Roarke tipped his head so he could study Feeney’s equipment. “That’s a nice unit.”
“Took me six weeks to hound them to budget it in for me. Captain of EDD, and I gotta beg for the top of the line. It’s pitiful.”
“Your top of the line’s going to be a poor second in a few months.”
Feeney sniffed. “I know about your 60 T and M, and the upgrade on the 75,000TMS. Not that I’ve seen them anywhere but your and Dallas’s in-home offices. Guess it’s taken you so long to get them on the market, you’ve run into a few snags.”
“I wouldn’t call them snags. What would you think of a Track and Monitoring Unit, running on a 100,000 system, boosting up to five hundred simultaneous functions.”
“There is no 100,000 system. There isn’t a chip or combo of chips that can sustain that many functions, no laser power that can reach that speed.”
Roarke merely smiled. “There is now.”
Feeney went pale, laid a hand over his heart. “Don’t toy with me, lad. Jokes like that could bring a man to tears.”
“How would you like to test one of the prototypes for me? Put it through its paces, give me your opinion?”
“My firstborn son is as old as you are yourself, so I don’t think you’d have much use for him. What do you want?”
“Your weight, when it comes to negotiating a contract for Roarke Industries to provide electronic equipment, including this new model, to the NYPSD and after them, as many other police and security departments nationwide, to start, as can be managed.”
“I’ll use every ounce of weight that’s in me if she does what you say. When can I have her?”
“Within the week. I’ll let you know.” He started toward the door.
“That’s what you came in for?”
“That, and to see my wife before I go. I’ve some appointments.” He turned back, met Feeney’s eyes. “Good hunting.”
With a shake of his head and a sigh of lust at the thought of a 100,000 T and M System, Feeney turned back to his own unit.
And saw the disc beside it. The one, he mused as he lifted it, that hadn’t been there before Roarke had come in.
His eyes might have been tired, Feeney admitted, but they were still sharp enough. Damned if he’d seen the boy plant the disc.
Slick as they came.
He turned the disc over, then with a chuckle loaded it. They’d just see what one slick Irishman had slipped to another on the sly.
In a lovely detached town house of three stories, Sylvester Yost enjoyed the soaring final aria from Aida while he finished a light lunch of veggie pasta in tarragon vinaigrette, topped off with a glass of excellent Fume Blanc.
He rarely indu
lged in wine at lunch, but felt he had earned it. He had passed the FBI’s bumbling tactical team on their way to his building, had smiled at them through the privacy-tinted glass of the long black limo minutes, literally minutes before they’d arrived at his building.
He didn’t care for such close calls, but they did add some stimulation to routine.
Still, he was not pleased. The wine had helped mellow him.
He ordered the music lower by several notches, then made his call. Both he and the receiver kept video blocked, and voices electronically altered, as agreed.
Even fully secured and encoded palm units could be hacked, if one knew where to start.
“I’ve settled in,” Yost said.
“Good. I hope you have everything you need.”
“I’m comfortable enough, for the moment. I lost a great deal this morning. The art alone was worth several million, and I’ll have to replace a considerable amount of wardrobe and enhancements.”