"No," Yoshio said quickly. He always worked alone. To have a… partner—especially one not aligned with Kaze Group—was unthinkable.
Jack-san almost looked relieved. "Good. But I assume we can have a nonaggression pact. And can I assume that should Alicia and I dig up this Clayton technology, whatever it is, that we've got a buyer?"
"A potential buyer," Yoshio said. "It may be that this technology is of no use to us."
"Fair enough," Jack-san said, "but we'll give you first refusal." He extended his hand over the top of the front seat. "Deal?"
Yoshio hesitated. Something was wrong here. He had the weapon, but somehow this Jack-san had taken charge. And somehow this meeting had been all to the American's advantage. He had learned much while Yoshio had learned only that Ronald Clayton was a pedophile who had defiled his own children.
But still, an ally would not be a bad thing… if this was a man who could be trusted to keep his word.
Yoshio had a sense for these things, and he felt Jack-san was such a man.
They shook hands.
"It is a deal," he said.
Yes… a deal. But as Jack-san drove him back uptown, Yoshio decided it would be a good thing to keep a close watch on this man. If he could find him.
"What do you do now?" he said as he stepped out near the garage where he had parked his own car.
"Going home to play with a toy," Jack-san said, and sped off.
6.
Jack watched the little Rover race across his living room carpet and butt against the wall. The uptown wall. He was already farther uptown than Murray Hill, but apparently that wasn't enough for the Rover. It wanted to go farther. Always uptown, always north.
Except out on Long Island. Then the little bugger had run off toward the northwest.
But where was the directional control?
Jack grabbed the truck, turned off the motor, and popped off the body. He checked that out but it was nothing more than molded black plastic.
The chassis was more complicated—wheels, undercarriage, electric motor, steering control, battery compartment, and antenna. Jack knew his knowledge of remote-control toys was rivaled only by his understanding of quantum mechanics, but he pulled out a magnifying glass and made like Sherlock Holmes.
No help. Just a bunch of wires.
As long as he was here, he should check the battery compartment to see what kind it took, just in case it ran out of juice. He popped the lid and saw that it took two AAs. But the battery slots were empty. Instead he found a silvery cylinder about half the length of his pinkie wired to the contacts.
"What the hell?"
He trained the magnifying glass on it, but all that did was make a little mystery bigger. No markings on the cylinder. The whole rig had a definite homemade look to it.
Jack felt a strange prickle along the back of his neck. Not fear… something else… a sense that he was looking at something enormously important. But what?
He knew he'd taken this about as far as he could. The next step was to take it to a guy who could dismantle and reassemble just about anything put in front of him.
7.
"It doesn't look like a battery, maybe," Abe said, "but it's a battery."
The little Rover lay partially disassembled on Abe's counter. The body was off, the battery compartment lay open in the exposed chassis.
Abe had a thing about the weapons he sold. He dismantled and reassembled everything that passed through his doors. He could break down and reassemble a Glock in a couple of eye blinks. Jack had asked him why, and Abe's reply had been something like, "I shouldn't know all about what I'm selling?"
"That's not like any battery I've ever seen," Jack said.
"So? You've seen every battery ever made? Look, it's where a battery should go; it's hooked up to the contacts that power the motor, and the car runs. It's a battery. Even Parabellum would tell you that if he weren't asleep."
"Okay, okay." Sometimes Abe's help was no help. "It runs, but only in one direction. Explain me that."
"Easy," Abe said, and twanged the metal antenna. "This is where it gets its instructions. Somewhere, someone or something is sending its steering mechanism—via this antenna—the message to head in a certain direction. Without this little wire, the steering mechanism would be deaf, and the car would head in whatever direction you point it. Here, I'll show you."
"That's okay," Jack said, reaching for the truck.
But Abe pulled it back out of reach. "You don't want I should prove it?"
What he didn't want was Abe messing too much with the toy.
"I just don't want you should break it. I've got a gut feeling that thing will lead me to the mysterious 'Clayton technology.' But if its directional mechanism gets screwed up—"
"Nothing will get screwed up. What's to screw up? It's an antenna—just a piece of wire. Only take me a second."
Jack watched helplessly as Abe adjusted his reading glasses and picked up a pair of needle-nose pliers. After some fiddling, some twisting, and a few muttered curses, he managed to remove the aerial.
"There," he said. He handed the chassis to Jack. "Nothing to it. Go ahead. Now you'll see. Point it wherever. It's uptown-running days are over."
Jack turned it over and flipped the power switch.
Nothing.
He flipped it back and forth from on to off and back again.
Still nothing. Oh, hell.
"Swell, Abe. Now it doesn't run at all. You broke it."
"What? Impossible."
"No, you did." Jack flipped the switch back and forth again. "Look."
"Quit kvetching and give it here."
Jack handed it back and leaned on the bench. He stared at the scarred surface, asking himself how he could have let this happen, wondering what the hell he was going to do now. That little car was his only lead.
And then he heard the soft whine of the little motor. He looked up and saw the Rover's wheels spinning.
"Thank God. What did you do?"
Abe was staring at the chassis, frowning. "Reinserted the aerial, that's all."
"Well, whatever it was—"
The motor died as Abe removed the aerial again. Then started up when he reinserted it. Off… on… off… on… all in time with the aerial.
"You must be breaking a circuit," Jack said.
But Abe didn't reply. His frown was deeper as he pulled out a magnifying glass of his own and focused it on the aerial socket.
"Look here," he said, pointing with a pencil. "See this fine little wire? It runs from the aerial socket to the battery compartment. And you can tell from the way it's soldered that it's not original wiring. This has been added. And I didn't notice before, but the new wire is attached to this strange little battery that doesn't look like a battery."
He straightened and began fiddling with the aerial again, in and out of its socket, starting and stopping the motor.
And then he left the aerial out and left the truck chassis in the center of the bench.
"I think I have to sit down."
Jack shot Abe a look. Something in his voice. And his face—so pale.
"Abe, you all right?"
"Yes," he said hoarsely, staring at the chassis. "I'm okay."
"Well, you sure as hell don't look it. I've seen better color on a casaba."
Abe continued to stare at the toy. His color was still rotten. Jack was worried about him, but then Abe said the magic words.
"That's because I've just figured out what we've got here."
"Swell. Gonna tell me?"
"I… I think this little toy runs on broadcast power."