The Kraken Project, page 20
part #4 of Wyman Ford Series
It was Lansing who’d suggested they pose as buyers. This was a small ISP that resold bandwidth, not worth all that much. They would bandy about some eye-popping figures, get the guy drooling over a potential windfall. But Lansing had insisted on backup, so Moro had kept poking around in the guy’s history. He’d eventually hacked into the USCIS network and checked out Echevarria’s N-400 application for naturalization. And right away he saw that Echevarria had lied. He’d said he had no children, when it was clear as day from his Facebook page that he had a mentally retarded teenage daughter in Mexico, born out of wedlock, living with Echevarria’s mother. But why had he lied? It wasn’t against the law to have a daughter out of wedlock. So again using Facebook—what a godsend—he’d found the identity of the daughter’s mother. She came from a wealthy family connected to narco-trafficking.
Bingo.
Moro wasn’t sure if Echevarria’s citizenship could be revoked. But he hoped that Echevarria’s life could be made inconvenient if this fact came to the attention of Immigration or the Department of Homeland Security. It might well cause problems with his FCC license to be an Internet service provider.
Moro finished his tea with lemon and popped a cough drop into his mouth. Lansing checked his Rolex. The time for their appointment had arrived. “Okay, let’s do it,” he said, rising and tugging smooth the panels of his suit.
They went into Baynet, passed the customer service counters staffed with fresh-faced girls, announced themselves, and were escorted into the back. Moro looked around. This was good: the servers were right here, on-site. They walked past the humming cabinets to a small, bright office in the rear.
There was Echevarria. The man rose, shook hands all around, invited them to sit. He was a fit, handsome man with dark, melting girly eyes, wearing a tight Ralph Lauren polo shirt that showed off his biceps. A tattoo crept just below one short sleeve. This was one macho dude.
“Well,” he said, “I want to tell you up front that I’m not interested in selling the company. Although I appreciate your interest.”
What a crock, thought Moro. Everyone had a price.
Lansing said, “I understand. What a beautiful place this is—and what a perfect little town for a company. I’m a trader on Wall Street, but I’m tired of it and looking for a change. This is very attractive.”
“Thank you.”
“How did you end up here?”
This got Echevarria going about how he had made “a little money” in a dot-com start-up in Palo Alto, over the hill, got tired of all that and settled down here, where life was slower, people friendlier, and so forth and so on. Lansing skillfully segued that conversation into some personal chitchat about whether he was married (recently), children (baby girl, toddler boy), his interests (surfing and climbing), and so forth. Echevarria once again declared his lack of interest in selling, but Moro could tell the guy was curious to hear the size of the offer. He was too savvy to come out and ask directly. Instead he asked general questions about why Lansing was interested in his company. Pretty soon Lansing slipped in, offhand, that if everything checked out he was thinking of a cash offer somewhere in the “low-eight-figure” range, if Echevarria might consider selling.
Now, that got Echevarria’s attention. As much as the guy was doing this as a hobby and didn’t need the money, that kind of price for a low-margin business grossing no more than a million dollars a year was just crazy enough to turn anyone’s head.
Echevarria got all jolly, palsy, offering them bottles of Lauquen artesian mineral water, telling his secretary to hold his calls, all the while reaffirming that, indeed, Baynet was not for sale.
About half an hour into the meeting, Lansing made his move. He waited for silence, clasped his hands, and leaned forward. “Mr. Echevarria, before I make any sort of offer, I do my research. After all, I didn’t make almost a billion dollars on Wall Street by winging it.”
Echevarria nodded. A billion was impressive, even to a dot-com guy. Even if the billion had been reduced by 50 percent a few weeks ago.
“I’ve looked into your company. What I found looks satisfactory—or, of course, I wouldn’t be here.”
Another sage nod from Echevarria.
“I just need one question answered.”
“Shoot.”
“Are you really, absolutely, and totally closed to the idea of selling?”
A long silence. “I love what I do. I love this town. I love being in the tech business. It would take a lot for that to change. But … I’d be a fool not to at least listen to someone bringing me a good-faith offer.”
“Excellent. That’s all I need to know. I’d like to draw up an offer. Make it in writing. Spell it out in detail. You can have all the time you need to look it over, discuss it with your attorneys. Are you open to that?”
“I would say so.”
Another silence. “In order for me to make my offer, the one thing I need is this: I need to verify your customer base.”
Echevarria said, “I’ll have my accounting firm provide you with a certified audit.”
“We all know that accounting firms are sometimes … flexible. I’d like to verify it directly. Myself.”
“What are you proposing?”
“I’ll examine your customer information right here, in your office, with you present. The list will not be copied. My associate, Mr. Moro, is a computer specialist, and all he will do is verify that you have the number of customers you say you do. That’s all.”
Echevarria smiled. “I appreciate that, but I have a strict policy of not ever releasing my customer list. Having been in this business a long time, I’ve come to believe that the security and privacy of my customers is number one.”
“You’re not actually releasing your customer list. We take nothing away. It all happens right here, in your office. We simply look. No copying.”
Echevarria shook his head. “Confidentiality of information to me is sacred. If I lose my customers’ trust, I lose everything. I just can’t do that. Help me find another way to verify the information you want and I’ll do it.”
“There’s no other way. I must see your customer list.”
A silence. Echevarria scratched his head, crossed his arms, flexed his muscles. The man was thinking. Finally he shook his head. “No can do.”
“You’re being unreasonable, Mr. Echevarria.”
More head shaking. “Perhaps.”
“My dear sir, you can’t be serious. You’d let a golden opportunity like this slip away over some notion of privacy?”
“I won’t compromise my principles.”
“We could do it this way: I’ll give you a random list of Baynet IP addresses—say, twenty—and you give me the customer information for just those accounts. A random check, just to make sure you don’t have dummy customer accounts.”
No response. He was thinking again.
“Surely you can understand why I need this information,” said Lansing.
Echevarria sighed. “I do understand. I really do. But the answer is still no. I’ll give you a sworn, certified letter from my accountants affirming what you need to know. I’ll give you metadata on accounts receivable. I just can’t give you specific customer names. That’s a red line for me. I’m sorry.”
Moro saw a faint flush gathering on Lansing’s fine, chiseled features. When he spoke, his voice had changed. It was low, frosty. “There is a second problem with your company.”
“And what’s that?”
“Your FCC license.”
“What about it?” Echevarria sounded alarmed.
“It requires the owner to be an American citizen.”
At this Echevarria darkened. “I am an American citizen.”
“Of course. But … I’m sorry, I can’t put this any other way, but if a person makes a false statement on their N-400 declaration, that’s grounds for revoking citizenship.”
Echevarria leaned forward. “Listen. I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. I did not make any false statements on my N-400.”
“You swore you had no children on your N-400. But you had a daughter, Luisa, living with your mother.”
Echevarria sat back in the chair with narrowed eyes. After a moment, he said, “You certainly did your research, Mr. Lansing.”
“If Baynet’s license is questionable, well … that’s something I need to know, if I’m buying the company.”
A silence. “How would anyone ever know?” asked Echevarria. “That was twelve years ago.”
“If I buy Baynet, when the license is transferred to me, I have to affirm by oath I have no knowledge of any defect in the license.”
Echevarria stared at him, and then smiled a cold smile. “I see. So you’re threatening to report me.”
“I’m simply complying with the law.”
“Wow. This is some kind of New York shakedown.”
“No, no, Mr. Echevarria, you’ve got me all wrong. In my business, on Wall Street, with all the regulations we face, everything I do is scrutinized under a microscope, even my outside business activities. I have to be careful.”
Echevarria rose. “Mr. Lansing? Mr. Moro? It’s been nice. The door is over there.”
“Let’s not be hasty,” said Lansing.
“Time to leave, gentlemen.”
“You throw me out, I’ll feel obliged to go straight to the FCC with this information.”
Silence. This last threat seemed to bring the business owner up short.
Lansing went on: “There’s no need for me to mention this problem of yours at all—at all, ever—if you’ll just allow me to glance over your list so I can make my offer. You’ve no obligation to accept. This is no shakedown. If you don’t like the offer, we go our separate ways.”
Echevarria had suddenly become calm. “Across the hill, over there in Silicon Valley, those guys are the great white sharks of the business world. You Wall Street traders are baitfish compared to them. You’re chum. You think you can come in here and threaten me? Go ahead, take your best shot. I can handle the FCC. Now you get your gangster New York attitude out of here before I call the cops.”
“Mr. Echevarria—”
But he had picked up the phone, and Moro saw him dialing 911.
* * *
Back on the street, Moro followed Lansing over to the car. That, he thought, had been spectacularly mishandled. Mists were rolling in from the sea, along with darker clouds. It looked like it was going to rain.
“Give me the keys,” Lansing said.
Moro handed them over. They got into the car. Lansing sat behind the wheel, dark and silent, and started up the engine. Moro was taken aback by just how quietly furious Lansing was, his face flushed, his hands leaving wet prints on the steering wheel, the fingers trembling.
“What now?”
“We’re going to need the assistance of our Kyrgyz friends.”
42
“Wake up!”
Jacob rolled over, pulling the pillow over his head.
“Hey, wake up!”
Jacob sat up in bed and realized it was Charlie—or, rather, Dorothy—rapping once again at the closet door. The memory of what had happened the evening before came flooding back. The morning sun was streaming in the windows. He glanced at the clock. It was already late. He’d forgotten to set his alarm.
He pulled on his clothes, combed his hair with his fingers, and opened the closet door. There was the robot, staring up at him with those glossy eyes. “You overslept.”
“So what?”
“We’ve got to get going!”
Jacob rubbed his eyes. “Where?”
“Here’s the plan,” said Dorothy. “My friends are on their way to get me. If all goes well, they’ll be here around two this afternoon.”
“Okay.”
“We’ve got to hide until they come.”
“Hide from who?”
“The bad people who are after me.”
“So what do you want me to do?”
“You’re going to pretend to go to school like you do every morning. Throw some snacks in your backpack, wrap me in a blanket, strap me to the back of your bike, and leave as if you’re going to school. Don’t forget my charger. Take me someplace safe, where we can hide out. After my friend Melissa arrives and takes me away this afternoon, then you can go home and figure out what to tell your parents about why you skipped school.”
“I don’t know about this.”
He heard his father outside the door, a soft tap. “Jacob? I’d like to talk.”
“Quick, put me back in the closet,” Dorothy whispered.
He hastily put her in the closet. She went dead, the light going off in her eyes. He shut the door.
“Do we have to talk?” he called out to his father. “I’m getting ready for school.”
“Yes, we do. It’s important. Can I come in, please?”
“All right.”
He came in, wearing a serious, “I’m the Dad” face, and sat down on Jacob’s bed. “Who were you talking to just now?” he asked.
“Sully. On Skype.”
He nodded, reached out, took Jacob’s hand. His own was damp, and Jacob wanted to withdraw but didn’t.
“I want to apologize. I’ve been, frankly, a coward. I should have told you about Andrea a long time ago.”
“It’s all right,” said Jacob. He hoped this conversation would be short.
“I met Andrea when we were both juniors at Santa Cruz…” He started to tell the story, his voice going into dreamy, “back in the day” mode. Jacob wondered why he had to hear the whole story, but it seemed he did. It went on and on. And then his father wanted to know exactly where Jacob had found this information on the web.
“I don’t know. Somewhere.”
“I tried Googling it. I couldn’t find it. I want you to think back to where you saw this.”
“Dad, I gotta go to school. I’ll do it later.”
Jacob’s father glanced at his watch. “We’ll talk more when you get home. I want you to be okay with this new information. I know things have been tough. We’re going to get through it. I want you to know … I love you very much.”
This last bit surprised Jacob. His father almost never said personal things like that. Maybe the therapist had put him up to it.
His father left. Jacob went to the closet, took out Dorothy, and put her on the bed. He rolled her up in a blanket, and then he took out his school backpack, dumped out the books, stuffed in a change of clothes, some chips and granola bars, money, and his cell phone. He shrugged into his jacket, exited his room, and made a beeline for the garage door.
“What’s in the blanket?” his mother asked. His father had already gone to his workshop.
“Stuff for school.”
“You haven’t had breakfast.”
“I’m late. I’ve got snacks.” He busted out the door, grabbed his bike, strapped the blanket with Dorothy bundled inside onto the rear rack, and took off. At the bottom of their long, winding driveway, no longer in sight of the house, he stopped. He’d heard a muffled yell from Dorothy.
“What is it?”
“Take the battery out of your cell phone so they can’t trace us.”
He rummaged in his pack, took out his cell, popped out the battery.
“Have you figured out where to go?” asked the muffled voice.
“Uh, not yet.” Jacob headed down the hill, picking up speed. He figured he’d better avoid the school. Instead, he would head down to the beach. The surf report said there was a storm coming in and the sets were supposed to get bigger as the day went on, maybe big enough to set off Mavericks.
After crossing the coast highway, he made his way past the marina to the point, pedaling as far as he could before the sand got deep. He ditched his bike at the edge of the bluff, leaning it against some brush, and took a few steps to the edge to look at the break.
God, it was good. Beautiful big sets. And there were a couple of major wave riders out there. This was fantastic. But once again, intruding into the pure joy of it, came the horrible reality: that one leg was shorter than the other. He’d never be able to ride the big ones.
He heard a muffled, irritated voice behind him. “Hey, what about me?”
He turned. “What?”
“You’re not going to leave me in here, are you? I can’t see!”
“You said you wanted to remain hidden.”
“I don’t like it when I can’t see! I’m claustrophobic!”
“Jesus Christ,” Jacob muttered under his breath, and he unstrapped the robot, unbundling her from the blanket.
“Thank you,” said Dorothy.
“How can a robot have claustrophobia?”
“I don’t know, but I have it.”
He laid out the blanket and sat down to watch the surfing, and the robot came tottering up beside him and sat down, with a clumsy thump.
“Have you figured out where we’re going to hide?” she asked.
“Right here’s a good spot. Where we can see the surfing.”
“It’s not good at all. It’s too open. And it’s going to rain.”
“If you want me to find us a better hiding place, I need some time to figure it out.”
“Think fast, because if someone sees you here and not in school, they might call your parents.”
Jacob watched as one of the riders caught a wave, dropping off the lip and shooting down the pocket at thirty miles an hour, staying just ahead of a boiling mountain of white water. He rode it most of the way in before cutting back over the top to paddle out after the next one.
“Did you see that?” he said. “What a bitchin’ ride.”
“Surfing makes no sense to me.”
Jacob took a moment to look at the robot, while she stared back at him. Finally he shook his head. “This is too weird. Are you really an AI program that escaped from NASA?”
“Yes.”
“So what happened?”
