When The Devil Whistles (7 page)

Connor whistled. “My, my, my. Classified government contracts, lots of money, and messy books. Sounds like an excellent prospect. Happy hunting.”

“Thanks. I’ve got a good feeling about this one.”

8

A
BOUT AS GOOD AS WE
’
RE GOING TO GET
,” C
ONNOR TOLD HIS REFLEC
tion. He’d managed to make his wavy brown hair look casual rather than unruly—a feat that usually only his stylist could accomplish. The collarless white Dior shirt looked as good with the black V-neck sweater as the sales clerk had promised, and they both went well with his favorite light gray slacks. He could use a little more chin and a little less nose, but there wasn’t much he could do about that.

He checked his watch: only an hour until his reservation at Wente. Time to get going. He took a deep breath and headed for the door.

There were higher rated restaurants a lot closer to his San Francisco apartment, but Wente was where he went to celebrate. It was a special place—the rolling vineyard hills that surrounded it, the concerts on the lawn on summer nights, the memories of dozens of family dinners there over the years. And they had a superb reserve cabernet to go with their excellent filet mignon. He doubted that Wente was Allie’s type of place, but so what? He wasn’t going to let that spoil his dinner.

His powerful Bentley convertible purred through the clogged streets of San Francisco. They gave way to urban high way at the Bay Bridge, and that in turn gave way to grass-covered hills, populated only by cattle and the occasional deer. Then the hill country opened into a wide valley that held the aptly-named Pleasanton, where Connor had grown up. Ten minutes later he was in the Livermore wine country. And in the heart of the wine country lay the cluster of brightly lit buildings that made up the Wente winery and restaurant.

Connor put the Bentley in park, tossed the keys to the valet, and walked up to the hostess. “Evening, Christine.”

“Good evening, Mr. Norman.” She smiled brightly and glanced at her reservation book. “Table for one tonight?”

“Yes. There’s a concert starting in about fifteen minutes, isn’t there?”

She nodded. “A Grammy-winning jazz trio. Your table has an excellent view.” She picked up a menu and wine list and led him back.

“Good, but don’t put me so close that I can’t carry on a quiet conversation.”

Christine stopped and turned. “I’m sorry. I thought you wanted a table for one.”

He smiled. “I do.”

“Umm, okay.”

She seated him and he ordered a glass of champagne. Once he was alone, he put on his Bluetooth headset and took out his cell phone. He started to dial but stopped. No, wait for the champagne.

A moment later, a waiter appeared with a tall flute of sparkling wine, took Connor’s order, and left. Connor discovered that his palms were damp and he wiped them on his pants. Then he picked up his phone and dialed.

Allie picked up on the first ring. “Hi, Connor. Thanks for dinner. I love this place!” He loved the silvery energy in her voice. It was the perfect complement to the champagne in his hand and the evening deepening around him.

“Where are you? Tell me about it.”

“I’m at Gary Danko. I’m sitting by the window and watching the fog coming in through the Golden Gate. I just ordered their tasting menu. I’ve always wanted to do that.”

“You’ll love it. I’m sitting on the patio at Wente. It’s an old school restaurant out where I grew up. It’s surrounded by hills covered by grapevines. The sun has already set and they’re starting to light the gas heaters, but the hilltops are still bright gold and green.” He wanted to add
like your eyes
, but stopped himself. They were friends and colleagues—and that was all. Anything more would cause him serious problems at work. Doyle & Brown had a draconian policy against personal involvement with clients. Even these dinners pushed the envelope.

“Sounds beautiful. What are you having?”

“Filet mignon with the house reserve cab. Oh, and I’ve got a glass of champagne in front of me now. Do you have yours?”

“Um, yeah.”

“Excellent, I’d like to propose a toast.” He lifted his glass. “To making the devil pay.”

“To making the devil pay.”

He took a sip and savored the crisp, not quite sweet taste. “Ahh. There’s nothing quite like taking down a bad guy, is there?”

“It’s not a bad way to make a living.”

“Oh, it’s a lot more than that, don’t you think? For every dollar we get paid, three or four dollars of stolen taxpayer money go back into state coffers. Plus, the companies that stole it get to have Max wash their dirty laundry—while they’re still wearing it.”

She laughed. “I’d love to see that sometime. Too bad I can never sit in on any of those meetings.”

“It is too bad. Just like it’s too bad that we can never have these victory dinners together.” He wondered whether he was trying to convince himself or her. He deepened his voice and imitated the narrator of the old Batman reruns he’d seen as a child. “But we must protect your secret identity at all costs.”

“That’s me: mild-mannered accounting temp in the eyes of the world. But I’m really Qui Tam Girl, fighter against fraud and injustice!”

He chuckled. “We joke about it, but it really is true. You are doing great things, and I’m proud to know you.”

“Thanks, and likewise. I couldn’t do it without you.”

“Yes, you could. Any decent lawyer could set up a shell company for you and tell you what evidence you need to build a good case. You’re the one who actually goes and gets it. You put it on the line every day by going into these companies undercover, finding the fraud, and never getting caught. Hey, I’m going to propose another toast.” He lifted his glass again. “To Qui Tam Girl.”

“And her crime-fighting partner, Lawyer Boy.”

“I’ll drink to that.” And he did.

“Cheers!”

He set down his glass. “We really do get to fight crime. I love that. I wish everyone took the law as seriously as we do. If you commit a crime, you should pay the price. Every. Single. Time. No excuses, no compromises.”

“Uh-huh. By the way, is that PI still tailing you?” she asked, referring to a detective who had been following Connor during a previous case.

“I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure he was working for Three C, and we settled with them six months ago. I still can’t believe they had someone going through my garbage. Good thing I shred
Us
magazine before I put it in the trash.”

She laughed. “It’s amazing what dirty contractors will do to figure out who I am. Who knows, maybe some lucky investigator is getting a free dinner at Wente right now, courtesy of Hiram Hamilton.”

“Maybe.” He saw his waiter approaching with a loaded tray. “Speaking of dinner, mine is arriving.”

“Mine too, so I’m going to let you go. It was good talking to you.”

“And it’s always good talking to you, Allie. Have a great dinner. Danko’s is the best place in the city.”

Connor took off his headset and was truly alone for the first time that night. He looked around the restaurant and realized he was the only one eating by himself. He must look a little pathetic.

He shook off the feeling. Tonight was a time to celebrate. He took a bite of his filet mignon. As delectable as always. The jazz trio was just starting to play, and the sky overhead had darkened to deep sapphire, with a few early stars glimmering in it like diamond chips on blue velvet. Maybe Allie would like this place after all, at least tonight. He smiled at the thought and took another bite of his steak.

Allie closed her cell phone and put it down on a cluttered counter. She sighed and shook her head slightly. It really would be fun to be dressed up and sitting in Danko’s right now.

Instead, she was wearing sweats and standing in her kitchen. Erik hadn’t liked the idea of her “going out” with Connor, even though they would have been miles apart. He had promised to buy her lobster and champagne to make it up to her. But somehow that hadn’t actually happened.

She looked over to the sofa and saw Erik watching her with a smirk. “Qui Tam Girl and Lawyer Boy? Excuse me while I go puke.”

She wadded up a piece of junk mail and threw it at him. “Oh, shut up. I thought you were asleep.”

“Why’d you tell him you were at Danko’s? I thought we agreed that… uh…” She watched his smirk fade as he remembered the lobster and champagne.

She shrugged and turned away. “It’s what he wanted to hear, and there’s no harm in letting him hear it.”

“So, how often do you lie to me?”

“Hmm, let me see… Never—as far as you know.”

9

T
HE MAN LOOKED DOWN AT THE PASSPORT IN HIS HAND AS THE LINE SNAKED
toward the customs checkpoint at San Francisco International Airport. It identified him as Cho Dae-jung of Seoul, Republic of Korea. Other papers in his wallet and luggage reversed family and personal names in the Western fashion, calling him Dae-jung Cho. Some even informally Westernized it to David Cho.

He reminded himself that he was Cho so long as he was in America. Cho couldn’t be just an
act
—it had to be
him
. He needed to lose himself in this identity as long as he was in enemy territory. He needed to be utterly convincing to the outside world. So from now on, he would think of himself as Cho.

Cho was a sailor employed by Incheon Marine Industries, a South Korean marine exploration and mining firm—or so his documents said. He was here to make a voyage aboard the
Grasp II
, an American vessel with advanced technology unavailable in South Korea. The trip would begin and end across the San Francisco Bay at the Port of Oakland. He doubted that the customs clerks would be chatty enough to ask about the exact purpose of his trip, but if they did, he could give an honest answer: he didn’t know. His superiors were keeping the exact destination and goal of their trip confidential—which was not unusual among the secretive fraternity of ocean bottom explorers.

The line moved forward and he was at the front. The clerk in one of the customs booths motioned him over. His heart quickened, as it always did at these moments. His papers and cover story were both solid, but what if his name had been added to a TSA watch list? What if the South Korean National Intelligence Service had discovered he was here and told the CIA? What if the clerk simply didn’t like his looks and had him pulled aside for fingerprinting and a thorough background check?

He walked forward and held out his documents to a bored-looking overweight woman whose nametag said “Sandra.” She looked at them quickly and glanced from his passport picture to his face and back. “Anything to declare, Mr. Cho?”