"So say there was an item. In a secure location. You’re saying you could get it?"

"No," Hart said. "I’m saying I could get you access to it."

"So you’re like, a professional burglar."

Hart shook his head. "I told you. I’m a security expert. I don’t burgle."

But the guy wasn’t listening. He was staring hard at Hart in the foggy mirror behind the bar, leaning a little to get a better angle around the bottom-shelf booze. Trying to get a read on Hart’s authenticity. But wanting something bad enough to draw his own conclusions.

"So, the way it works," the guy said. "You just walk right in there?"

"That’s right."

"Like you own the place."

"Sometimes," Hart said. "If that’s what the job calls for."

"And this is called social security?"

"Social engineering. It’s a body of knowledge. A subset of most security certifications."

Hart was about to get into GIAC and all that, but he could see the guy wasn’t into it. He was doing the frown and nod, demonstrating polite consideration. Next he would change the subject. Hart didn’t mind. The technical aspects of what he did lost most people. And talking about it in public was generally frowned upon. Four years of study and you couldn’t even boast. It was a lonely profession.

"Back to the item," the guy said. "Say it was in a place you needed a code to get into. How would you get it?"

"Get the code, you mean."

The guy nodded.

So Hart drew on his whiskey, throwing propriety to the wind, and went through it again. Telling the guy how companies hired him to assess their security, discovering holes that could be exploited by hackers or whatever. But explaining that, most of the time, the security holes weren’t in their systems but with their people. So Hart would go in posing as an admissible visitor, maybe a printer repairman or someone from the phone company, and see how far he could get. Make friends with some of the employees, the more gregarious types. Look for calendars or magazine photos hanging in the cubicles, learn something about them and use it to strike up conversation. Get on a first name basis, then ask for passwords or look for them on sticky notes affixed to their computers. From there it was easy to find an unoccupied computer, get into the system and collect some confidential data. The company’s profit and loss statement, or last year’s tax return. Or send an email from the CEO to one of the other company officers, something humorous but inoffensive, making his point.

"So this code," Hart said to the mirror. "I’m assuming it’s on a door of some kind."

"Yeah, a security door. The ones with the buttons? You punch in five or six numbers."

"And the item inside. Who’s it belong to?"

The guy hesitated for a split second. "Me. And my ex-wife."

Hart had pegged the man for divorced the minute he sat at the bar. The tip-off was the clothes: a two-color button-down Oxford, blue with a white collar, and a red-and-gold striped tie. No self-respecting wife would let a man out in that combination, unless said man was attending a fundraiser for the colorblind. Or whatever social functions are attended by professional clowns.

"What’s the item?" Hart said.

The guy thought about it, sipping his beer. "Call it an heirloom."

"But what exactly."

"I can’t tell you that."

Hart drained his whiskey glass, thumped it on the bar and stood. "Then I can’t help you."

"There’s five grand in it for you," the guy said. He spun on the bar stool and gazed up at Hart.

Hart knew faces. It was what he did. And beneath the beer buzz and the desperation, this face said business.

Five grand. The figure took a short joyride inside Hart’s head, goosed by the four whiskeys. Enough for the lawyer. Maybe some left over for a couple weeks’ worth of frozen entrees. The good stuff, not the store brand.

Hart said, "I’ll need to see the location."

***

"You didn’t tell me it was a bank," Hart said. They sat in Hart’s idling Buick, parked in the bank’s overflow lot across the street. Hart wore dark glasses. A naked morning sun hung low over the Buick’s windshield, as though some divine interrogator were questioning him on where he’d been last night, how many whiskeys he’d had.

"Are banks a problem?" the guy said.

"Not necessarily. Just a different set of challenges."

"So we have a deal." He reached over. "The name’s –"

"Don’t tell me," Hart said. "I’ll call you Clash."

"Ah. Cool. A security thing. Why Clash?"

"The ties," Hart said, indicating today’s selection, a fuchsia-and-pink floral print over a yellow-striped Oxford. He shook his head. "Uh-uh."

"My wife bought these clothes."

"Yes, but probably not on the same day."

Clash twisted the rearview, glanced at himself and shrugged. "I think it works. What do I call you?"

"Odysseus," Hart said without hesitation. He had worked out both handles on the ride to the man’s apartment.

"That have some kind of meaning?"

"Look it up," Hart said. He shaded his eyes and gazed across the street. "You have an account at this bank?"

"The ex works here."

"So she gets special privileges. A locked room instead of a safety deposit box."

"The heirloom would never go into a safety box."

"So it’s big."

"Relatively so."

"How will you move it?"

"When the time comes, we’ll bring what we need."

"You mean you’ll bring what you need."

"Exactly."

Hart said, "This item – this heirloom – it belongs to both of you?"

Clash nodded.

"Why don’t you just call her and ask for it?"

"The marital assets are frozen."

"Frozen in her favor."

"That’s right. Possession being nine-tenths of the law and all that. But I have as much right to it as her."

"What would you do with it? Sell it?"

"It’s leverage. The divorce isn’t final for another week. If I had it, my negotiations would be a lot easier."

Hart watched the bank. South Boston Municipal Credit Union scrawled in bright letters across an inexpensive façade, probably converted from a neighborhood market after the convenience chains came in. The cliental was on the elderly side based on the foot traffic. The employees would be middle-aged and cheerful. There would be a shift manager, younger than the others, probably a woman. Hart began counting the patrons entering and exiting.

"So Oedipus," Clash said, "What about you? Married?"

"Odysseus," Hart said. "Oedipus married his mother."

"Whatever."

Hart paused, wondering how much to say. Then decided it must be his week for throwing caution to the wind. Or maybe he just needed someone to talk to. "I’m recently separated."

Clash chuckled. "Shit."

"What."

"Welcome to the first circle of Hell. I’ll be your tour guide. The fun has only just begun."

"It’s a trial separation."

"Mm. The trial separation. That’s how Megan and I started. After the blowout. Nine rounds, and then I was out."

"What was it about? The blowout."

"Christ, I don’t remember. Something stupid."

For him and Rachel it had been an disagreement over her security habits. That had been two weeks ago. But now, thinking about it, it still steamed him up, the way she would leave her keys in her car to run into a store or mail a letter. With no regard for protection of property.

"Is your ex in there right now?" Hart asked. Suddenly wanting to get away from the topic, back to the task at hand.

But Clash wasn’t listening. "Next step for you is the trial date. Your first step back into the female pool."

"Which you did."

"Both of us."

"And?"

"A train wreck."

"What happened?"

"Worst sex in my life. Like screwing a fucking alien. You don’t realize after seven years how much your sexual identity is wrapped up in your partner."

"Sexual identity?"

"I saw it on Dr. Phil."

Hart squinted into the sun, fighting the urge to ask and losing. "And her?"

"I’m sure her experience was the same," Clash said, without a trace of conviction.

Hart watched the bank’s door for a while longer. "You got a buck?"

"What for?"

"I need change."

Clash fished out his wallet and slid out a bill. Hart took it without a word and got out, crossed the street.

His count had been perfect, five other people in line. He used the time to scope the layout. Less predictable than a building built to suit, but not much complexity. A row of tellers across the back, a small stock closet to the right. A modest customer service lounge with plush chairs and a wooden desk. On the rear wall, to the left of the tellers, stood the door with the keyless touch-pad. Behind it would be an office for the manager, maybe more stock, and a small walk-in vault with a day gate. And the employees’ bathroom.

Back in the Buick, Hart said, "How do you know it’s not in the vault?"

"It’s not. Take my word for it."

"When’s your wife’s next day off?"

"Tuesday morning. She works the afternoon shift that day."

Three days, Hart thought. Plenty of time. He swung the Buick out of the lot and pointed it back north.

"Haven’t you botched it up?" Clash said. "I mean, your face is on the security cameras now."

"Yes. And this bank probably owns sophisticated facial profiling software and a team of security experts. All so they can catch a guy who changed some quarters."

Clash fell silent.

Hart said, "You seem to know your ex-wife’s schedule pretty well."

"About two months ago we tried the reconnect. That’s phase two."

"And?"

"Right after that she filed for divorce."

"That bad?"

"The problem with the reconnect, you haven’t resolved the problems. Gotten to the root cause. It’s an emotional decision, not a practical one."

"Dr. Phil?"

"Rachel Ray."

"So you found a lawyer."

"Already had one lined up. Which I assume you have done."

"A brief conversation only."

"Laying the ground work. After the reconnect you’ll call him again, heat it back up."

"If it goes that far."

"Listen. Olympus…"

"Odysseus," Hart said. "Olympus is a mountain."

Clash waved him off. "This stuff, it’s all inevitable. You’re on a track with only one possible conclusion. Men and women, we weren’t made to live together."

And maybe that was true. It had certainly become difficult to live with Rachel’s habits. Leaving your keys in the car. What did that say about a person, about a relationship? Married to a security expert, and zero consideration for personal protection. How could you maintain a relationship with someone who left the mutual borders unguarded?

"I go in on Tuesday," Hart said.

"To get the code?"

"Probably not. It will take more than one visit."

"Can you squeeze them all into the same day? I could get Tuesday off."

"I don’t need you."

"But I’d like to watch. See how you operate."

Hart shrugged. "Your call. You’d have to stay in the car."

"I’ll be your lookout."

And Hart thought, five grand. Remember the five grand. Lawyers don’t come cheap.

***

"Mayflower Properties," Clash said, reading the name tag on Hart’s shirt. "Who are they?"

Hart swung into the overflow lot and pointed the Buick’s nose at the bank, same spot as Saturday. The sun angled into the windshield with the same ferocity, but Hart had been good last night. Only two whiskeys, both top shelf. "It’s the company that owns the building. The bank leases it."

Clash sat forward, excited. Today he wore casual attire. Cargo pants and a lemon-colored golf jersey. Spoiled by brown shoes with a black belt. "You stole a shirt from them?"

Hart shook his head. "Bought it at the mall. I got the name plate made on the Internet. Shipped overnight."

Clash shook his head in admiration. "I looked up the name. Ulysses or whatever."

"Odysseus."

"He was one of the guys inside the Trojan horse. Sneaked inside that fortress and attacked from within."

"The ultimate social engineer. Too bad it’s a myth."

Clash looked wistfully at the bank’s front door. "Wish I could go in with you."

"Do not come in," Hart said. He grabbed his clipboard from the seat and exited the Buick.

Inside the bank, Hart spotted his mark right away. Fifty-ish, chatting with her neighboring teller. Laughing about something on television last night. Hart went straight to her window. No line, the weekday morning traffic nonexistent, one of the reasons he had chosen this time. And no manager-types.

"I’m here about the leak?" Hart said into the voice port in the protective glass.

The woman – her name plate said Bonnie – stared blankly for a moment. Her hair gleamed like a ripe plum under the pale florescent lighting. She glanced down at Hart’s name tag. "Oh, you’re from the landlord."

Hart smiled and nodded.

"Where’s Gus?"

"He’s out sick," Hart said. "It’s killing me. I’m trying to cover fourteen properties today."

"And you’re here for a leak?"

"Someone called it in on Saturday."

"Oh. I wasn’t here that day. But I haven’t seen any leaks." She looked at the ceiling and tapped her lips. "Maybe the toilet? Lately you have to jiggle the handle or it runs forever."

Hart flipped through his clipboard. "Ah. Here it is. Yes, the toilet. Sorry. I usually handle the north shore branches. You know how it is when someone calls in sick." He smiled his best disarming smile.

The moment of truth arrived. If Bonnie showed any sign of disbelief, he would need to employ other techniques. Ask about the framed photographs at her station, or the calendar hanging on the divider, the month of June featuring kittens in a picnic basket.

But his smile had been enough. Bonnie said, "I’ll take you out back."

Hart followed her to the keyless door. "You a cat person?"

"I’ve got two Turkish Angoras. They’re like my extended family. You?"

"Mine’s a Persian," Hart said, the only breed that came to mind. "Thinks he owns the place."

When they reached the door, Bonnie said, "Now turn away. I need to punch in the code."

Hart turned.

"Sorry about this," Bonnie said, tapping in the sequence. Her long fingernail clacked with extrinsic contact on the keypad. "Megan’s a bear for security."

The lock popped and the door squeaked softly on its hinges. "Okay," Bonnie said brightly.

The area was more or less what Hart had expected. A small office doubled as a foyer to the stock closet, employees’ bathroom, and walk-in vault. There was also a small kitchenette with a coffee station, which Hart hadn’t thought of but made sense given the proximity to the bathroom plumbing. The vault was closed and the office was empty. No heirloom in sight.

Hart flipped on the bathroom light, reached down and flushed the toilet. Before it completed its cycle he removed the tank lid and peered inside. The tank filled up and the water shut off.

"It doesn’t always do it," Bonnie said from behind him.

"Looks like the flapper," Hart said, remembering the name from a crash course in the plumbing aisle of a home improvement store last year, delivered by one of the sales associates, an old guy with trembling hands and a astonishing depth of knowledge. The name, flapper, had seemed quaint and so had stayed with him. And from that point on he had always sought out the old guys. They knew the most.

"See that part at the bottom, looks like a little trap door?" Hart said. "That’s the flapper. When you flush, the chain pulls it up and lets the water flow from the tank into the bowl."

"Oh," Bonnie said, feigning interest. A good thing, meaning she had developed a connection and didn’t want to hurt his feelings.

"See the cracks in the rubber? It’s not watertight," he said, then almost laughed. It was a term he used in his corporate consulting, employing water analogies to illustrate security concepts. Drawing parallels to drops of water, showing how the smallest leak could have the highest cost. Equally applicable to toilets.

Bonnie leaned over his shoulder but said nothing. Her perfume was heavily floral and aged her.

"I’ll need to swap it out," Hart said. He replaced the tank lid. "Will you be here all day?"

"I’m on until two."

"Can you let me back in?"

"Sure. Just come over to my window."

Hart thanked her and left. Out in the Buick he said, "You didn’t tell me your wife was the manager."

"Does it matter?" Clash said.

"It matters a lot. She’s responsible for the security of the bank."

"Sorry. I’m not too good at this spy stuff. Did you get the code?"

Hart started the Buick and rolled out of the lot. There was a hardware store across town. "There are six digits."

"What are they?"

"Patience. One, maybe two more visits."

Patience didn’t appear to be one of Clash’s virtues, but he sat back in the passenger seat.

"So your ex," Hart said as he navigated the Buick through congestion. "She runs the place."

"Commander in chief."

"Aggressive type?"

"That part’s a recent development. She wasn’t all that assertive until the lawyers stepped in. Then she changed."

Lawyers again. Hart debated, gave in. "How so?"

"See, it’s the lawyers’ job to get the sides prepared for the fight. Get you both battle-ready. They’re the opposing generals. You and your wife are the warriors."

"Warriors."

"That’s right. The generals move the pieces around. Hearings. Phone conferences. Offensive and defensive strategies. You’re about to go through basic training. Get you into fighting shape."

Hart drove and said nothing, wishing he hadn’t asked.

"Then comes the artillery," Clash said. "Each side starts lobbing volleys at the opposition. Petitions. Restraining orders. You have kids?"

"No. We were waiting. Working on a nest egg."

"So no child support or visitation rights to deal with. Maybe alimony. Equitable distribution of assets. If you’re lucky you’ll get part of the next egg. But probably not."

Hart said, "Why all the hostility?"

"Nothing like the legal process to help you find your inner warrior."

"I was thinking more toward an amicable divorce."

Clash laughed, slapped his knee. "No such thing, Zeus. You’ve got to understand. Divorce is war."

"Mars," Hart said.

"What?"

"Mars was the god of war."

But he wasn’t listening.

Hart tuned him out, trying to imagine Rachel as hostile but unable to make it work. Rachel, who had once stayed home for two days when a family of field mice made a nest in the wheel well of her car. A woman he had once seen brake for a caterpillar.

But surprisingly stubborn when it came to some things. Security, for example. The more he talked about it, the more he tried to demonstrate its importance in their lives, the more lax she became. Like she was tossing credit card statements into the trash – intact and unshredded – on purpose. Or setting her open wallet on the conveyor while she paid for their groceries. Women.

The round trip to the hardware store took an hour. Then another twenty minutes waiting in the lot for the bank’s foot traffic to diminish.

"Megan starts in an hour and a half," Clash said as Hart exited the Buick.

Hart ignored him. He knew exactly how much time he had. It would be tight.

When he saw Bonnie he held up the bag with the parts.

"So who feeds your Angoras during the day?" Hart asked as he followed her to the door.

"I run home at lunch. It’s tricky, living alone. But they make great companions. Especially if you’re single."

Hart saw himself alone in the apartment with cats curling around his legs, stretched out on the sofa. In his bed. He shooed the image away.

When they reached the door, Bonnie smiled and twirled her finger in the air. Hart turned, listened to the code and the snap of the lock. Six digits. Most likely someone’s birthday. Which was as much a shortcoming of the technology as those who used it. A keyless entry couldn’t force strong password authentication – a combination of upper and lower case character, numbers, and symbols – the way a computer system could. And so people went with something easy to remember.

Inside the office, he set the bag of parts on the desk and slowly rolled up the sleeves of the work shirt. Then methodically withdrew several hand tools from the pockets of his jeans. "This may take a while."

Bonnie paused, looking back through the door. Two customers were walking into the bank, a third alighting from an SUV at the curb. Bonnie turned back to Hart. "Are you okay in here by yourself?"

It was the type of question he used as an example in his corporate training. The asker was essentially transferring responsibility before establishing trust. Protocol dictated a validation process, and then a monitoring period – typically ninety days – before granting unsupervised access to secure locations. None of which had Bonnie done. Because most people relied on instinct rather than protocol. One of the key tenets of his training.

"You’ll be around if I need you?" Hart asked.

"Right behind the counter, hon." She patted his shoulder and stepped out, letting the door close behind her.

Hart got to work on the flapper. As toilet repairs went, it was on the more difficult side. You had to shut off the water and drain the tank, then separate the tank from the bowl. At first his hands were sluggish. But as he worked his dexterity improved, and by the end he was in a groove, working the hand tools with a surprising fluidity.

Forty-five minutes later the job was complete. Hart flushed several times and admired his work, the effortless operation of the flapper, the satisfying whoosh of water. He left the lid off and went out to the car. Time now for the harassment phase.

"Got the code?" Clash asked.

"Soon," Hart said, rummaging through a second bag of miscellaneous parts. He came out with a pair of brass screws and went back into the bank.

"Lots of corrosion in that old unit," Hart said, holding up the screws for Bonnie. "Can I get back in?"

"Sure." She came around the counter and followed him to the door. Hart turned while she keyed in the code.

Hart waited for three minutes, then went back out to the car. Came back in with a pair of washers.

This time Bonnie didn’t ask him to turn, instead blocking his view with her body. "I hate to keep bothering you," he said as she punched the code.

Bonnie smiled and waved him off, went back to her station. The pre-noon rush was starting, people trying to beat the lunch crowd.

Three minutes later Hart came back in with chrome P-trap. He held it up, laughed and shook his head. Bonnie excused herself to a customer at her window and let him in. No toilet on the planet required a P-trap, but Bonnie, stressed by the crush, didn’t notice.

Hart waited in the office, watching the lobby. At eight minutes before noon – eight minutes before Megan – he went back out to Bonnie. The line snaked through the red felt ropes, a dozen customers deep. Hart caught Bonnie’s eye and shrugged. Bonnie’s eyes looked haunted behind the glass.

He stood patiently, making her feel his presence. When she looked at him again he casually glanced at his watch. And waited. Four more people entered the bank.

At last it was time for the kill. Hart pressed through to the front of the line. "Bonnie, I’m awfully sorry," he said into the voice port. "I’ve got an appointment at the Peabody branch at one. But I’m having a little trouble getting the water flow adjusted. I may need to go in and out a few more times. These older units…"

The customer at Bonnie’s window, a woman in a pressed business suit clutching a cell phone, sighed and shifted on her feet. Hart congratulated himself on the choice, on his timing. Bonnie looked at her, then back to Hart. Hart glanced at his watch.

And then Bonnie was doing it, exactly the way Hart had envisioned. Plucking a deposit slip from the stack with the pink rubber thimblette on her index finger, flipping the slip over and scribbling out the code. She slid it through the tray without a word and went back to the customer.

Back in the bathroom, Hart replaced the tank lid and flushed one last time. The water thundered from the tank to the bowl. Better, he thought, than before. He waved at Bonnie on the way out, but she was busy with another customer and didn’t notice.

"Damn," Clash said when Hart handed him the slip.

"What," Hart said. He tossed the shopping bag with the tools and old parts on the seat between them and started the Buick.

"I should have known. It’s her birthday."

"Megan’s?"

Clash didn’t answer. He stared down at the slip and smiled.

Hart shifted the Buick into reverse.

"Wait," Clash said, looking up. "You want to see her?"

"What, your ex?"

"She’ll be here any minute."

Hart had no reason to see her. But dropped the shifter back into park. Professional curiosity. Or maybe nothing better to do at the moment.

The Buick’s dashboard clock said 12:02 when Clash said, "There she is. In blue."

Hart spotted her, a petite woman in a summer-weight pantsuit and heels, hustling along the sidewalk. She pulled a girl along by the hand. The girl looked to be four or five.

"You’ve got a kid?" Hart said.

Clash nodded. "She brings her here on certain days. After pre-school."

Hart watched as Megan hurried along the sidewalk. She didn’t look aggressive to him, or militant. Mostly she looked unhappy. And tired. Very tired.

"They change after you marry them, Zorba," Clash said softly.

Which was certainly true. Rachel, so much fun when they first met four years ago. The free spirit. Taking various part-time artsy jobs while Hart pursued his certifications. An interior decorator. An aerobics instructor. A job at the music shop. A free spirit, like he had been back then. Before he understood the perils of the world, the risks that were out there.

"Listen," Clash said after the pair vanished into the bank. "There’s another grand in it if you wait here."

"What, do it now?"

"Yes." He was studying the entrance, restless in his seat.

"Why don’t you just come back on your own later?"

"No ride. Megan got the car. I’ve been doing public transportation."

Hart looked across at the bank. "I don’t do getaways."

"What’s the best way to do it?"

"Do what?"

"Get it. The heirloom."

"You’re crazy to do it with your ex here."

"She has to be here. She’s got it with her."

So that was it. Something she brought each day. Too valuable to risk in a holdup, maybe. The reason Hart had seen nothing in the office.

"Your only tactic is the direct approach," Hart said. "Wait on the sidewalk until two or more people are entering the bank at the same time. Then walk in behind them and go straight for the office. The bank’s busy. Act like you’re supposed to be there. Your ex, I assume, will be busy in the customer service lounge. There’s no direct line of sight to the security door. But listen. I’m not doing this. You’ll need to get a taxi or some–"

But Clash was already out of the Buick. Hart watched him cross the street, the brown shoes and conflicting black belt more noticeable out in the bright sunshine. When he reached the sidewalk, he tried to blend with the passers-by, if standing by the door with one’s arms crossed could be considered blending. Hart shook his head. The man would never make a social engineer.

Hart reached over and withdrew the worn-out part from the hardware store bag. A flapper. Its cracked and pitted surface was coated with slime from years of immersion. The feeling was not unpleasant. It was almost luxurious. Hart thought about how well it worked, its beautiful simplicity. Nearly perfect in design and function. Almost, but not quite, watertight.

When Hart looked up again, Clash was entering the bank behind a group of elderly women. Another poor choice. The man stood out like a new penny.

Hart imagined him inside, peeling off from the group and going straight for the door. Then thought about the little girl. Clash’s daughter. What if she spotted him? Where would she be?

Then, all at once, Hart saw it. The girl would be behind the door, of course. In the office. The access code – the kid’s birthday – undoubtedly programmed by her mother. The soon-to-be-single mom, keeping the girl safe until other arrangements could be made, a more permanent plan. Keeping the joint marital property secure.

Hart threw the Buick into gear, reversed and sped out of the lot. At the light he paused and glanced at the bank’s entrance in his rearview. No sign of Clash. Maybe he’d been caught. One could hope.

When he reached the highway onramp, Hart glanced down at the parts on the seat. Remembering the dexterity in his hands, surprised by his skills, his latent talent. It was a legitimate career choice, the replacing of flappers. As valid as any other.

Out on the highway he thought about Rachel. Today was her day off from the art shop. He wondered what she was doing, whether she was at home. Whether she would pick up the phone.