by Unknown
He smiled. “You know, Nick, there was an ancient Chinese philosopher who once said that battles are always won or lost before they’re fought.”
“Someone told me that,” I said. “You know a lot about war, Roger?”
“Just theoretically. And just enough to be dangerous. So are we done here, bro? Because I have a lot of work to do. I’ve got a conference call scheduled, and we don’t even have phones yet.”
“Almost,” I said. “Hold on a second.”
I pulled out my BlackBerry.
“Can you repeat that again?” I said.
Roger looked at me, bewildered. “Repeat what?”
“Sorry,” I said. “I was talking to my phone.” The cell phone in my pocket had been on and transmitting our conversation to Dorothy the whole time. It took her just a few seconds to pull up the SWIFT code for Barclays’ British Virgin Islands branch. As she read it to me again, slowly, I typed the numbers into a message field on my BlackBerry.
I’ve always hated Bluetooth headsets—I don’t like walking around with a thing clipped to my ear like an extra in a Star Trek movie—but the one I was wearing was nonstandard. It was one of Merlin’s government-grade miniature earbuds. Roger’d never noticed it.
“There we go,” I said, this time to Roger. I smiled, held up the BlackBerry. “The cool thing about the RaptorCard,” I said, “is how easy it is to build in a backdoor, if you know what you’re doing. Every single transaction you made, it sent me a copy. Right here.”
Roger didn’t seem to know how to react. I could see the skepticism mixed with anxiety. “Yeah,” he said. “Like you know what you’re doing.”
“Oh, not me,” I admitted. “But one of my colleagues. Comes in handy to have friends sometimes. Now, watch closely. Nothing up my sleeve.”
“What do you think you’re doing?” A tendril of panic had entered his voice. Slowly he came around to my side of his desk. “What’s this all about? Because I did what you were too much of a candy ass to do?”
“Shhh,” I said. “Never interrupt a magician in midact. And now—”
“You understand that I fully intend to share this with you, right?”
“—Watch as I click this ordinary-looking button on this very ordinary-looking BlackBerry, and your entire digital trail is sent, by the magic of the Internet, to FinCen. The U.S. Treasury’s financial-crimes enforcement network—”
Roger leapt at me. “You’re a Heller!” he thundered. “This is the life we were meant to have!”
I sidestepped his lunge.
“And . . . abracadabra!”
With an unnecessarily theatrical flourish, I clicked the send button.
Then, without even turning to look at him, I strode across the wide expanse of his office. “If they give you a choice, I hope you request Altamont Correctional Facility,” I said. “It would be nice for Dad to have company. Maybe you two can work in the laundry together.”
And then I opened the door for the FBI.
99.
A few days later I tried to slip into Lauren’s house to retrieve the rest of my things, at a time I thought she and Gabe would be gone. I figured it would be easier on everyone if they just came home one day and found my stuff gone. No scene. No muss, no fuss.
I’d forgotten about private-school schedules, though: The more money you pay for school, the shorter the academic year. St. Gregory’s was out for the year, and Gabe was upstairs, listening to music. Lauren was doing something on her home computer. Another thing I didn’t expect: that Lauren would be at home and not at work.
That was actually okay, though. We had a lot to talk about. She told me that she’d decided to take a leave of absence from her job. A long one. The leave she should have taken in the first place, after the injury.
“For the first time in I don’t know how long, I actually need to work for a living,” she said pensively.
I suppose I could have let my brother get away with it, which would have meant that Lauren and Gabe might have shared in the spoils, or so Roger had said. But in the end, they’d never have been safe—you never get away with something like that.
And it just didn’t sit well with me. Bad karma, maybe. I knew a little about living off tainted money.
And—call me a starry-eyed idealist, but I did sort of like the idea of doing the right thing.
“Have you started looking for a job yet?” I asked.
She looked at me with surprise. “I’m not leaving Leland,” she said. “Why would I?”
“He’d take you back?”
“Take me back? What’s that supposed to mean?”
I felt a pang of sadness. She hadn’t stopped concealing. “Lauren,” I said.
“Lee doesn’t blame me for what Roger did. That wouldn’t be fair.”
“So Leland still doesn’t know,” I said. “Well, I’ll say this much for my brother. He may have used you, but he did protect you.”
“Protect me? In what way?”
“He could have turned you in when he was arrested, but he didn’t. And I doubt he will.”
“Turn me in for what?”
“For what you did. For your role in all of this.”
“My role?”
“Lauren, come on.”
“What?”
I was really disappointed in my people-reading skills. It had taken me far too long to learn to read her. Maybe my usual perceptiveness had been blunted by my love for her and her son. “Well, for one thing, Roger couldn’t have stolen all of Gifford Industries’ assets without the RaptorCard. And there’s only one way he could have known that I had it. From you.”
Her eyes were opaque, hard to read. “I told you he contacted me. He left me a voice message. He gave me a—an untraceable cell number to call. Because he wanted to make sure this deal went off without a hitch. So, yes. I told him.”
“Right,” I said. “But that was only part of it.”
She looked wounded. “What are you accusing me of?”
“I’m not going to turn you in,” I said. “No point in that. I blame my brother for dragging you into this.”
“I wasn’t dragged . . .” she began.
“Lauren,” I said. “Don’t even bother. Leland didn’t trust Roger. He didn’t like him. He’d never have gone along with the idea of creating a holding company—and designating Roger as the full, temporary, owner—if you hadn’t urged him to do it.”
She winced as she shook her head.
But I kept going. “Dorothy told me you asked her how to access a password-protected BlackBerry. You told her you wanted to help me out. Get into his e-mails. Of course, you didn’t bother to tell me about it.”
Hollowly, she attempted, “I didn’t?”
“Of course not. Because that wasn’t true. You weren’t trying to help find Roger. You were sending out e-mails under Leland Gifford’s name. To a bank in the Caymans. Authorizing the transfer. Replying to the bank’s queries. And later, I assume, deleting all evidence of the correspondence so Gifford wouldn’t find out.”
“Nick,” she began.
“Roger needed a confederate in the CEO’s office, or none of this would have worked.”
She looked away.
“And—oh, yes—you made sure that Stoddard assigned me to locate the missing cargo. That billion dollars in cash. A theft Roger arranged. More bread crumbs, to lead me to Paladin.”
Her expression confirmed my theory. She’d e-mailed Jay Stoddard as Leland Gifford to be certain he put me on the case.
“I don’t like what you’re implying. You don’t seriously think I’d risk Gabe’s life for money, do you?”
“No, I don’t. I’m sure this wasn’t your idea in the first place.”
“Of course it wasn’t! The worst you can say about me is that I was naïve. I trusted him. When he told me he had to disappear because that was the only way to keep us safe, I believed him. And then things just started to spin out of control, and Paladin started making all those threats—”
A single tear streamed down her left cheek in a perfectly straight line. “He told me if I didn’t, they’d kill him. He said it was the only way to save him and protect Gabe. He used me. He manipulated me.”
“He’s good at that. I understand.”
“His relationship with Gabe is over. He’s destroyed it.”
“He doesn’t deserve Gabe.”
“No,” she said. “He doesn’t deserve Gabe.”
“I don’t think Gabe’s going to be visiting him in prison. You see how often I visit my dad.”
She nodded sadly. “And . . . what about you?”
“I’ll figure something out.”
“You think you might move?”
“I might. I’ll see. I’ve never loved Washington, you know that.”
“I hope not. That wouldn’t be easy for Gabe.”
“Or for me.”
“So don’t move. Stay in town.”
“I’ll figure something out,” I said. “I’m not worried.”
“You never worry, do you?”
“Sure I do. All the time,” I said. “I just don’t like to show it.”
BEFORE I left, I took Gabe for a walk around the block. The old oak trees shaded the path, their leaves rippling gently in the wind, the light dappled. He was wearing black shorts and his black Chuck Taylors and a red Full Bleed T-shirt with a big white fingerprint on it.
“Can you freakin’ believe it?” he said. “Dad asked Mom if I’d visit him in jail.”
“You’re not going to?”
“Are you kidding me? I told him I never wanted to see him again.”
“He loves you. You should know that. He may be a flawed person, but he does love you.”
“So? I don’t really care. He cheats on Mom, and he lies to us and almost gets us killed?” He shook his head. “And now I don’t think Mom can afford to send me to St. Greg’s anymore.”
“I thought you hated the place.”
“I never said that.”
I shrugged. I didn’t feel much like arguing.
“And we don’t even get any of that money he stole. If you hadn’t had him arrested, we could be rich.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Justice sucks sometimes. I get that.”
He glared at me.
“It’s like Batman,” I said.
“Huh?”
“Well, think about it. Batman these days, he’s an angst-ridden vigilante, right? Dark and brooding and tortured. He has these inner demons.”
He looked at me in surprise. “You’ve read The Dark Knight Returns?”
“Nah. Saw the movies. But when I was a kid, Batman was this really cool superhero. He was the Caped Crusader. He was millionaire Bruce Wayne, and he had the Batmobile and the Bat Cave, and he was always saving Gotham City from the Joker or the Riddler. He always won. The bad guys always ended up behind bars.”
“You’re talking about the TV show.”
“Point is, real-life justice is a little more complicated. More like the dark and brooding Batman, you could say.”
“Yeah, well, you’re totally wrong. Batman was originally this, like, tragic figure. Bruce Wayne’s parents are killed in a holdup, and he makes this solemn promise on their grave to rid the city of crime.”
“Okay, okay,” I said. I should have known better than to talk comic books with Gabe. “What I’m trying to tell you is, the right thing isn’t always the easy thing.”
“Do I get a cookie with that fortune?”
“You might want to watch the way you talk to your elders,” I said sternly.
“Yeah, right,” he said, and he smiled, and I smiled, too.
This was getting way too heavy for me, so I changed the subject and asked him about his summer plans, but he didn’t really have any, except for finishing his graphic novel. We circled back to their driveway and stood in front of my Defender.
I’d paid one of Granger’s guys to recover it from the Georgia woods and drive it back to D.C. The guy had had the car washed and polished, and it gleamed. Of course, that just made the long white scratch on the driver’s side stand out more against the glossy Coniston green.
“What happened here?” Gabe said, tracing the mark with his finger.
“Some jerk keyed it.”
“That’s a bummer.”
I shrugged. “Not my biggest concern right now.”
He looked uncomfortable for a few seconds, as if he wanted to bring something up.
“What?” I said.
“So how come you’re moving out?”
“I have my own apartment.”
“I mean, out of Washington. I heard you talking to Mom.”
“I haven’t decided what I’m doing. I might move back to Boston.”
“So, what, that’s it? You’re just going to move, and I’ll, like, never see you again?”
“You’ll see me plenty, you poor guy. More than before, probably.”
He smiled again. He had a terrific, totally winning smile when he actually used it. His mom’s smile. “You can run, but you can’t hide, Nick.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “You can’t get rid of me that easy.”
A C K N O W L E D G M E N T S
I’m immensely grateful to a few people who’ve given generously of their time to make me look so much smarter than I really am. Most of all: Lieutenant Robert “Buzz” Glover of the Washington, D.C., Metropolitan Police Department’s Special Operations Division, whose assistance with the specifics of crime and law enforcement in the D.C. area was invaluable; and two extremely savvy international private investigators who helped make Nick Heller real: my old friend Harry “Skip” Brandon, of Smith Brandon, and Terry Lenzner, of the Investigative Group.
Once again, Dick Rogers—the FBI legend who led the Hostage Rescue Team—was terrific in helping choreograph some of the most intricate action scenes and keep them plausible, along with Nick’s martial-arts trainer, Jack Hoban.
Kevin Murray, a specialist in eaves dropping-detection, audits, and counterespionage consulting, gave me extensive information about what’s actually possible in the realm of surveillance technology, which was even more than I’d imagined. Bill Spellings briefed me about the business of TSCM (technical surveillance countermeasures) and how it works in real life, and Mark Spencer of First Advantage Litigation Consulting made the complex technology of computer forensics and data recovery not only understandable but very cool, as did Simson Garfinkel (who helped come up with the “RaptorCard”).
Thanks to my security experts, including Jeff Dingle and Roland Cloutier, director of Global Security for the EMC Corporation, who devised some creative mobile phone ruses. Dave Wade advised me on the tracing of cell phones, and Jerry Richards helped me understand the intricacies of surveillance cameras and their possible manipulation. My longtime source on explosives technology, the remarkable Jack McGeorge, was there for me again. I was advised as well by Christopher Morgan-Jones, formerly of Kroll; and Gene Smith, of Smith Brandon.
I’m particularly indebted to my friends at ASTAR Air Cargo, who came through for me when I needed access to a cargo flight (and some hard-to-find details) for Nick’s opening scene. Thanks to Travis Hall, Martin Godley, Rob Miller, Ron Long, Tom Halpin, Dominick Deleto, Jason Stupp, and CFO Steven Rossum.
Pam Buote—assistant to the CEO of the EMC Corporation, Joe Tucci—told me about the life of an executive admin to a CEO (and understood that I needed to take some liberties for plot reasons). My good friend Bill Teuber, the vice chairman of EMC, helped in all sorts of ways once again. Paul Dacier, EMC’s general counsel, guided me through a number of legal complexities, as did Jay Shapiro of Katten Muchin Rosenman and Eric Klein of Sheppard Mullin Richter & Hampton. For safecracking tips, my thanks to Ken Doyle of Advanced Safe and Vault Engineering in Novato, California.
On offshore banking and shell companies, I was advised
by Dennis Lormel of Corporate Risk International, Philip R. West of Steptoe & Johnson, Don Meiers of Miles & Stockbridge, and the encyclopedic Jack Blum of Baker Hostetler. Steve Aftergood of the Federation of American Scientists and Steve Kosiak of the Center for Strategic and Budgetary Assessments helped me understand the Pentagon’s “black budget.” Michael Wilson of Integrity Partners guided me through forensic accounting, and Edward Hasbrouck had some useful suggestions on passports and forgery (all theoretical, of course).
My medical consultants included David Adelson, M.D., and my brother, Dr. Jonathan Finder. On a flight out of L.A. one day I happened to sit next to a private pilot named Ody Pond, who gave me some great plot ideas.
I’m a Boston guy, but this was a Washington, D.C., book, so I spent a lot of time walking the streets, taking notes. When inevitably I needed follow-up details, I was quite fortunate to get some great research assistance from both Amy Petersen and Will Dickinson, who meticulously retraced Nick’s steps, took loads of photos, and dug up all sorts of obscure tidbits for me. Tiffany Kim helped with additional research.
My consultants on Gabe, none of whom are in fact “emo” or troubled or alienated, so far as I know, included John Thomsen, Austin Lang, Ben Moss, and Emma Finder.
For advice on comics and graphic novels, thanks to Will Dennis of DC Comics and Brian Azzarello.
As always, Giles McNamee of McNamee Lawrence was my unindicted co-conspirator in devising corporate scams with a mystery writer’s sensibility. Even more important, he lent me his Coniston Green Land Rover Defender long enough for me to decide that Nick had to drive one too.
At St. Martin’s Press, my U.S. publisher, my deepest thanks to John Sargent, Sally Richardson, Matthew Shear, George Witte, Matthew Baldacci, Lisa Senz, Nancy Trypuc, John Murphy (fellow olive loaf connoisseur), Ann Day, Ami Greko, Jeff Capshew, Brian Heller, Tom Siino, Martin Quinn, Ken Holland, Jerry Todd, and Kathleen Conn. At Audio Renaissance: Mary Beth Roche, Laura Wilson, Jeanne-Marie Hudson, and Kristin Lang.
At Headline, my UK publisher, I thank my wonderful editor (and champion), Vicki Mellor; Alice Shepherd, Siobhan Hooper, and everyone in Sales and Marketing. Thanks as well to my redoubtable UK agent, Clare Alexander of Aitken Alexander, and my foreign rights agent, Danny Baror.
