talking about stock options or a business merger. We’re tracking a man. The parameters change constantly.”
Massey sighed loudly. “Once again you’re missing the point. Why would a man rescue a damsel in distress, put her up in a motel room, and then lie about his occupation and name?”
“Lots of reasons,” McCullers snapped, “and it’s you who’s missing the point. That kind of behavior is what I’m talking about. You can’t feed a man’s name into a computer and have some database kick out a picture of how the guy thinks. Maybe the guy is one of those antigovernment fanatics who hoard guns and food and who refuse to get a driver’s license or to pay income tax.”
“It is almost impossible to conceal an identity. Maybe he is something more challenging.”
“Like what?”
“Like a government operative, you idiot,” Massey snapped. “Maybe he’s something worse.”
“What could be worse?”
“A competitor.” Massey said it as if the word were dirt in his mouth. “Our business is highly competitive, and a dozen firms would like to know what we know … would like to know what
she
knows.”
“That’s hard to swallow.”
“Well, try harder. This may be difficult for you to understand, McCullers, but at the level of business that Moyer Communications operates, there are a great many shady practices. Some firms retain their own circle of industrial spies and operate with a sophistication that rivals the CIA. If those firms knew about her, they would stop at nothing to bring her on board. It would be a grave mistake for us to underestimate them.”
“That’s all very interesting,” McCullers said sarcastically, “but it doesn’t help very much, now does it?”
“I’m changing our approach,” Massey said. “Stay on the 14 until we reach Lancaster, then take the G Street turnoff.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s where the Gen. William J. Fox Airfield is. Mr. Moyer has arranged for a helicopter. We’ll never catch a truck with a three- or four-hour lead. We can cover a lot more ground this way.”
“I like the idea, but the truck could have gone so many different directions, not to mention the number of trucks on the road.”
“Mr. Moyer is sending up other helicopters. He has one from Bakersfield that will follow Highway 58 east; another will lift off from Riverside and check out I-15, I-215, and I-10. There will be others, too. We’re to follow the 14 and cut over to I-5.”
“That’s a lot of helicopters. You guys must have pretty deep pockets.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
“Yeah, whatever,” McCullers said flippantly. “And how are we supposed to find our man from the air?”
“The motel clerk gave us a few clues,” Massey answered with a tone that did nothing to hide his disgust. “You really make a living at doing this?”
“Cut to the chase,” McCullers snapped, resisting the urge to backhand the man next to him.
“The clerk said Blanchard’s truck was white, looked brand-new, and had no markings on the doors. Almost every commercial truck has some kind of signage on it that identifies the company and even the name of the driver. The clerk thought it was unusual that the truck had no markings at all.”
“So we look for a brand-new semi without markings?”
“And two people in the cab.”
“Not a very technical approach.”
“I’m working on that. Hopefully, that will all change soon.”
“It galls you to have to do this without all Moyer’s technical gizmos, doesn’t it? Well, welcome to my world, Massey. Some things have to be done the old-fashioned way. That’s what I’m good at.”
“We’ll see,” Massey commented dryly. “We’ll see.”
C HAPTER 7
Tuesday, 3:10 P.M.
G regory Moyer was angry. He could bring down any man in the country and had done so when it suited his purposes. Generals turned to him for information on world leaders. He could pinpoint almost every dignitary on the globe, but now he faced the
Massey sighed loudly. “Once again you’re missing the point. Why would a man rescue a damsel in distress, put her up in a motel room, and then lie about his occupation and name?”
“Lots of reasons,” McCullers snapped, “and it’s you who’s missing the point. That kind of behavior is what I’m talking about. You can’t feed a man’s name into a computer and have some database kick out a picture of how the guy thinks. Maybe the guy is one of those antigovernment fanatics who hoard guns and food and who refuse to get a driver’s license or to pay income tax.”
“It is almost impossible to conceal an identity. Maybe he is something more challenging.”
“Like what?”
“Like a government operative, you idiot,” Massey snapped. “Maybe he’s something worse.”
“What could be worse?”
“A competitor.” Massey said it as if the word were dirt in his mouth. “Our business is highly competitive, and a dozen firms would like to know what we know … would like to know what
she
knows.”
“That’s hard to swallow.”
“Well, try harder. This may be difficult for you to understand, McCullers, but at the level of business that Moyer Communications operates, there are a great many shady practices. Some firms retain their own circle of industrial spies and operate with a sophistication that rivals the CIA. If those firms knew about her, they would stop at nothing to bring her on board. It would be a grave mistake for us to underestimate them.”
“That’s all very interesting,” McCullers said sarcastically, “but it doesn’t help very much, now does it?”
“I’m changing our approach,” Massey said. “Stay on the 14 until we reach Lancaster, then take the G Street turnoff.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s where the Gen. William J. Fox Airfield is. Mr. Moyer has arranged for a helicopter. We’ll never catch a truck with a three- or four-hour lead. We can cover a lot more ground this way.”
“I like the idea, but the truck could have gone so many different directions, not to mention the number of trucks on the road.”
“Mr. Moyer is sending up other helicopters. He has one from Bakersfield that will follow Highway 58 east; another will lift off from Riverside and check out I-15, I-215, and I-10. There will be others, too. We’re to follow the 14 and cut over to I-5.”
“That’s a lot of helicopters. You guys must have pretty deep pockets.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
“Yeah, whatever,” McCullers said flippantly. “And how are we supposed to find our man from the air?”
“The motel clerk gave us a few clues,” Massey answered with a tone that did nothing to hide his disgust. “You really make a living at doing this?”
“Cut to the chase,” McCullers snapped, resisting the urge to backhand the man next to him.
“The clerk said Blanchard’s truck was white, looked brand-new, and had no markings on the doors. Almost every commercial truck has some kind of signage on it that identifies the company and even the name of the driver. The clerk thought it was unusual that the truck had no markings at all.”
“So we look for a brand-new semi without markings?”
“And two people in the cab.”
“Not a very technical approach.”
“I’m working on that. Hopefully, that will all change soon.”
“It galls you to have to do this without all Moyer’s technical gizmos, doesn’t it? Well, welcome to my world, Massey. Some things have to be done the old-fashioned way. That’s what I’m good at.”
“We’ll see,” Massey commented dryly. “We’ll see.”
C HAPTER 7
Tuesday, 3:10 P.M.
G regory Moyer was angry. He could bring down any man in the country and had done so when it suited his purposes. Generals turned to him for information on world leaders. He could pinpoint almost every dignitary on the globe, but now he faced the
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