Executive Treason

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It was the blinking LED that caught the electrician’s attention.

“What’s that?” Mick O’Gara muttered to himself.

If it hadn’t been for the intermittent flicker, visible only because it cut through the darkness, it would have gone undetected. The light had flashed a moment after O’Gara killed the fluorescents in a storage room on the basement level of the new 38-story Ville St. George Hotel.

“Now where did you come from?” O’Gara turned the overhead lights back on and looked around the crowded 14-by-20-foot room. He waited about a minute. Nothing, he thought. The hotel electrician shrugged his shoulders. He was about to leave when he decided to give it one more moment, now with the lights off. Ten seconds went by, and he saw a red flash — dim and off to the right. He waited for it to repeat or cycle again. His patience was rewarded thirty seconds later, though he couldn’t quite pinpoint the location. A half-minute more — “There you are! Up in the crawl space.” The light appeared diffused, indirect. “You’re bouncing off something.”

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