices hidden in the place. One is in the AC vent above the sofa in the den. There's one hidden in the bedroom wall, just above the chest of drawers, and there's one in the kitchen in a door facing. I can't really examine them, because there are also three tiny cameras, at least three, that watch me continuously when I'm in the apartment, which is not very often. I've managed to locate these devices by pretending to do all sorts of routine chores around the place, cleaning vents, washing windows, scrubbing floors. The place is a dump, but it's pretty clean."
"And your phone?"
"I still have the old one from law school, and they're listening. That's why I haven't switched. I know they're listening, and so I give them enough harmless crap to make them happy. I installed a landline in the apartment, and I'm sure it's bugged. I haven't been able to inspect it, though, because the cameras are watching. I use it just for harmless stuff - ordering a pizza, bitching at my landlord, calling a car service." Kyle pulled out the FirmFone and glanced at it. "This is one the firm gave us on day one. I'm pretty sure this one is bug-free."
"The question is, why is it in your pocket on Thanksgiving Day?"
"Habit. It's turned off. For serious stuff I use the desk phone in my office. I figure that if they can bug the office phones, then we're all really screwed."
"Oh, you're screwed, there's no doubt about that. You should've told me months ago."
"I know. I should've done a lot of things differently, but I didn't have the benefit of hindsight. I was scared. Still am."
Zack stopped at a fire hydrant. John needed another smoke. The wind had picked up and leaves were blowing and landing around them. It was dark, and they still had dinner at Zoe's.
They made the block and talked about the future.
Chapter 34
The associates who'd dared to slack off by leaving for the short holiday break returned with a vengeance early Saturday morning. The time away was refreshing, though the strain of frenzied travel left them even more exhausted. And time off also meant no billing.
Kyle punched his clock at 8:00 a.m. sharp when he entered the secret room on the eighteenth floor and settled himself at one of the workstations. Four other members of Team Trylon were there, lost in a virtual world of endless research. He nodded to a couple, but no one spoke. He wore jeans and a wool sport coat, and he hauled in his black Bally briefcase, six inches thick and showing some wear. He'd bought it at a shop on Fifth Avenue a week before orientation. All briefcases at the firm were black.
He placed it on the floor beside him, partially under the table, directly under the plain-vanilla computer that had so captivated dear Nigel. He withdrew a legal pad, then a file, and before long his workstation looked authentic. After a few minutes, he took off his jacket, hung it on the back of his chair, and rolled up his sleeves. Trylon was now paying old Scully an additional four hundred bucks an hour.
A quick look around the room revealed one other briefcase. All other jackets and coats had been left upstairs in the offices. The hours began to drag by as Kyle lost himself in the futuristic world of the B-10 HyperSonic Bomber and the people who designed it.
The only good thing about the secret room was the prohibition against cell phones. After a few hours, Kyle needed a break, and he wanted to check his messages. Specifically, he was waiting to hear from Dale, who hadn't bothered to show up on such a beautiful morning. He walked to his office, closed the door, which was a minor violation of firm policy, and called her private cell phone. As a refuge from the much-hated FirmFone, every associate carried a private one as well.
"Yes," she answered.
"Where are you?"
"I'm still in Providence."
"Are you coming back to New York?"
"I'm not sure."
"Need I remind you, young lady, that this is the third consecutive day in which you have not billed a single hour."
"I take it you're at the office."
"Yes, racking up hours along with every other first-year grunt. Everyone's here but you."
"Fire me. Sue me. I don't care."
"You'll never make partner with that attitude."
"Promise?"
"I was thinking about dinner tonight. There's a new restaurant in the East Village that just got two stars from Frank Bruni."
"Are you asking me out for a date?"
"Please. We can split the check since we work for a gender-neutral firm."
"You're so romantic."
"We could do the romance later."
"So that's what you're really after."
"Always."
"I get in around seven. I'll call you then."