Truth or Die

by James Patterson

  Words to live by.

  So there you had it. Why we were standing in the middle of an Apple store playing match-dot-com with the personnel files of the CIA. Let them come after us, Owen was saying. Let’s be foolish.

  “Can I borrow your phone for a minute?” I asked. “I seem to have lost mine.”

  Owen ignored my sarcasm. “Who are you calling?”

  “No one.”

  He still wasn’t sure, but he handed it to me anyway. Then he watched as I made a beeline to the accessories section, pulling an i-FlashDrive off the shelf.

  As I began to open the package, a female blue-shirt with a ponytail and geek-chic glasses came over in a panic. She looked as if I’d just defaced the Mona Lisa.

  “Sir! You can’t just—”

  “How much is it?” I asked, reaching for my wallet.

  She craned her neck to check the price. “Forty-four ninety-five,” she said. “Plus tax.”

  I gave her fifty. Then, before she could tell me she needed to scan the bar code, I removed the drive and handed over the packaging. “I think I’ll pass on the extended warranty,” I said, walking away.

  I returned to Owen while plugging the drive into his phone. “What are the file names of the two recordings you showed me at the Oak Tavern?” I asked.

  He gave me the names and I transferred them to the drive. I handed him back his phone. “Thanks,” I said.

  He motioned to the drive as I put it in my pocket. “What’s that for?”

  “Just tell me where I can meet you in an hour,” I said, taking a couple of steps back.

  “Wait. Where are you going?”

  I reached for my sunglasses, sliding them on. “Margin of error,” I said. “Just in case you get us both killed.”

  CHAPTER 36

  I QUICKLY wrote everything down on the only blank piece of paper I could get my hands on in the back of the cab taking me across town to Eighth Avenue. It was the flip side of a log sheet the driver was using to keep track of fares. He was fine letting me have it, although when I also asked for his pen and clipboard it was clear I was pushing my luck.

  “You want to drive, too?” he asked.

  After he dropped me off in front of the New York Times Building, it dawned on me how long it had been since I’d last set foot in Claire’s office. One reason was that she didn’t actually have an office, just a desk out in the open in the very crowded national affairs section. Visiting Claire was like being on the wrong side of the bars at the zoo. No privacy. You were essentially on display.

  The other reason was the guy sitting twenty feet from her desk who actually did have an office, a Brit by the name of Sebastian Cole. Before I first met Claire, she and Sebastian had a brief, hush-hush office romance that, according to Claire, “was the second-best-kept secret after Deep Throat.”

  “You might want to go with a different analogy,” I suggested after she told me that, on one of our early dates. “At least for my benefit.”

  I remembered we both cracked up over that.

  Anyway, as Claire described it, she was young and he was her boss, a surefire way to jeopardize your career even before you really have one. After four months, she ended it.

  In the grand tradition of the British stiff upper lip, Sebastian handled her breaking up with him with aplomb, sparing her any retaliation such as reassigning her to the obituary department. Good for him. Even better for Claire. As for me, that was a different story.

  The true extent of Sebastian’s coping abilities was put to the test a couple of years later at cocktail party thrown by another editor in national affairs. The test consisted of seven simple words spoken by Claire. Sebastian, I’d like you to meet Trevor …

  So much for the British stiff upper lip. Instead, I got the stink eye along with all the bloody attitude that an Oxford-educated, bow-tie-wearing chap hailing from Stoke d’Abernon could throw my way. Sebastian hated American lawyers and hated even more the idea that Claire would be with one. At least, that was how she explained it later. I was more partial to the adage that guys will be guys, especially when it comes to girls. Jealousy rules the day, and at the end of it we’re all just a lyric in a Joe Jackson song. Is she really going out with him?

  But that was then. This was now. Claire was suddenly gone, and neither of us would ever be with her again. That was certainly the subtext as I sat down with Sebastian. Let bygones be bygones.

  “I’m in shock,” he said from behind his desk, slowly twisting a paper clip in his hands. I could tell he’d been crying, as had everyone else I’d passed en route to his office.

  “Shock is a good word,” I said.

  We discussed the details of how he’d heard the news, an early-morning phone call at home from the executive editor.

  “Where was she going?” Sebastian asked.

  “Seeing a source,” I said.

  I watched his face carefully, looking for a tell. If he knew anything about Owen and his recordings, he’d never admit it. Not verbally. While I was 99.9 percent sure Claire hadn’t said anything to him or anyone else at the paper yet, the .1 percent chance that she had would certainly grow with a slight twitch or flinch from Sebastian. But there was nothing.

  Nor, I was sure, would there be anything to be found on the computer at her desk. Ever since some Chinese hackers infiltrated the Gray Lady’s computer systems back in the fall of 2012, Claire kept all her sensitive files on her personal laptop and nowhere else.

  Of course, maybe those “Chinese hackers” were really just Owen showing off from an Apple store in Beijing. Anything was possible at this point, I figured….

  “I don’t mean to be rude,” Sebastian said finally after an awkward silence. We were simply staring at each other across his desk. “But I’m fairly certain you didn’t come here just to commiserate with me, Trevor.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “I need to ask you to do something.”

  “You mean, like a favor?”

  “Sort of. Although depending how things play out, I might actually be the one doing you a favor,” I said. “Confused yet?”

  “Intrigued is more like it.”

  “That’s good,” I said. “Now tell me, on a scale of one to ten, how strong is your willpower?”

  “My willpower? Is this a trick question?”

  “No, I’m simply looking for the truth.”

  “In that case … nine-point-five,” he answered. “How’s that?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said.

  “Why? What number were you looking for?”

  I folded my arms. “On a scale of one to ten? Eleven.”

  CHAPTER 37

  I’D PIQUED his interest. Sebastian was a newsman, after all. He was actually leaning in a bit over his desk, waiting for me to explain.

  “First, can I borrow an envelope and a pen for a moment?” I asked.

  “What for?”

  I cocked an eyebrow. “Really?” The cabdriver on the way over here—a complete stranger—had given me less of a hard time.

  Sebastian relented, reaching behind him to grab an envelope from his credenza before scooping up a red felt-tip pen next to his keyboard. “Here you go,” he said.

  He couldn’t see what I began to write in my lap. That was on purpose. What I did want him to see, however, was the i-FlashDrive I took out of my pocket when I was finished.

  After I placed it in front of me on the edge of his desk, it immediately became all he could look at. Even more so when I sealed it in the envelope along with the note I’d written in the cab on the ride over.

  I handed him back the pen. Then the envelope. “It’s all yours,” I said.

  Sebastian adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses as he read the front of the envelope. He looked at me, then at the envelope, and then back at me again.

  “You’re kidding, right?” he asked.

  “Unfortunately, no,” I said.

  “What’s this all about?”

  “It’s all in the note and on the flash drive.�
��

  “No, I mean the instructions.”

  He flipped the front of the envelope around to me, but of course I knew what I’d written. Only open in the event of Trevor Mann’s death.

  Admittedly, it was a bit melodramatic as far as instructions went, but I couldn’t have been more concise or direct.

  “And I mean it, too,” I said. “The only way you open that envelope is if I’m dead.”

  “This has to do with Claire, doesn’t it?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why can’t you share it me while you’re alive?”

  “Good question,” I said. “But that’s a flash drive for another day.”

  I watched as Sebastian looked at the envelope again, staring at it now. He knew exactly what was in his hands. A major story. Front page, far right column, above the fold.

  “Why would you trust me?” he asked.

  “Because you were the one who taught Claire,” I said. “ ‘Never burn a source.’ ”

  In that moment, the way Sebastian nodded while choking back a tear, it was as if Claire were suddenly in the room. Although for the very first time, she was no longer standing between us.

  “You’re an idiot,” he said. “You realize that, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “She loved you.”

  “I know,” I said.

  “I mean, she really loved you.”

  “I know.”

  The rest didn’t need to be said. I had loved Claire just as much as she had loved me—that wasn’t why I was an idiot.

  I was an idiot because I hadn’t done anything about it.

  Standing, I thanked Sebastian for his time and, yes, his trust. “Keep it in a safe place,” I half joked, referring to the envelope. He smiled, although I could tell there was something else on his mind.

  He hesitated, falling silent. “Trevor, maybe you should sit down again,” he said.

  Slowly, I did. “What is it?” I asked.

  “I wasn’t going to tell you,” he began to explain, almost as if he were disappointed in himself. “Now I realize that would be wrong.”

  CHAPTER 38

  THERE WASN’T a cloud in the sky when I walked out of the Times building, but I was in a complete fog. Dense. Thick. Furious.

  All I could see was the next step in front of me, nothing more. I knew where I was ultimately heading, except I couldn’t remember making the decision to go there. Or, for that matter, either of the two stops beforehand. It was a bit like sleepwalking. In the middle of my worst possible nightmare.

  “Can I help you find something?” asked the sales clerk at the Innovation Luggage store at the intersection of Sixth Avenue and Fifty-Seventh Street. He was a blur standing right in front of me. His voice sounded like a distant radio station.

  “I need a small duffel bag that comes with a lock,” I said.

  “A lock, huh?” he repeated, tapping his chin in thought. “Combination or key?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Will you be flying with it? The TSA folks can—”

  “Really,” I said. “It doesn’t matter.”

  He led me over to a wall display of cubbyholes that looked like a tic-tac-toe board. Before he could even make a suggestion, I saw what I needed.

  “The one in the middle,” I said.

  He took down the bag and I gave it a quick once-over. It was black, medium-sized, with a small padlock—the key for it, along with a spare, hanging from a zip tie around one of the handles.

  “Yeah, I’ll take it,” I said.

  “Do you want it in its box or would you like this one?” the clerk asked. By this point, it was abundantly clear that what I really wanted was to get the hell out of there.

  “This one’s fine,” I said, already reaching for my wallet.

  He spun the price tag around. “You’re in luck. It’s on sale.”

  “Good,” I grunted, or something to that effect, as I pulled out my Amex.

  I didn’t care about the price. I also didn’t care about using a credit card. The charge—and my location—could be traced in an instant. Even quicker than an instant. It would be like drawing a straight line to me, then lighting it like a fuse.

  So be it.

  Trevor, maybe you should sit down again. There’s something you need to know …

  “Are you all right?” asked the clerk. He certainly didn’t think so. It was bad enough that I had all the charm and charisma of a cinder block. Now I was standing there frozen like one.

  “Sorry,” I said, handing over my credit card. He ran it and I signed. As he handed me back the receipt, I nodded at the zip tie holding the keys. “Do you have any scissors?”

  He glanced around under the counter, finding a pair. “Here, let me,” he said, cutting the tie. Then he leaned in as if he were about to whisper some nuclear codes. “Just so you know, that lock really doesn’t offer much protection. It’s super-easy to open without the key.”

  “Not if you’re a cop,” I said.

  “Excuse me?”

  But I was already halfway out the door. Me and the Fourth Amendment.

  Without just cause and a warrant, my new duffel bag might as well have been Fort Knox with two side pockets and a shoulder strap.

  Good thing.

  Because I wasn’t about to fill that duffel bag with jelly beans.

  CHAPTER 39

  WALKING INTO a bar with a gun tucked under your shirt is one thing. Doing it in a bank?

  One block shy of my Chase branch on the Upper West Side, I dumped the Beretta M9 in a trash can. I didn’t need it. Trust me.

  “Do you have your key?” asked the safe-deposit box attendant on the lower level.

  Maybe the woman picked up on my vibe, or maybe this was how she acted with everyone who came through the bank, but her monotone delivery was music to my ears. There would be no polite chitchat. No delay. In fact, she even had her guard key raised in her hand, ready to go.

  Quickly, I reached for my key—sandwiched between the one for my apartment and the one for my office up at Columbia Law—and showed it to her. The irony. I never used to keep it on my key chain. Then, one day, I’d asked Claire about a certain key on hers.

  “This way I don’t have to remember where I put it,” she’d told me.

  I never knew what Claire kept in her safe-deposit box. I never asked. That was because I didn’t want her asking what I kept in mine.

  She hated those “damn things” even more than I did.

  Standing alone in the small viewing room with nothing but white walls and a shelf, I opened the lid and removed an original SIG Sauer P210. Steel frame, wood grip, locked breech. Old school. And, in the right hands, still the most accurate semiautomatic pistol in the world.

  Then out came my Glock 34 with a GTL 22 attachment giving it a dimmable xenon white light with a red laser sight. As a weapons instructor during my first year at Valley Forge once declared with the kind of sandpaper voice that only a lifetime of smoking unfiltered Lucky Strikes will give you, “Sometimes shit happens in the dark.”

  Both guns went into the duffel along with four boxes of ammo, one shoulder holster, and one shin holster, the latter being custom-made to accommodate the light and laser sight on the Glock 34.

  Like I said, I didn’t need the Beretta M9.

  Finally, there were some paper goods. Two wrapped stacks of hundreds totaling ten grand. Cash for a rainy day. Or, in this case, when it was pouring.

  And that was that. Everything I’d come for, everything I needed. Before zipping the duffel closed, I took one last look inside it. Then I took one last look inside the safe-deposit box.

  If only I hadn’t.

  Sticking out from underneath my birth certificate was a 1951 Bowman Mickey Mantle rookie card. My father had given it to me after my very first Little League game. “Take good care of it,” he told me. “It’s your turn.”

  The card was far from mint condition. One of the corners was dog-eared, and there were a c
ouple of creases along the side. But it had been given to me by my father, who had gotten it from his father, and that made it absolutely perfect.

  I picked up the card, staring at it in my hands, and suddenly it weighed a million pounds. My knees buckled and my legs gave out. I fell back against the wall, sliding slowly down to the floor. I couldn’t stand up. I couldn’t breathe. I could only cry.

  “The autopsy …” Sebastian had begun.

  Claire was an organ donor, so it had already been performed. He’d seen the results. He’d had to. Leave it to the Times to need a corroborating source before reporting the cause of death of one of its own.

  “What?” I asked. “What is it?”

  Sebastian hesitated, his eyes avoiding mine. But it was too late for second thoughts; he had to tell me.

  “Claire was pregnant,” he said.

  CHAPTER 40

  READY OR not, you sons of bitches, here I come …

  I took the stairs, walking the six flights up to my apartment on the top floor. The SIG Sauer was in my hand, my hand was hidden in the duffel, and the duffel was hanging off my shoulder.

  Fog or no fog, there was a small part of my brain that knew exactly how stupid I was being. Whatever fine line existed between risky and crazy, I was nowhere near it. What I was doing bordered on insane. I was a walking death wish, and if it hadn’t been for the rest of my brain, I would’ve surely turned around and hightailed it out of my building.

  But the rest of my brain was consumed by one thing, and one thing only. Love of justice perverted to revenge and spite. That was how Dante defined it during his tour through Hell.

  Vengeance.

  I shared the sixth floor with only one other tenant, a trader at Morgan Stanley who left each morning at the crack of dawn. His apartment faced the back of the building; mine faced the front. I got the natural light, he got the quiet.

  Fittingly, there was nothing but silence as I passed his door, heading toward mine at the opposite end of the hall.

  Out came the SIG Sauer from the duffel, leading the way. All the while, I kept waiting for a sound, a noise, something up ahead to let me know I had company. But that would be too easy, I thought.