Harry said, “It’d be less risky to rent one, bring it to the safe house.”
“No, that wouldn’t work. Emma’s piano—it’s been her lifeline since Ramsey was shot.”
Cheney said, “Don’t worry, we’ll figure it out.”
“Thank you. I’ll head home, then, and get everything ready. But what if he’s watching the house? What if he sees us leave? And follows us? He’ll know you’re taking us away; he’ll know it.”
Savich said, “No, Molly, he won’t know where you’re going. Listen to me, this guy isn’t some kind of superman who knows all, sees all. He’s only one man, and we’ve done this before. Trust me, this is going to throw him off his game.”
But not for very long, Eve thought. They had no idea whether his game included continuing trying to kill Ramsey, or even what his game was. Not that she would say that to Molly. He knew they would all hear his phone call to Molly. If he thought about the consequences at all, which, of course, he had, she knew they were going to have to be very careful while moving her.
Molly slowly nodded. “I don’t want to tell Ramsey about this. There’s nothing he can do. I can’t stand worrying him more when he’s helpless. It would destroy him to know he can’t protect us. All right, I’ll get Emma out of school now.”
Crandall Building
California Street
San Francisco
Late Monday morning
Damn her eyes, I’m one of the most famous defense lawyers in the world. How can she do this to me?
Milo Siles mashed the elevator button once more, then another couple of times for good measure. The elevator doors opened, and he stepped in. Eight other people surrounded him, most taller than he, and he felt the familiar punch of claustrophobia. He closed his eyes and thought about the .38 he’d left in his glove compartment. He’d managed to wheedle a permit for it, not an easy task in San Francisco. It was a good thing he’d left it there or he might have shot the selfish cow and her greedy moron of a lawyer. How demeaning it was to be forced by a lamebrained judge to meet with a lamebrained mediator on the twelfth floor of the Crandall Building, in her lawyer’s conference room, to listen to her lawyer demand half a million dollars from him every single year for the rest of her selfish self-centered life, plus the house in Claremont, plus the shares in the vineyard in Sonoma, plus support for their two boys until they were eighteen.
Half a million dollars. A year.
Milo was so angry at his soon-to-be ex-wife’s outrageous demand, he’d nearly out-shouted his own divorce lawyer. And that officious cow of a mediator had counseled that they all take a deep breath and sit back and close their eyes for a moment. And then what? Sing “Kumbaya”? He wouldn’t be surprised, not in San Francisco.
He’d taken that deep breath and closed his eyes anyway, and that did help him relax, because what he saw was a huge number of zeroes flashing in front of his eyes—the ten million dollars or so he had stashed in his holding company in the Grand Cayman Islands. No way Marjorie or her lawyer would find out about that. He’d been very careful through the years that it couldn’t be traced to him, not by anyone.
He grinned to himself. You never knew, when you went the extra mile to make some real money in this business, if you might have to make a quick exit. This trial with the Cahills was a disaster, but at least it had pushed his nest egg up to that nice round number, more like the nest omelet he’d always wanted. He should never have taken the risk of defending the Cahills’ worthless butts after they screwed up and got themselves indicted for murder. The case was hopeless from the start. He should have known that for all that money there would be risks far beyond keeping the Cahills quiet and cooperative, making his motions, and sitting back to wait. Well, he’d done everything as agreed, and he deserved that money. It was Marjorie’s overspending that had pushed him into it, wasn’t it?
He pictured his wife staring at him across the table, her eyes narrowed beneath her dark brows, which always needed plucking. It made bile rise in his throat. He’d supported her lazy butt for seventeen years, and what had she done to earn it? Be a housewife? As in be the loving wife who tended the house, took care of the children, maybe cooked the occasional dinner? That was a joke. Marjorie had a maid, a cook, and a gardener—and a nanny when the boys were younger. She did nothing at all useful, spent her hours on herself and on her idea of playing, whatever that happened to be. She’d probably had a half-dozen lovers, all of them buff and twenty years younger than she was, he knew it to his gut, and it was he who had paid for them. When he’d stormed out of that ridiculous meditation session with her lawyer, the lead-faced dyke who didn’t make any bones about hating him, Marjorie had come up behind him and whispered in his ear—easy for her to do, since she was two inches taller than he, the cow—“I know more than you think, Milo, about this Cahill trial, about how you’ve cheated your firm. Think about it, dear. Five hundred thousand dollars a year is a lot better than sharing a cell with Clive.”
He’d turned on her, his mouth working with no coherent words at first. “I let you do what you want, what’s in this for you?”
She laughed. “Let me paraphrase Nicole Kidman when they asked her how she felt about splitting up with Tom Cruise—I don’t have to wear flats any longer.”
He’d nearly decked her.
Tom Cruise wasn’t that short, and neither was he.
Milo would have smashed his fists against the elevator doors, but he couldn’t lose it since there were too many people looming over him in the elevator. Marjorie was divorcing him because he wasn’t tall enough for her?
He had to get hold of himself. She’d overheard a conversation with Clive? He couldn’t remember any such conversation, but obviously he hadn’t been careful enough. Well, she’d keep her mouth shut. If she spilled to the cops, then the Feds would seize all his assets under the RICO Act and she wouldn’t see a bloody dime. Maybe sharing a cell with Clive would be worth it, knowing she’d have to get a job, maybe selling bagels in one of those outdoor kiosks at her favorite mall.
Milo walked a block over to the Mason Building, which housed his law firm, and directly into the underground garage to his new Beamer parked next to the express elevator. He admired its sleek lines for a second, still got a kick out of how the door opened for him with his key fob still in his pocket. As he squeezed in, he saw Marjorie’s smiling face again, her smile so big she showed the gold tooth in the back of her mouth she’d never bothered to change out. He smacked his fist on the dashboard. This wasn’t his fault; none of this was his fault. He was a good provider. And he would still send his boys to Princeton, his alma mater.
He buckled his seat belt and settled smoothly onto the sinful dark gray leather seat and pressed the magic button—that’s what his youngest son called the ignition. No, he wouldn’t worry about his sons. They’d get over this. They were old enough to understand. He would make them understand.
His baby roared to life. Calm down, calm down. So what if you give the witch half a million dollars a year? You can afford it. But it was his hard-earned money, and she would spend it on those vacations she was always taking by herself, with the boys, with her frigging friends. Never with him after the first five years. All right, so he was usually busy; he had to support his family, didn’t he? He had no interest in being one of those idiot tourists who walked around with a guidebook in their hands, always pulling out their cell phones to take stupid pictures no one cared about.
He backed out of the garage and eased into traffic. He crossed the Golden Gate twelve minutes later, and headed north toward Bel Marin Keys, to the beautiful little clapboard house he owned, with its own private boat dock and its one inhabitant, Pixie. She would make him feel better. She listened to him, really listened, and she knew he was suffering today. She cared about his feelings and what his wife was doing to him.
It wasn’t raining, but it was cold
and overcast, and promised rain. He was glad he’d gotten the coupe and not the convertible now that it was getting toward winter. This was San Francisco, after all.
Federal Building
San Francisco
Monday afternoon
If Bill Hammond at the CIA was to be believed, the CIA hadn’t made the connection that Sue could be a Chinese name spelled Xu, hadn’t even known for sure that a foreign government was behind the attempted theft of Mark Lindy’s materials. He assured Savich the CIA would of course follow up on that possibility, search out every Chinese national with diplomatic cover whose name sounded anything like Xu.
Savich doubted the two CIA operations officers who’d come to San Francisco some eight months before to conduct an extensive investigation had left not even knowing a foreign government was involved, let alone which one. It really didn’t matter now, Savich thought, since the game had changed. Now that they had a name, the CIA would be back in the investigation, trying to crash the party and take the cake. Savich figured he had one last shot at the Cahills before CIA operations officers arrived. They were the only ones who knew Xu, the only ones other than Xu who knew what had happened to those files off Lindy’s computer.
He sat with Eve again at the same scarred table in the interview room. “I’m glad you’re still wearing a ponytail,” he said to her as the guards brought Cindy and Clive Cahill in.
The first thing out of Clive’s mouth when he saw them was, “The guard said you wanted to see us again, Agent Savich. You wouldn’t believe—or maybe you would believe—what kind of language Milo Siles used when he found out we’d talked to you without him on Friday. He tried to make us promise we’d never do that again. But Cindy and I—we’re beginning to wonder a bit about Mr. Siles, and that’s why we agreed to see you without him.”
It’s about time you’re finally realizing Mr. Siles isn’t in your corner. Savich said, “Tell you what, Clive, after we talk, you and Cindy can consult with Mr. Siles if you feel the need, how’s that?”
Clive and Cindy shared a look, and Clive slowly nodded. “No harm in listening, at least until you bore us.” He looked at Eve. “You’re quite the little hero, aren’t you, doll? It’s all over the news how you saved Judge Hunt’s life, threw yourself on top of him in that elevator and took three bullets in the back. How good are the Kevlars nowadays? You sore?”
Eve smiled at him. “You bet.”
Cindy said, “A pity the guy wasn’t a better shot and splashed your brains all over the judge.”
Eve turned her smile to Cindy. “My brains are relieved that didn’t happen. It’s true, I’m still a bit sore, but you, on the other hand, are still wearing chains and brushing your teeth with your fingers.”
“Nah,” Clive said. “This is a class joint. We even got toothbrushes, but you have a point, they’re not electric.”
Eve said nothing more. She didn’t want to tangle with either of them, at least not yet.
Cindy noticed Savich was looking at her and leaned slightly toward him. “Isn’t that sweet, Clive? Little Miss Sunshine with her bouncy ponytail doing her good deeds. She saves a life, then visits us poor put-upon prisoners again with her sidekick, Mr. Tough Guy.”
Savich said, “Actually, we wanted to thank you in person for blurting out the name Xu. So how does he spell that? X-u? Or S-u? S-o-o, maybe? At any rate, he’s Chinese, and he’s your handler. We know he’s fluent in English and no one has yet pegged him as Asian, so he’s either very good at disguises or he’s an American. Is he American?”
Cindy and Clive didn’t say anything.
Savich continued. “It’s only a matter of time before we find him. If we do that without your help, you won’t have anything left to trade.”
“I don’t remember any Xu,” Cindy said. “Xu—who is that, Clive, do you have any idea?”
“Not a one, sweetie. You look beautiful today. I’ve missed you.” He started to lean over to kiss her, but there was a firm fist smack against the glass window in the door and he pulled back. What would the guards do, Eve wondered? Come in and physically distance him from her so he couldn’t reach her? Probably. The guards couldn’t know when violence would erupt, and wouldn’t take that chance.
Savich said, “You know we found Mickey O’Rourke, your federal prosecutor, dead yesterday.”
“We heard about that,” Cindy said. “Gossip moves at the speed of light in prison, makes my old neighborhood look like slo-mo. Imagine O’Rourke getting himself killed. I didn’t find out too many details, because the cops on TV are keeping a lid on it. Only that he met with foul play. I’ve always thought that phrase sounds wussy, don’t you, Agent Savich?” She said it again: “Foul play—like they’re going to hand out some kind of football penalty.
“Clive, did you hear about poor Mr. O’Rourke getting whacked? That idiot man who preened and strutted around in court and only finally managed to get himself in big trouble with the judge?”
Clive nodded, his lips seamed. “How did he die?”
Eve said, “Xu cut his throat.”
Clive’s hand went unconsciously to his neck; his fingers lightly rubbed against his skin. “That wasn’t very nice.”
“No, it wasn’t.” Savich sat back and regarded the two of them. “You can’t think this is part of some master plan to get you out anymore. It seems to me Xu is snipping off loose ends, killing anyone who might know who he is. Do you want to know who the big whopper loose ends left are?” He suddenly sat forward, pointed at one, then at the other. “You and Cindy.”
The Cahills’ eyes met briefly, then Cindy laughed. “That’s a stretch, isn’t it, Agent Savich? Unbelievable, that’s what it is. We’ve been in this lovely facility now for eight months, fourteen days—”
“Thirteen days,” Clive said.
Cindy shook her head. “You know I believe thirteen is unlucky, Clive. Nope, this is the fourteenth day. Being here means we’re safer than you two are driving on Highway 101 at rush hour. Do you know, if I were this mythical Xu you talk about, I wouldn’t be too worried about your catching me, any more than you could catch a box of smoke.”
“Smoke—did Xu describe himself that way to you?” Savich said.
Cindy smiled broadly. “Oh, I don’t know any Xu. That’s only what I say—I mean, he is leading all of you around by your noses, isn’t he?”
Eve said, “Xu has managed to get away so far. But smoke? When we take him down we’ll ask him how he wants to style himself then.”
Clive said, “Yep, the guy sure made you look like incompetent morons. Oops, I guess I shouldn’t say that, should I? You might order up the waterboarding.”
Eve leaned forward. “You might as well know we wounded him”—Well, not quite, but close enough—“we have his DNA, and when we match it we’ll know exactly who Xu is. You know the CIA will have his prints, even if Xu is a brand-new alias for him. As Agent Savich said, it’s only a matter of time.” And Eve sat back, crossed her arms over her chest, and continued, “The CIA is coming back soon to talk to you again.” She gave an elaborate shrug. “Waterboarding? I hear they don’t use that anymore, old hat now. The CIA has much better methods.
“You know they’ve got a lot of motivation to find out everything you know, since Mark Lindy’s project was highly classified. They won’t even tell us about it. Believe me, everybody wants to catch this guy before he leaves the country. So Agent Savich and I have been talking with the U.S. attorney, and he’s willing to make you an offer if you tell us what you know.”
The Cahills were silent again, but there was something in the air between them. Fear? Of Xu getting to them?
Savich picked it up. “Suppose for a moment you get out by some quirk, even on bail. Xu would have every reason to kill you.”
Eve shrugged. “Of course, if you wait until the CIA gets here, they could bollix everything
up. Or Xu could be captured or killed. Either way, we wouldn’t have anything to offer you then.”
Cindy Cahill yawned. Her wrist chains rattled as she raised her hand to pat her mouth. She froze. Too bad the rattling chains always ruined a good performance.
Cindy said, “Agent Savich, we don’t have any idea what you’re both talking about. We’re United States citizens, and we haven’t been convicted of anything. You can’t think we believe the CIA is going to haul us off to Guantánamo Bay?”
“And we didn’t steal anything,” Clive said, his voice parroting Cindy’s tone, as convincing as his lawyer’s. “Cindy and I have maintained our innocence throughout this debacle. We know nothing of this Xu or O’Rourke’s murder or the two attempts on Judge Hunt’s life. We don’t know anything at all. We’re in jail. Get over it.”
“I’m getting bored, Clive, honey,” Cindy said.
“Me, too, sweetie,” Clive said, “but, hey, at least we get to see each other.”
Eve knew they weren’t getting anywhere fast. It was time to get down and dirty. She said, “Surely you two are smart enough to realize you could be convicted on half the evidence the prosecutors have. You are both going down, and that means all the way down to a lethal injection.”
Clive smiled at her. “I thought you said the CIA was going to haul us away, never to be seen again?”
Eve turned to Cindy. “Tell me, Cindy, do you have any idea what you’re going to look like in five years? Ten years? In fifteen years, right before you get the needle in your arm?
“Let me tell you what I’ve seen. You’ll probably exercise for another year to keep your body in shape, but you’ll be fighting a losing battle. They feed you lots of carbs and fat, and you’ll gain weight because there’s not much else to do in prison but eat. After a while, you’ll stop exercising, I mean, why keep it up? Who is there to admire you? A bunch of women who could view you as too pretty and hate your guts and hurt you?
Backfire Page 17
