Peter walked around the corner of the big YMCA building and found a spot out of the wind. The rain was spotty but still coming down. He’d left the truck driver’s .357 in the car. He didn’t have a holster for it, and it would be obvious in the topcoat. He’d also put the medical boot back on, because his leg was getting sore. If Jean-Pierre Nicolet tried to run, Peter couldn’t chase him or shoot him.
But he didn’t think either would be necessary. Nicolet was a high-level attorney, probably very confident that the law existed primarily to serve his interests.
He came out of the YMCA at a brisk walk, wearing a tan trench coat open over a charcoal pinstripe suit, no briefcase or gym bag. Mid-forties, he was average height but whippet-lean, with a pale face, a receding hairline, and frameless glasses. He smiled into the damp wind, which probably felt good after an hour of racquetball and a quick steam.
Peter stepped into the man’s path.
“Mr. Nicolet. I’m your one forty-five meeting.”
Nicolet looked at Peter in his plain black suit and black raincoat. “You’re not from Paul Allen.” Despite the French name, he had no discernible accent. His company bio said he’d been born in Montreal and had kept his Canadian citizenship.
“I apologize for the ruse,” said Peter. “I’m with a certain agency. We work closely with the tech industry.”
Nicolet looked amused. “You people. May I see some ID?”
“No.” Peter had met a lot of spooks overseas, but he hadn’t met many who actually admitted who he worked for. Not without a lot of liquor, anyway. “We have some information we need you to verify. A national security issue. Your assistance would be very much appreciated.”
“And the topic?”
“Hazel Cassidy. She’s dead.”
“So I understand. I saw her obituary in the Mercury-News.” Nicolet smiled pleasantly. “Come to my office with identification I can verify. Bring a letter from your superior stating the information desired, the national security interest involved, and a compelling need as to why I should violate attorney-client confidentiality. I’ll speak with my partners in the firm. Then, perhaps, we’ll talk.”
“That’s not necessary. Please understand, I’m trying to help you and your firm avoid a full national security probe. I only need to know who asked you to negotiate with Cassidy for the purchase of the algorithm.”
Nicolet’s smile remained pleasant, although his voice acquired a distinct edge. “That’s also privileged information, I’m afraid. Without verifiable standing, you have no authority. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m due back at work.”
Peter put his right hand around Nicolet’s upper arm. The man was thin, but not soft. All that racquetball. “You’re not a U.S. citizen,” he said. “And my authority is quite flexible. My associates are around the corner in a black van. Give me the name.”
Nicolet’s smile widened, became genuine. His teeth were white and even. “Really? You’re going to take me off the street? Beat me with a rubber hose?”
“I’d prefer not to,” said Peter. “This is absolutely confidential. There would be no way to trace it back to you.”
Nicolet laughed. “You are either lying or na?ve. Either way, you’re not with the NSA. Take your hand off me or I’ll call the police.”
Peter didn’t let go. Instead he stepped closer, as if he were about to whisper something into the attorney’s ear. But his left fist was cocked low, held in tension by his cupped right hand. Then he let his right hand slip and released his left in a short hard pop to the other man’s solar plexus.
It happened so quickly and at such proximity that an onlooker would have been uncertain what he’d seen unless he was standing right beside them.
Nicolet bent double, gasping, glasses hanging from one ear. Peter leaned over him, a hand on his shoulder, the picture of sympathy.
“Take a minute to get your breath back. Then I’ll need that name.”
Nicolet wheezed, elbows braced on his knees, and Peter was afraid for a moment that he’d hit the other man harder than he’d intended.
Then he realized that the attorney was laughing.
Even with the sucker punch to the gut, gasping for breath, he was laughing.
“Go fuck yourself,” he coughed. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with.”
“You think they won’t kill you to protect themselves?” asked Peter.
Nicolet levered himself upright by sheer force of will and adjusted his glasses, still wheezing in laughter. “I’m too useful,” he said. “I’ve also taken certain precautions. But they’re probably watching us right now.”
Peter turned his head, counting the surveillance cameras in view. “Who’s watching?” he asked. “How do they get into those systems?”
Nicolet didn’t bother looking. He shook off Peter’s hand. “I’m pretty sure they can do anything they want.”
Peter left him there, and went around the corner for the car.
By the time he pulled around the block to the bus shelter to pick up June, the attorney was gone.
33
SHEPARD