Restitution

by Lee Vance

  “Not that I recall.”

  De Nunzio sits straighter in his chair as Lyman looks up, pen tapping against his teeth. I brace myself, sensing Davis is finally going to get to the point.

  “Perhaps we can refresh your recollection,” he says.

  “Perhaps.”

  “Do you know what a log file is, Mr. Tyler?”

  “Yes,” I say with a sinking feeling.

  “Please tell me,” Davis says. “I’m not very good with computers.”

  “A log file records activity on a computer.”

  “Would a log file record the fact that someone transferred information from a computer to a CD?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “And would a log file record the fact that someone erased information from that computer?”

  “Also possible.”

  “And would a log file record when those things happened?”

  “It might.”

  “Would you like to tell us about it, Mr. Tyler?”

  I stare at myself in the mirror, trying to figure out how Davis knew about the file. The Russian cops who picked up Dmitri could have found Andrei’s computer. Even if they had the technological savvy to go poking around in log files, it’s difficult to believe they’d be feeding information to the U.S. government in real time. My eyes slide to Lyman. Davis said he was a consultant, which could mean anything, and he’s the one who has the recording of Andrei and Jenna.

  “We’re waiting, Mr. Tyler,” Davis says, a bullying sneer on his fat face.

  My mouth opens. I have absolutely no idea what I’m going to say.

  “I found an encrypted file on Andrei’s computer.”

  All three men lean toward me. “And?”

  “The password was the same as his alarm code,” I say, recalling Dmitri’s stratagem. “It was all porn, digital pictures of men doing stuff to each other that would make you want to puke.”

  “There were many files on that computer,” Lyman says harshly, speaking for the first time. “Why copy that one? And why erase it from the hard drive?”

  He’s got an accent—Germanic, with a nasal intonation. Dutch perhaps, or Swiss. He knows what was on Andrei’s computer. Maybe he was in Moscow yesterday, too.

  “I was in a hurry,” I say. “There were hundreds of folders in the file. I figured I’d go through them more carefully when I had a chance, see if there was anything that might help me figure out how to get in touch with Andrei. I erased it because Andrei was in some of the pictures.” I shrug, trying to look embarrassed on Andrei’s behalf. “I didn’t think he’d want pictures of himself doing stuff like that on a computer serving information to the Web, even if they were encrypted.”

  “And where’s the CD you copied the file to?” Davis demands silkily.

  “I broke it in half and dumped it in a garbage can outside Manezh Square mall. The cops were chasing me. I didn’t want to get picked up in Russia with a bunch of gay porn in my pocket. I have no idea what kind of laws they’ve got over there.”

  There’s a long silence. De Nunzio’s shaking his head back and forth, looking disgusted. Davis is staring at Lyman. Lyman is staring at me. I sit forward, making an effort to look earnest.

  “I could draw you a map,” I say. “Show you exactly where the garbage can was. Would that help?”

  21

  DAVIS ANNOUNCED A BREAK after another half hour of repetitive questions. I asked for a cup of coffee politely as he and the others exited through the side door, and a guard brought me a helping of lukewarm chemical sludge in a waxed-paper cup. I’m hoping the courtesy means they bought my story. My hand shakes as I sip, and I can see fresh crescents of sweat staining the jumpsuit beneath my arms in the mirror. I want to talk to Emily. Lyman might represent the “they” she mentioned, the people she said could use the Russian police to question me. If so, he’s got both the Russians and the Americans working for him. Which means what? That he’s Interpol or some other kind of international cop? Everything I learn only confuses me more. What’s Andrei involved in?

  I rest my elbows on my knees, staring down at the scuffed linoleum floor and wishing Andrei had confided in me. The last time I saw him was in Rome, shortly after Jenna and I had the scene in the street outside Subrahmanyan’s office. Some Italian clients had called on short notice and asked me to make a breakfast presentation to their investment committee. Jenna and I weren’t speaking, so I left a note on her vanity and headed for the airport. I started drinking as soon as the plane took off. When the phone rang in my hotel room the next morning, I felt like death.

  “Hello?” I croaked.

  “It’s six a.m.,” a voice said. “The best hour of the day for a run.”

  “Andrei?”

  “I’m in the lobby,” he said. “Get down here now. We need to get going before the smog builds up.”

  I sat up too abruptly, the room swimming.

  “Keisha sent you my itinerary,” I said, trying to get my brain working.

  “As usual.”

  Keisha had standing instructions to copy my itinerary to Andrei whenever I traveled to Europe. He was on the road as much as I was, and we’d managed to connect in a number of different cities.

  “I didn’t bring any running shoes.”

  “I shopped for you at Heathrow. You’re an American eleven, right?”

  “How the hell do you know that?”

  “Omniscience.”

  “I’m not up to repartee this morning,” I said testily. “I’m kind of hungover.”

  “All the more reason for a run. Come on. It’s a beautiful day.”

  We ran out the front of the hotel and into the Borghese Gardens. The sun was still low and the gardens were cool and lovely in the half-light. Ten minutes later, I was puking my guts out into an ornamental iron garbage can. Andrei jogged in place a few steps away, waiting for me to finish.

  “I need water,” I said.

  “I saw a drinking fountain back by the Villa Giulia,” he said, taking off down the gravel path at full speed. I followed as best I could, too parched and winded to curse him.

  We did laps around the garden for another forty minutes, dog walkers appearing as the sun climbed higher and the air warmed. I burned through the alcohol and started feeling pretty good. Andrei was the one lagging by the time we finished, and I gave him shit while he sucked wind, his hands on his knees.

  “I’ve been a little under the weather recently,” he said.

  “A likely story. You’re just old and tired.”

  We bought a dozen dwarf oranges in a mesh bag from a cart near the top of the Spanish Steps and sat on the edge of the central fountain in the Piazza di Spagna, popping peeled orange quarters and talking about the markets. Sweat puddled beneath us as we cooled down.

  “When’d you get in?” I asked.

  “Same as you,” he said. “Late last night.”

  “You free for dinner?”

  “Sorry. I’ve got to fly down to Naples for a lunch meeting and then catch a plane to Luxembourg.”

  “That doesn’t give you a lot of time on the ground here.”

  “Just long enough for a run with you and some of this delicious but annoyingly small fruit.”

  I suddenly realized how Andrei’d known my shoe size.

  “Jenna called you.”

  He glanced up from his partially peeled orange.

  “She sounded pretty upset.”

  I couldn’t decide whether to be angry or not. I’d told Andrei about our problems myself, but not how bad things had gotten recently.

  “Did she ask you to talk to me?”

  “No.”

  “You here to tell me I’m an asshole?”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “Then what?”

  The sun cleared the roof of a building and caught the side of Andrei’s face. He looked tired.

  “I gathered you were going through a rough patch, so I decided to fly down and say hello.”

  “You have
some words of wisdom for me?” I said acerbically. “A quote from Schopenhauer or Nietzsche maybe?”

  “None that come to mind.”

  “An opinion of your own, then?”

  “Sure,” he said. “I think you’re an asshole.”

  I laughed and felt my irritation dissipate.

  “Seriously?” I asked uncomfortably.

  “Jenna’s unhappy and you’re drinking too much. My only opinion is that whatever you and she are doing isn’t working.”

  “I don’t know how to talk to her,” I admitted. “She has her heart set on adopting some kid with problems.”

  “And you don’t want to?”

  “It’s hard to explain,” I said, wiping my face with my shirt. “My dad and I used to do a lot of things together when I was a kid. I always kind of figured I’d do the same things with my child.”

  “And you’re afraid you won’t know how to relate to a kid who can’t do those things with you?”

  “Pretty much,” I said, dissembling slightly. The real truth was that I was afraid I couldn’t love a kid who didn’t meet my expectations.

  Andrei finished the last orange and began stuffing the peels into the mesh bag.

  “Let me ask you something,” he said. “Suppose Jenna got pregnant and the two of you had a healthy child. Would that make everything better between you?”

  I gave his question some thought, watching a young couple ride past on a shiny red Vespa. The man was wearing a sharply tailored business suit and had a cigarette hanging from his mouth; the woman’s hair blew loose as she clutched his waist.

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “What’s your point?”

  “Only that you need to figure out what your real issues with Jenna are. I love you like a brother, Peter, but you’ve got such a rigid worldview that you don’t always see things—or people—the way they really are.”

  A church bell rang while I was working on an answer. I checked my watch.

  “I wish I’d known you were coming,” I said. “I’ve got a meeting that I can’t cancel.”

  “I could shuffle a few things around and meet you in London tomorrow night,” Andrei said. “I’d be happy to stand you a nice curry.”

  “Another time,” I said. “I’m booked solid tomorrow, and then I’ve got to be back in New York for a committee meeting.”

  “Another time, then,” he said, getting to his feet.

  I squinted into the sun, looking up at him.

  “I’m glad you came by,” I said. “I really am. I needed the exercise. But you don’t have to worry about me.”

  “I do, though,” he said. “I worry about you and Jenna both.”

  22

  THE CHEMICAL SLUDGE IN MY CUP is ice-cold when the side door opens again, a pale layer of scum congealing on top. Davis and Lyman file back in, resuming their previous seats. De Nunzio’s absence has to be a positive development.

  “Mr. Tyler,” Davis says, a solemn expression on his face. “I’m going to tell you some things that have the United States government very concerned. I think these things will concern you as well. I’d like you to understand why your cooperation is so important to us.”

  “Okay,” I say, hoping I’m about to get some answers. I watch Lyman covertly as Davis speaks. He’s paging through his notebook.

  “Several months ago, a Swiss pharmaceutical firm reported the theft of a superstrain of tuberculosis they’d isolated for vaccine-research purposes. We believe this strain has the potential to be utilized as a biological weapon, with devastating consequences. We further believe Mr. Zhilina may be able to help us locate the people responsible for this theft.”

  I stare at Davis incredulously, wondering if he seriously thinks I’m going to fall for this line of shit. Andrei’s a financial guy. I’ve come around to the idea that he might have crossed a few lines, but this is way beyond the bounds of any impropriety I can imagine him involved with.

  “That’s ridiculous. You’ve got a wire crossed somewhere in your organization. You’re confused because Andrei’s involved with a tuberculosis clinic in Moscow.”

  “Do you know what a genetic marker is, Mr. Tyler?” Davis asks.

  “Roughly.”

  “Enlighten me, please.”

  “A bit of a gene or chromosome that’s easily identifiable.”

  “The strain stolen from the Swiss had several distinctive genetic markers. The clinic Mr. Zhilina’s affiliated with reported a number of TB deaths in recent months. Autopsies established that three of those individuals died from the stolen Swiss strain.”

  “What are you saying?” I ask, completely bewildered. “That the clinic is killing people on purpose?”

  “No. We think the clinic’s being used by someone with an ulterior motive.”

  “ ‘An ulterior motive’?” I fight back a nervous laugh. Davis sounds like one of the Hardy Boys.

  “Weapons, Mr. Tyler, need to be tested in the field against competent adversaries. The best place to test a biological weapon would be in a clinic dedicated to defeating it.”

  “You think that Andrei’s involved with terrorists?” I ask disbelievingly.

  “No, Mr. Tyler. We don’t think it; we know it. And if you know anything about Mr. Zhilina’s activities or whereabouts, now is the time to tell us.”

  He looks dead serious, but I’m not buying it. This must be a ruse of some sort.

  “I’d help you if I could,” I say, concentrating all my energy on sounding sincere. “But I already told you everything I know.”

  “Perhaps you need more time to think,” he says with a frown, touching a button on the table.

  “Wait,” I protest loudly as the door opens and a pair of guards enter the room. “I don’t know anything else. There’s no reason to hold me.”

  Davis doesn’t respond. The guards refasten my hands, unchain my ankle, and pull me to my feet. I turn my head as I reach the door, determined to make another appeal. Lyman’s chin is resting on his right hand, two fingers splayed against his cheek as he studies his notes. His shirtsleeve sags, exposing his wrist, and a tattoo: Felix the Cat.

  23

  AS WE LEAVE THE INTERROGATION ROOM and march back to the cell block, it’s all I can do to contain myself. Lyman is Felix. Cop or not, this might be the guy who murdered my wife. I see Lyman in my mind’s eye as the guard uncuffs me outside my cell. Tilling said two men broke into my house, one right-handed and one left-handed. The righthander picked the lock; the other attacked Jenna. Lyman was taking notes with his left hand. The guard shoves me roughly into the cell and slams the door. I heave myself against the door as he turns the key, wild with rage and frustration. I’m starting to hyperventilate, black spots swimming in front of my eyes, my chest heaving. I’ve got to tell Tilling about Lyman before he can leave the country.

  I begin pacing frantically. Rage gives way to despair as I walk mile after mile. Hours have passed. Food trays come and go twice, making it Sunday night. Lyman could be halfway back to Europe already. I’m collapsed on the edge of my bunk, completely exhausted, when I hear footsteps stop outside my door.

  “We’re opening up, Tyler. You know the drill.”

  An effort of will gets me to my feet. I’m expecting a return to the interrogation room, but the guards escort me to the elevator, my spirits rising as we ascend. Our destination is the white-tiled room. My stuff is on the table.

  “Get dressed,” one of the guards says.

  “I’m being released?”

  “You’re being transferred. Get dressed.”

  I change as quickly as I can, telling myself firmly that anything that gets me back into street clothes has to be good. We ride the elevator higher, handcuffs biting my wrists. The guards open a succession of doors, and suddenly we’re outside, in front of the British Airways terminal. It’s nighttime, the cold air smelling of taxi exhaust and salt water, an indescribably rejuvenating New York aroma. Tilling and Ellis are leaning against an unmarked sedan at the curb, Tilling still in he
r surplus jacket, Ellis in a slick black Patagonia outfit. I never thought I’d be so happy to see them.

  “You want him cuffed?” one of the guards asks after Tilling displays her badge and identification.

  “I’ve been through this with your boss already,” she says, an edge to her voice. “We only put a flag on him. You decided to hold him, that’s your business.”

  “So you don’t want him cuffed?” the guard says.

  Tilling stares at him. The guard salutes her with a finger, looses my hands, and disappears back into the terminal with his cohort, laughing. I leap forward and grab Tilling by the shoulder.

  “He was here. The guy with the Felix tattoo. He questioned me with a couple of other guys, federal officers. His name is Lyman, and I think he was in Moscow with me yesterday. He’s a European. He might still be here. We’ve got to catch him before he can get on a plane.”

  She knocks my hand away, looking at me as if I’m crazy.

  “Who questioned you?”

  “Homeland Security,” I say urgently. “Two officers named Davis and De Nunzio, and this guy Lyman. He may be a cop also, Interpol or something. I don’t know.”

  “What did they want to know?”

  “About Andrei, and my trip to Russia. We’re wasting time, Grace. Lyman’s the guy who killed the dog.”

  She seizes my biceps and gives me a shake.

  “Calm down,” she says. “Nothing’s going to happen until I understand what’s going on. Get in the car and we’ll talk. And this time, I want the whole story.”

  Ellis double-parks near the mouth of an access road leading to the tarmac, a few hundred yards beyond the terminal. Tilling sits sideways in the front seat as she questions me, a dashboard-mounted work light reflecting off her notepad, uplighting her features. She curses steadily under her breath as I describe my interview with Lyman and the two “patriots,” trying to explain everything as succinctly as possible.

  “I’m going to need the name of the guy whose dog got killed,” she says.

  “Tony Pongo,” I reply instantly. This is too important to worry about my promise to him. “He lives in Annadale, on Staten Island. He was Andrei’s clerk in Moscow. That’s everything, Grace. You’ve got to move on Lyman now, before it’s too late.”