Park bench by the fountain. Noon.
I’ll be there.
Time to make a trip to the bank.
Guy #2 followed me the entire way. I tried to make it interesting. Darting across intersections right when the light changed. Weaving in and out of throngs of pedestrians on their way to work. I even circled one block three times just to fuck with him, but credit where it’s due: for a guy who’d just spent the night in his car and smoked like he was angry at his own lungs, he kept pace without much effort. When we finally made it to the bank, he waited across the street, casually leaning against a light pole, smoking a cigarette while I went inside. On the one hand, it was comforting. Trish clearly wanted me to know she was watching, which meant the purpose of the shadow was not to garner any new intelligence on me (like say, my candidate list) but rather just to make sure I was doing my job and not talking to the authorities. On the other hand, I didn’t like being followed.
The meeting with the tech guy by itself wouldn’t arouse any suspicions—could just be a candidate interview as far as they knew—but any type of handoff would undoubtedly garner their attention. The good news was they seemed content to give me privacy indoors, which opened up my playbook a bit. I couldn’t risk another meeting at O’Reilly’s, though. That would be pushing my luck. But I already had something else in mind, assuming the initial meeting went well.
I accepted my cash in large bills, thanked the teller, and left. Outside, I waved to Guy #2. He puffed his cigarette and waved back.
Tech guys tend to show up for meetings early. I sat down on the bench at 11:30, and he joined me less than ten minutes later. Guy #2 was taking a slow stroll around the fountain behind us. A mom and her two little ones were the only other people in the area. The kids took turns tossing loose change into the fountain while their mother ignored them and talked on her phone.
My candidate was young. Dark hair, gray eyes. His heavy, green parka was zipped to his chin with the collar popped, obscuring the lower half of his face. What remained visible was all sharp angles and pale skin, covered in a fine sheen of windblown mist from the fountain.
“Mr. Carter?” he asked, without looking at me. Thick accent. Croatian, maybe.
“That’s me,” I said. “Nice to meet you Mr. . . . ?”
“Call me Sergei.”
A hacker named Sergei. He must have found that one in the discount bin at Aliases “R” Us.
“Pleasure to meet you, Sergei. Nice job with the Atlanticorp breach,” I said, referring to the dummy corporation that served as a front for the military black market he’d hacked. “I was impressed. How did you get around their firewall?”
“You have job for me?” he asked.
Maybe one day I’ll meet a hacker who doesn’t mind small talk, but apparently not today.
“Kind of,” I said. He finally stopped staring straight ahead and looked at me. I glanced quickly over my shoulder and saw Guy #2 working his way around the kids, who had gone from taking turns throwing change to arguing over who got to toss in the last euro coin. Their mother was still on the phone, still oblivious to anything they were doing, but had no problem giving Guy #2 a nasty look when he blew out a cloud of smoke as he walked past. “I need a phone.”
Sergei raised an eyebrow.
“Ideally, one that bounces its signal across a dozen or so countries and has top-of-the-line text encryption.”
“That is very special phone,” Sergei said slowly.
“I’m self-conscious about my Pokémon Go habit,” I said. “Don’t want anyone to find out.”
“How soon do you need it?”
“Tonight. Tomorrow at the latest.”
Sergei laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. Like a hyena choking on a rabbit. “I took this meeting for job, not jokes.”
“So you’re telling me you can’t do it?”
“In twenty-four hours? No, I cannot do that.”
“I’ll pay you ten thousand, cash.”
“I can do it, sure, yes.”
I smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. He flinched and drew back. “That’s what attracted me to you, Sergei,” I said. “Your can-do attitude.”
He smiled awkwardly, at least I thought he did. It was hard to tell with the collar up around his face. Guy #2 passed in front of us about twelve feet away. He didn’t slow and Sergei didn’t seem to notice him. “I will text you when phone is ready,” he said.
“Nope, sorry, that won’t work. My current phone is slow and glitchy. It’s all gunked up with Pikachus and porn.”
Sergei raised an eyebrow again, this time in visible disgust.
“Here’s what we’re gonna do instead,” I said, leaning in.
I had my hand on the front door to my apartment building when Guy #2 called out to me.
“Who was the guy on the bench?” he asked as he walked up, an ever-present Winston clasped between two fingers.
“Just a connection,” I said. “Don’t you know secondhand smoke kills?”
He took a deep drag, exhaled in my face, and stubbed the cancer stick out on the brick wall of my building. “How’s your finger?” he asked.
“How’re Mike’s balls?”
