Hanging the Devil, page 17
“I don’t have the video,” said Cape, “but I can look into getting a copy.”
Dumont waved a hand. “No need, I know how it’s done.”
“I was hoping to stump you for once.”
“Oh, I like this very much,” said Dumont. “Thank you for bringing it to me. It’s just that I’ve seen it before.”
“Where?”
“Hong Kong,” said Dumont. “Everyone knows China built the largest surveillance state in the world, but most people don’t realize a battle for privacy is happening on the streets of Hong Kong. It’s not a war that makes headlines, and it’s being fought primarily by students.”
“Students?”
“China took the model adopted by Europe after the terrorist bombings—security cameras on every street corner—and weaponized it to monitor their own citizens. They make the chips used in half the security cameras around the world, but those chips were based on Intel and AMD chips sold here, then reengineered at university labs in mainland China. Your ghost is using technology that was invented at engineering schools, adopted by protestors, and sold on the black market.”
“I’ve never heard of it before.”
“It’s coming,” said Dumont. “China has a social rating system that tracks people across digital platforms. Maybe you’ve heard of it?”
“I thought Facebook was banned over there.”
“This is very Minority Report,” said Dumont. “It works across any social media, not just state-sponsored platforms like Weibo or when shopping on Alibaba. Using facial recognition, it matches your online behavior to where you go and who you see in the real world.”
“In my case that’s cat videos online and cops in the real world,” said Cape. “You called it a rating system, why?”
“Someone uses a public restroom, a facial scan on their phone is required to unlock the toilet paper roll. Even tourists. So the government knows where you are at any given moment.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Stay with me,” said Dumont. “Depending on where and when you show up, you’re given a score. A high score means you can travel on high-speed trains, attend a better school, or apply for coveted job. A low score means you’re riding coach on a local train or denied a higher paying job.”
“This is real,” said Cape, his voice more resigned than skeptical. “Today?”
“It’s almost five years old,” said Dumont.
“I know things are censored in other countries, shit, even here,” said Cape, “that’s why I quit the newspaper business, but this is—”
“Dystopian?”
“I was going to use a smaller word,” said Cape. “Scary.”
“So what would you do?” asked Dumont. “If you wanted to steal your privacy back?”
“I’d become invisible,” said Cape. “Like a ghost.”
Dumont nodded. “Like a ghost.”
Gesturing for Cape to follow, Dumont walked along a row of tables toward the far end of the warehouse. The overhead lights tracked their progress and illuminated their path as the lights behind them went dark. Dumont stopped in front of a table with a video camera mounted on a clamp. Cape waited while the inventor rummaged around a nearby shelf for a few minutes.
He returned and dumped a swatch of white fabric, tape, some wire, and a D battery onto the table. The battery was inside a plastic relay box to which wires could be fastened. Dumont’s fingers were nimble, and soon he stitched together a net of wire and hooked it up to the battery.
“Watch this.”
Dumont turned on the video camera and flipped the viewing screen out from the side of the camera, a two-by-three rectangle displaying an image of the table. He took the cloth and moved his hand in front of the camera lens, waving it back and forth like a flag. Cape followed the motion on the tiny screen.
“I see your white flag,” said Cape, “and accept your surrender.”
“Not so fast.” Dumont spread the cloth on the table and laid the wire mesh over it. “Most fabric isn’t good for carrying a current, but this is conductive cloth, fibers interwoven with strands of metal as thin as a hair.” Tearing pieces of black electrical tape off a roll, he secured the net to the fabric. “Now, tell me what you see.”
Dumont waved the cloth in front of the lens as Cape stared at the camera’s viewing screen. The only thing visible was white mist.
The image stuttered, and Cape could suddenly see the cloth, then it vanished again, mere smoke wrapped around the scientist’s fingers. The screen pixelated, then resolved into a clear image, the cloth plainly visible.
Dumont disconnected the battery and set his makeshift contraption on the workbench.
“You can see the limitations,” he said. “To maintain the illusion, your ghost would have to carry a much stronger charge, attuned to a specific wavelength to disrupt the cameras.”
“I could see your hand,” said Cape. “Not all the time, but there were moments when it was visible. Is that because of the low current, or—”
“No,” said Dumont. “That’s the other thing your ethereal friend was wearing.” He ran two long fingers across his cheek. “Topographical makeup.”
“Like foundation,” said Cape. “Or face cream?”
“Precisely,” said Dumont. “The most expensive blush you’ll ever buy. Nanoparticles are mixed into the cream to create invisible contours and angles on your skin. The same geometry as a stealth bomber, and not as clumsy as prosthetics. You still look like you, but to the cameras you either look like someone else—so there’s no identity match—or your face distorts beyond recognition until it resembles—”
“—smoke.”
“Yes.”
“This should be on every criminal’s Christmas list.”
“Now that you know how it’s done,” said Dumont, “what do you want to do about it?”
Cape lifted the fabric with his right hand and rubbed it between his fingers. “Can you make an outfit for me?” He thought about Sally and her need to keep Grace out of sight. “Or someone smaller?”
“Give me the measurements.” Dumont turned off the camera. “Anything else?”
Cape hefted the battery. “How much power does it take to make a full suit work?”
The corner of Dumont’s mouth did a mischievous mamba. “You have a plan.”
“I have an idea.” Cape handed the battery to Dumont. “How would you power it?”
“You could use a single battery pack, holstered on your waist.” Dumont tossed the battery back and forth between his delicate hands. “But that would be heavy, throw off your balance.”
Cape considered what little he knew of the ghost. Sally heard rumors of his existence. Grace said he walked like Sally. Like a cat. That meant he was dangerous, and he was trained.
“He’ll need to move,” said Cape. “Gracefully.”
Dumont brought his palms together and rolled the battery between them. “Then I’d use four. Lithium batteries would be thinner, hold a charge longer. One pack behind each shoulder, one at the waist in front of the right hip, the last on the left hip, but on the lower back. The weight would be distributed evenly, so any movement would feel natural.”
“Good,” said Cape. “Perfect, actually.” He patted his shoulders and hips as he imagined wearing his own rig. “Ready for the bonus question?”
“Always.”
“Could you figure out a way to make it short-circuit?” asked Cape. “From a distance?”
Dumont Frazer looked like a twelve-year-old boy who’d just won the science fair. “I do enjoy it when you come to visit.”
“That sounds like a yes.”
“It depends,” said Dumont. “Is the goal to make him visible to the cameras, or something else.”
“Something else,” said Cape. “I want him distracted.”
“For how long?”
“You tell me.”
Dumont set down the battery and drummed his fingers on the table. “It would only last a few seconds.”
“I just need an opening.”
“And it might take a moment to activate,” said Dumont.
“Not ideal, but okay,” said Cape. “What will it feel like?”
“I haven’t built the device yet.” Dumont blew out his cheeks. “This is all theoretical.”
Cape smiled sympathetically but wasn’t buying it. He knew Dumont had already designed the gizmo in his head. The inventor once gave him a sonic grenade that saved his life. Another time he’d discovered the chemical key that unlocked a mystery. The man had Da Vinci on one shoulder and Edison on the other, whispering into his ears.
“If you had to guess,” said Cape, “theoretically.”
“Ever stick your tongue on a nine-volt battery when you were a kid?”
“Sure,” said Cape. “A jolt through your tongue.”
“It might feel like that, multiplied,” said Dumont. “Like the low voltage electric fences used on farms to keep cattle in the field. A sharp jolt.”
“That might do the trick.”
“There’s another possibility,” said Dumont. “Not as shocking, but it might serve as a distraction. Ever feel a laptop or mobile phone get hot when it’s charging? More annoying than painful.”
“Do I get to choose?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Dumont. “I won’t know how it works until I know if it works. Sending a wireless signal at the same frequency, from a distance of…what?” He raised an inquisitive eyebrow.
“Twenty feet?”
“This might not work,” said Dumont.
“That’s okay,” said Cape. “I might not need it.”
“When do you need this thing that you might not need,” said Dumont, “which hasn’t been invented yet?”
“Is that a rhetorical question?”
“You do keep things interesting.” Dumont grinned. “I’ll get started right away.” As they walked back toward the exit, he asked, “Where are you going now?”
“Going to meet Sally,” said Cape. “And catch a thief.”
38
“Gerry Gao isn’t a thief,” said Sally. “He’s more of a thug.”
“What’s a thug?” asked Grace.
“A bad guy,” said Cape.
They were standing on the rooftop of an empty warehouse that once stored plumbing supplies for a wholesaler that went bankrupt the year before. When the recently elected DA announced he wasn’t going to arrest anyone unless they killed someone, an undercurrent of seediness spread across San Francisco like mold. Drug dealers, hustlers, and car thieves moved in, and anyone who could afford to moved out, while those with real money drove across the Golden Gate and bought houses in neighborhoods with private security, gates, and good schools nearby. That turned neighborhoods like this one, once a mix of commercial and residential, into landscapes of desolation and decay.
The roof on which they stood was higher than the adjacent building, which happened to be a textile factory owned by Freddie Wang. From their vantage point, a short walk to either side of the roof would give them a clear line of sight to the front or rear entrance of Freddie’s factory.
Cape, Sally, and Grace crouched behind a low wall that encircled the roof. In the center of the roof was a service door that led to an enclosed stairway. A fire escape ran down the back of the building. Freddie’s building had a similar structure, but its brick face had small windows on the first floor and more expansive windows on the second, multipaned and continuous from the days when electricity was a novelty and natural light was critical for factory workers being able to see what they were sewing.
“How bad is he?” Grace asked as if trying to brace herself for what might happen. “He tried to grab me in the alley, but I think he just wanted to take me to his boss.”
“His boss is worse,” said Cape. “He’s the real villain.”
“But not a supervillain.” Grace nodded. “Sally told me.”
“Just an old bully who’s willing to hurt people to get what he wants.” Cape studied Grace’s expressions and added, “We’re not talking about Lex Luthor, here, or even Doctor Octopus or Green Goblin. Not that bad.”
Sally groaned.
Grace visibly brightened. “Sally told me I shouldn’t read so many comic books.”
“That’s like saying you shouldn’t study Greek myths,” said Cape. “Comic books are a cornerstone of any classical education.”
Sally shook her head. “You’re a bad influence.”
“But not a bad guy.” Cape winked at Grace, who giggled. “Or a villain.”
“Showtime,” said Sally quietly.
The sound of an engine preceded a car coming into view.
They crouched behind the wall and followed the car’s progress as it pulled around the back of Freddie’s building. The driver stayed in the car, but another man exited the shotgun seat and, after a cursory look around, opened the rear door. Freddie Wang climbed out of the black Cadillac, a cane in one hand and cigarette in the other.
The last time Cape had seen Freddie was at his restaurant in Chinatown. During a brief and acrimonious exchange, Freddie smoked a pack of cigarettes, his ashtray overflowing by the time Cape asked his first question. No one knew Freddie’s real age, and after that meeting Cape was convinced that even cancer was afraid of killing him. Freddie Wang sat at the center of a web with so many connections that half the city’s politicians and most of the monied gentry would die with him.
Even Maksim Valenko didn’t have that much clout. If Freddie left a void, the Russian would be first to fill it, but their mutual business interests had kept them in their respective corners of the city. Until now.
Cape was watching Freddie hobble to the back door when Sally gave a low whistle from the far corner of the building. She gestured with an open palm for Grace to lie flat. Staying low, Cape made his way across the roof and peered over the edge.
A blue Toyota hatchback was approaching the front of the building from the north, still a few blocks away but driving as if searching for an address, slowing and then speeding up in bursts. Traffic was almost nonexistent, and the streets were flat south of Market compared to the notorious hills of San Francisco found in midtown. The only other car on the same side of the street was a dark sedan, farther back but moving at roughly the same speed as the Toyota.
Cape turned and checked the other end of the street. Another car was approaching from the opposite direction, still three blocks away, a red car low to the ground. Cape couldn’t tell but thought it might be a Camaro.
“It’s not every day that Freddie leaves his restaurant,” said Sally quietly.
“Too many people are looking for Gerry Gao,” replied Cape. “Gerry leading them all to Freddie’s doorstep isn’t good for business.”
“Did you mention to Beau that you were coming here?”
“Slipped my mind.”
“Sure it did.”
“He said Vinnie would track down the second thief,” said Cape. “So telling Beau you had already identified Gerry might—”
“—piss him off—”
“—compel Beau to insist we stand down and let Vinnie do his job,” said Cape. “In other words, if I ask and he says no—”
“—but you show up anyway—”
“—I go to jail,” said Cape. “Or lose my license. But if I happen to be in the neighborhood…”
“It’s a mystery you haven’t lost your license before.”
“Spider-man doesn’t need a license,” Grace whispered. She had crawled on her stomach to join them. “Can I look?”
Sally watched the cars. The nearest was still a block away. She held the edge of her hand against her nose. “From the bridge of your nose, that’s all I want to see over the edge. And only for a second. Then back on your stomach and tell me what you saw.”
“Can’t believe you brought her with you,” said Cape. “I’m impressed.”
“That worries me.”
“Not with you,” said Cape. “I’m impressed with her.”
Grace popped up like a gopher and was down in an instant. “Blue car driving close to the curb, dark gray car two blocks behind.”
Cape glanced at the second car. “Not bad. I thought the sedan was black, but you’re right, it’s gray.”
“Can I look again?” asked Grace.
“No,” said Sally. “He’ll be here soon.”
“There’s that word again,” said Grace. “Soon.”
They heard the nearest car roll to a stop, gravel on the road crunching beneath its tires. Cape and Sally watched as a tall man exited the rear passenger door and waved the car off with his right hand, in which he was holding his phone.
“That’s the man from the security tape,” said Cape.
“That’s Gerry,” said Sally.
As the car drove away, Cape glimpsed a sticker in its front window.
“He took an Uber,” said Cape. “What an idiot.”
“Unless Freddie gave him a bogus account,” said Sally, “and a burner phone—”
“—which I doubt,” said Cape. “If he’s using his own phone, anyone could track him.”
Gerry Gao wore nondescript beige pants and a long-sleeved white shirt under a brown jacket. The bulge on his left hip was suggestive, but to a casual observer he looked fairly forgettable until you got to his shoes.
“Forget his cell phone,” said Sally. “All you need to follow Gerry are those.”
A pair of running shoes in neon orange lit up the sidewalk as Gerry approached the building. They were emblazoned with a green swoosh on the outer side of either foot, a splash of purple on the heel, with soles as white as the clouds overhead.
Cape turned to Grace. “One thing about criminals is that most think they’re clever.”
“But they’re wrong,” said Sally. “Báichī.”
Grace smiled, her face pressed against her hands, which were folded under her chin. “Can I look now?”
“No.”
Gerry was walking unhurriedly toward the entrance to the warehouse.
“How did you know he’d come here?” asked Cape.
“I squeezed one of Freddie’s underlings,” said Sally.
“She means it,” said Grace. “She literally squeezed him.”
