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Contents
AbouttheBookAbouttheAuthorsAlsobyJamesPattersonandHowardRoughanTitlePageDedicationPrologueOneTwoThree
BookOne
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Chapter1Chapter2Chapter3Chapter4Chapter5Chapter6Chapter7Chapter8Chapter9Chapter10Chapter11Chapter12Chapter13Chapter14
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Chapter15Chapter16Chapter17Chapter18Chapter19Chapter20Chapter21Chapter22Chapter23Chapter24Chapter25Chapter26Chapter27Chapter28
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Chapter29
BookTwoChapter30Chapter31Chapter32Chapter33Chapter34Chapter35Chapter36Chapter37Chapter38Chapter39Chapter40
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Chapter41Chapter42Chapter43Chapter44Chapter45Chapter46Chapter47Chapter48Chapter49Chapter50Chapter51Chapter52Chapter53Chapter54
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Chapter55Chapter56Chapter57
BookThreeChapter58Chapter59Chapter60Chapter61Chapter62Chapter63Chapter64Chapter65Chapter66
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Chapter67Chapter68Chapter69Chapter70Chapter71Chapter72Chapter73Chapter74Chapter75Chapter76Chapter77
BookFourChapter78
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Chapter79Chapter80Chapter81Chapter82Chapter83Chapter84Chapter85Chapter86Chapter87Chapter88Chapter89Chapter90Chapter91Chapter92
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Chapter93Chapter94Chapter95Chapter96Chapter97Chapter98Chapter99Chapter100Chapter101Chapter102Chapter103
BookFiveChapter104
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Chapter105Chapter106Chapter107Chapter108Chapter109Chapter110Chapter111Chapter112Chapter113
EpilogueChapter114Chapter115
SneakPreview
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Copyright
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ABOUTTHEBOOK
Thetruthwillsetyoufree–ifitdoesn’tkillyoufirst.
New York attorney TrevorMann’s world shatters whenhe receives a phone calltelling him his girlfriend has
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beenshotdeadinamugging.But the circumstances pointtosomethingmorecalculatedthanarandomattack.
ClairewasaNewYorkTimesjournalist and Trevor isconvinced she had uneartheda secret so shocking that shewasmurderedtokeepitfromcoming to light. ChasingClaire’s leads, Trevor willrisk everything to discover
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what exactly she was killedfor.
It’stimetofindoutthetruth,ordie.
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ABOUTTHEAUTHORS
JAMES PATTERSON isone of the best-known andbiggest-selling writers of alltime. Since winning theEdgar™AwardforBestFirstNovel with The Thomas
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BerrymanNumber,hisbookshave sold in excess of 300millioncopiesworldwideandhe has been the mostborrowed author in UKlibraries for the past eightyears in a row. He is theauthor of some of the mostpopularseriesofthepasttwodecades – the Alex Cross,Women’s Murder Club,Detective Michael Bennettand Private novels – and hehas written many other
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number one bestsellersincludingromancenovelsandstand-alone thrillers.He livesin Florida with his wife andson.
James is passionate aboutencouragingchildren to read.Inspiredbyhisownsonwhowasareluctantreader,healsowrites a range of booksspecifically for youngreaders. James is a foundingpartner of Booktrust’s
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Children’s Reading Fund intheUK.
HOWARDROUGHAN hasco-writtenseveralbookswithJames Patterson and is theauthor of The Promise of aLie and The Up and Comer.He lives in Florida with hiswifeandson.
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AlsobyJamesPatterson
STAND-ALONETHRILLERS
Sail(withHowardRoughan)Swimsuit(withMaxine
Paetro)
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Don’tBlink(withHowardRoughan)
PostcardKillers(withLizaMarklund)
Toys(withNeilMcMahon)NowYouSeeHer(withMichaelLedwidge)
KillMeIfYouCan(withMarshallKarp)
GuiltyWives(withDavidEllis)
Zoo(withMichaelLedwidge)SecondHoneymoon(with
HowardRoughan)
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Mistress(withDavidEllis)Invisible(withDavidEllis)TheThomasBerryman
NumberMurderHouse(withDavidEllis,tobepublishedJuly
2015)
ALEXCROSSNOVELS
AlongCameaSpiderKisstheGirlsJackandJill
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CatandMousePopGoestheWeasel
RosesareRedVioletsareBlueFourBlindMiceTheBigBadWolfLondonBridgesMary,Mary
CrossDoubleCrossCrossCountry
AlexCross’sTrial(withRichardDiLallo)I,AlexCross
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CrossFireKillAlexCross
MerryChristmas,AlexCrossAlexCross,RunCrossMyHeartHopetoDie
THEWOMEN’SMURDERCLUBSERIES
1sttoDie2ndChance(withAndrew
Gross)
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3rdDegree(withAndrewGross)
4thofJuly(withMaxinePaetro)
The5thHorseman(withMaxinePaetro)
The6thTarget(withMaxinePaetro)
7thHeaven(withMaxinePaetro)
8thConfession(withMaxinePaetro)
9thJudgement(withMaxinePaetro)
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10thAnniversary(withMaxinePaetro)
11thHour(withMaxinePaetro)
12thofNever(withMaxinePaetro)
Unlucky13(withMaxinePaetro)
14thDeadlySin(withMaxinePaetro)
DETECTIVEMICHAELBENNETTSERIES
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SteponaCrack(withMichaelLedwidge)
RunforYourLife(withMichaelLedwidge)
WorstCase(withMichaelLedwidge)
TickTock(withMichaelLedwidge)
I,MichaelBennett(withMichaelLedwidge)Gone(withMichael
Ledwidge)
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Burn(withMichaelLedwidge)
Alert(withMichaelLedwidge,tobepublished
September2015)
PRIVATENOVELS
Private(withMaxinePaetro)PrivateLondon(withMark
Pearson)PrivateGames(withMark
Sullivan)
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Private:No.1Suspect(withMaxinePaetro)
PrivateBerlin(withMarkSullivan)
PrivateDownUnder(withMichaelWhite)
PrivateL.A.(withMarkSullivan)
PrivateIndia(withAshwinSanghi)
PrivateVegas(withMaxinePaetro)
PrivateSydney(withKathrynFox,tobepublishedAugust
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2015)
NYPDREDSERIES
NYPDRed(withMarshallKarp)
NYPDRed2(withMarshallKarp)
NYPDRed3(withMarshallKarp)
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NON-FICTION
TornApart(withHalandCoryFriedman)
TheMurderofKingTut(withMartinDugard)
ROMANCE
SundaysatTiffany’s(withGabrielleCharbonnet)
TheChristmasWedding(withRichardDiLallo)
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FirstLove(withEmilyRaymond)
OTHERTITLES
MiracleatAugusta(withPeterdeJonge)
FAMILYOFPAGE-TURNERS
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MIDDLESCHOOLBOOKS
MiddleSchool:TheWorstYearsofMyLife(withChris
Tebbetts)MiddleSchool:GetMeOut
ofHere!(withChrisTebbetts)
MiddleSchool:MyBrotherIsaBig,FatLiar(withLisa
Papademetriou)MiddleSchool:HowI
SurvivedBullies,Broccoli,
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andSnakeHill(withChrisTebbetts)
MiddleSchool:UltimateShowdown(withJulia
Bergen)MiddleSchool:SaveRafe!
(withChrisTebbetts)
IFUNNYSERIES
IFunny(withChrisGrabenstein)
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IEvenFunnier(withChrisGrabenstein)
ITotallyFunniest(withChrisGrabenstein)
TREASUREHUNTERSSERIES
TreasureHunters(withChrisGrabenstein)
TreasureHunters:DangerDowntheNile(withChris
Grabenstein)
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HOUSEOFROBOTS
HouseofRobots(withChrisGrabenstein)
KENNYWRIGHT
KennyWright:Superhero(withChrisTebbetts)
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HOMEROOMDIARIES
HomeroomDiaries(withLisaPapademetriou)
MAXIMUMRIDESERIES
TheAngelExperimentSchool’sOutForever
SavingtheWorldandOtherExtremeSports
TheFinalWarningMax
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FangAngel
NevermoreForever(tobepublishedMay
2015)
CONFESSIONSSERIES
ConfessionsofaMurderSuspect(withMaxinePaetro)Confessions:ThePrivate
SchoolMurders(withMaxinePaetro)
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Confessions:TheParisMysteries(withMaxine
Paetro)
WITCH&WIZARDSERIES
Witch&Wizard(withGabrielleCharbonnet)TheGift(withNedRust)
TheFire(withJillDembowski)
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TheKiss(withJillDembowski)
TheLost(withEmilyRaymond)
DANIELXSERIES
TheDangerousDaysofDanielX(withMichael
Ledwidge)WatchtheSkies(withNed
Rust)
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DemonsandDruids(withAdamSadler)
GameOver(withNedRust)Armageddon(withChris
Grabenstein)LightsOut(withChris
Grabenstein)
GRAPHICNOVELS
DanielX:AlienHunter(withLeopoldoGout)
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MaximumRide:MangaVols.1–8(withNaRaeLee)
FormoreinformationaboutJamesPatterson’snovels,
visitwww.jamespatterson.co.uk
OrbecomeafanonFacebook
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ForDr.SusanBoulwareandGailPond
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PROLOGUE
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OLDHABITSDIEHARD
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ONE
ATPRECISELY5:15everymorning,sevendaysaweek,Dr.StephenHellermanemergedfromhismodestbrickcolonialinthebucolictownofSilverSpring,Maryland,andjoggedsixmiles.Six-point-twomiles,tobeexact.
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DependingonwhetheritwasDaylightSavingTimeornot,itwaseitherstilldarkorjustdawnashefirststretchedhiscalvesagainstthetalloakshadingmostofhisfrontyard,butnomatterwhattheseason,Dr.Hellerman,anacclaimedneurologistatMercyHospitalinnearbyLangley,rarelysawanotherhumanbeingfromstarttofinishofhisrun.
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Thatwasexactlyhowhewantedit.Althoughhe’dneverbeen
married,datedsparingly,andsocializedwithfriendsevenless,itwasn’tthattheforty-eight-year-olddoctordidn’tlikepeople;hesimplylikedbeingalonebetter.Beingalonemeantneverbeingtemptedtotellsomeoneyoursecrets.AndDr.StephenHellermanhadalotofsecrets.
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Abrand-newone,inparticular.Arealdandy.Takinghiscustomaryleft
turnoutofhisdriveway,headingnorthonKnollStreet,HellermanthenhungarightontoBishopLane,whichcurvedabitbeforefeedingintothestraightshootofRoute9thathuggedthetown’sreservoir.Fromthereitwasnothingbutwateronhisleft,densetreesonhisright,andtheweatheredgray
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asphaltbeneathhisNikeFlyknitRacers.Hellermanlikedthesound
theshoesmadeasheran,theconsistentthomp-thomp-thomp-thompthatmeasuredoffhisstrideslikeametronome.Morethanthat,helikedthefactthathecouldfocusonthatsoundtotheexclusionofeverythingelse.Thatwastherealbeautyofhisdailyrun,thewayit
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alwaysseemedtoclearhismindlikeagiantsqueegee.Buttherewassomething
differentaboutthisparticularmorning,andHellermanrealizeditevenbeforethefirstbeadsofsweatbegantodottheedgeofhisthickhairline.Thethomp-thomp-thomp-
thompwasn’tworking.Thisnewsecretofhis—
lessthantwelvehoursold—wasunlikealltheothers
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encryptedinsidehishead,nevertoberevealed.ThefactsthatHellermanmoonlightedfortheCIA,waspaidthroughanoffshorenumberedaccount,andengagedinresearchthatnomedicalboardwouldeverapproveweresecretsofhisownchoosing.Decisionshe’dmade.Dealshe’dcutwithhisownconscienceinaMachiavelliantrade-offsobigthatitwouldgarnerits
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ownwingintheRationalizationHallofFame.Butthisnewsecret?This
onewasdifferent.Itdidn’tbelongtohim.Itwasn’thistokeep.Andtryashedid,there
simplywasn’tenoughthomp-thomp-thomp-thompintheworldtolethimpushthatthoughtoutofhishead,evenifonlyforanhour.Still,Hellermankept
runningthatmorning,just
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likeeverymorningbeforeit.Thatwaswhathedid.Thatwastheroutine.Thehabit.Six-point-twomiles,everydayoftheweek.Thesamestretchofroadseverytime.Suddenly,though,
Hellermanstopped.Ifhehadn’t,hewould’ve
runstraightintoit.
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TWO
AWHITEvanwasparkedalongthesideofRoute9withitshoodopen,thedriverhunchedovertheengine,whichwashissingsteam.HehadhisbackturnedtoHellerman.Hehadn’theardhimapproaching.
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“Dammit!”theguyyelled,pullingbackhishandinpain.Whateverhe’dtouchedontheenginewaswaytoohot.Asifthesteamweren’tagiveaway.“Youokay?”asked
Hellerman.Theguyturnedwithalook
ofsurprisetoseehewasn’talone.“Oh,hey,”hesaid.“Yeah,I’mfine,thanks.WishIcouldsaythesameforthispieceofshitvan,though.”
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“Overheated,huh?”“Ithinkthecoolantlinehas
aleak.Thiswatershouldatleastgetmethroughmyroute,”theguysaid,pointingtoabottleofPolandSpringperchedontopofthegrille.Hesmiled.“Unless,ofcourse,you’reamechanic.”“No,justahumbledoctor,”
saidHellerman.“Oh,yeah?Whatkind?”“Neurologist.”
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“Abraindoctor,huh?I’venevermetoneofthosebefore.”Theguypouredsomewaterontheradiatorcaptocoolitdownbeforegivingitasecondgo.“Myname’sEddie,”hesaid.“Stephen.”HellermanshookEddie’s
handandwatchedasheemptiedthePolandSpringintotheradiator.Helookedprettyyoung,thirtyish.Goodshape,too.Hellerman,asan
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MDandarunningfanatic,tendedtonoticesuchthings.Anytimehefirstmetsomeone,theywereimmediatelyclassifiedaseither“fit”or“unfit.”Eddiewasfit.“Yeah,thatoughtadoit,”
saidEddie,rescrewingtheradiatorcap.Meanwhile,Hellerman
glancedatthesideofthewhitevan.Therewasnologo,nomarkingofanykind.
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Eddie,nonetheless,wasdressedinmatchinggrayshortsandatucked-inpolo,muchlikeadriverforFedExorUPS.“Youmentionedhavinga
route,”saidHellerman.“Areyouadeliveryman,Eddie?”Eddiesmiledagain.
“Somethinglikethat,”hesaidbeforeslammingthehood.“Butmyrealspecialty,Dr.Hellerman,ispickups.”
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Hellerman’stoestwitchedinsidehisFlyknitRacers.Nevermindthathehadn’ttoldEddiehislastname.Justthewaytheguydeliveredtheline—hell,thelineitself—wasenoughtosetoffeverywarningbellinhishead.Myrealspecialtyis
pickups?Thatcouldonlymeanonething,thoughtHellerman.Hewasthepackage.
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Thesoundheheardnextonlyconfirmedit.Itwasthevan’ssidedoorslidingopen.Eddiewasn’talone.Outcameaguywho
could’vebeenEddie’sbrother,ifnothisclone.Sameage,justasfit.Theonemajordifference?Thegunhewasholding.“Youknow,”saidtheguy,
aimingatHellerman’schest,“oneofthefirstthingsyoulearninfieldtrainingisthat
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theonlyhabityoushouldhaveistohavenohabits.Younevereatlunchatthesamerestaurant,youdon’thaveafavoriteparkbench…andfortheloveofstupidity,youneverjogeverydayatthesametimealongthesameroute.But,ofcourse,you’renotactuallyafieldagent,Dr.Hellerman,areyou?You’rejustacivilianrecruit.”Hemotionedtothevan.“Getin.”
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IttookHellermanallofonesecondtoconsiderhisoptions.Thereweren’tany.None,atleast,thatdidn’tendwithhistakingabullet.Sointothewindowlessvan
hewent.Itwasemptyintheback.Savenowforhim.“Wherearewegoing?”heasked.“Thatdepends,”saidthe
onewiththegun.“Canyoukeepasecret?”
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HeletgowithaloudlaughthatimmediatelybecamethemostannoyingandterrifyingnoiseHellermanhadeverheardinhislife.Evenaftertheslidingdoorwasclosedinhisface,hecouldstillhearitloudandclear.Until.Pop!Pop-pop!Itsoundedlike
firecrackers,butHellermanknewthatwasn’twhatitwas.Thoseweredefinitelygunshots.Threeofthem.
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Whatthehell…?
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THREE
THEONEwiththegunwasn’ttheonlyonewithagun.BeforeHellermancould
evenbegintofigureoutwhathadhappenedoutsidethevan,Eddieopenedthedriver’ssidedoorandquicklyclimbedbehindthewheel.He
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slidhisBerettaM9intooneofthecupholderssocasuallyitcould’vebeenagrandemochafromStarbucks.“You’resafenow,”he
said,startingtheengine.“Butweneedtogetoutofhere.Fast.”“Eddie,whoareyou?”
askedHellerman.“Myname’snotEddie,”he
said,shiftingintodriveandpunchingthegassimultaneously.
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Thetiresscreeched,kickingupgravelfromthesideoftheroad,asHellermanfranticallygrabbedthebackoftheshotgunseattoholdon.Ashewatchedthespeedometerhitforty,thenfifty,thensixty,hewaitedforNotEddietoelaborate,butnothingcame.“Inthatcase,whowasthat
withyou?”Hellermanasked.“He’stheguywhowas
goingtokillyou,”NotEddie
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answered.“Rightafterhegotwhathewanted.”“Whichiswhat?”“Youtellme.”Oddlyenough,Hellerman
knewexactlywhatNotEddiemeant.Thiswasallabouthisnewsecret,ithadtobe.“Arewetalkingaboutthekid?”“Yes,exactly…thekid.
Whereishe?Weneedtogettohimbeforetheydo.”Thespeedometerwas
pushingseventynow.The
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postedspeedlimitonRoute9wasthirty-five.“Waitasecond,”said
Hellerman.Hewasbacktofull-blownconfused.“Who’sthey?”“Theoneswhodeveloped
theserum.That’swhatthekidtoldyouabout,right?That’swhatheuncovered.Theserum.”“Howdoyouknow?”Finally,NotEddiewas
readytoexplain.“I’mFBI,”
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hesaid.HadHellermanactually
beensittinginaseat,hewould’vefallenoutofit.Hecouldn’tbelievewhathewashearing.“You’retellingmetheFBIhasanagentworkingundercoverintheCIA?”“Someonehastokeep
theminline.”“Bykillingoneofthem?”“Itwaseitheryouorhim,
soIthinkthewordsyou’re
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reallylookingforare‘thankyou.’”“I’msorry,”said
Hellerman.“Thankyou.”“You’rewelcome.Butnow
you’vegottohelpme,”NotEddiesaid.“Whereishe?Becausewecan’tprotecthimifwedon’tknowwhereheis.”Hellermancouldn’targue
withthelogic.Afterall,hewaslivingproofofit.Mr.NotEddie—orwhateverhis
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realnamewas—hadjustsavedhislife.Sohetoldhimwhathe
knew,thatthekidhadtravelplans.“Areyousure?”“Yes,”saidHellerman.“Andwhatdidhewantyou
todo?”“Spillthebeansinternally.
Laterthismorning,I’msupposedtomeetwiththeassistantdirector.”
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NotEddie,whoserealnamewasGordon,glancedbackatHellermanintherearviewmirror.“Thanks,”hesaidwithanod.“Iappreciateyourtellingmethetruth.”“AsdoI,”saidHellerman.“Yeah,aboutthat…
there’ssomethingelseIneedtotellyou.”“What’sthat?”Gordonpulledofftheroad
withasharptugonthewheel.HeturnedbacktoHellerman
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andshrugged.“ThatstuffaboutmeworkingfortheFBI?Ilied.”Andjustlikethat,without
theslightesthesitation,hereachedforhisgrandemochaBerettaM9andshotHellermaninthehead.Thenheturnedthevan
aroundandwentbacktopickuphispartner,whomhehadn’treallykilled.Thatwasalie,too.
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BOOKONE
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WHATTHETRUTHKNOWS
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CHAPTER1
HADITbeenanyoneelse,anyotherwoman,themomentmighthaveregisteredupwardofa7.6ontheEmasculationScale,orwhatevernumberittakestorattleaman’sself-confidenceuntilhecrumbles.
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Butthiswasn’tanyotherwoman.ThiswasClaire.“What’ssofunny?”I
asked.Rightinthemiddleofour
havingsex,she’dburstoutlaughing.Imean,reallylaughing.Thewholebedwasshaking.“I’msorry,”Clairesaid,
tryingtostop.Thatjustmadeherlaughharderanddothatlittlecrinklethingwithhernosethatinaweirdand
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wonderfulwayalwaysmadeherlookevenprettier.“Damn,it’sthesex,isn’t
it?I’mdoingitallwrongagain,”Ijoked.Atleast,IhopedIwasjoking.AsIproppedanelbowon
themattress,shefinallyexplained.“Iwasjustrememberingthattimewhenyou—”“Really?”Isaid,
immediatelycuttingheroff.
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“That’swhatyouwerethinkingabout?”Therewasacertain
somethingsimpaticobetweenClaireandmethatallowedeachofustoknowwhattheotherwasabouttosayordo,basedonnothingmorethanoursharedhistory.Fortherecord,thathistorywastwoyearsofofficiallydating,followedbythepasttwoyears,duringwhichwewerejustfriends(withbenefits)
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becauseourrespectivecareershadputamajorstrainontheofficiallydatingthing.Oddlyenough—ormaybe
not—we’dneverbeenhappiertogether.Clairewrappedherarms
aroundme,smiling.“Justsoyouknow,Ialwaysthoughtitwascute,”shesaid.“Endearing,even.”“Andjustsoyouknow,it
happenedoverthreeyears
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agoandI’mprettysureIwasdrunk.”“Youweren’tdrunk,”she
said.“Okay,butitwasdefinitely
overthreeyearsago.Shouldn’ttherebesomekindofstatuteoflimitations?”“Onaman’sfirstattempt
totalkdirtyinbed?Idon’tthinkso.”“Howdoyouknowitwas
myfirsttime?”
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Sheshotmeadeadpanlook.“IwanttospankyoulikeSantaClaus?”Allright,shehadmethere.“Fairenough,”Isaid.
“Rookiemistake.Inmydefense,though,itwasrightbeforeChristmas.”“Ofcourse,”saidClaire,
“becausethat’sthefirstruleoftalkingdirtyinbed.Keepittopical.”“Okay,nowyou’rejust
mockingme.”
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“No,I’mprettysureIwasmockingyoubeforethat,”shesaid.“Tellyouwhat,though,I’mwillingtogiveyouasecondchance.”“Noway.”“Whynot?”“CharlieBrownandthe
football,that’swhy,”Isaid.“IpromiseIwon’tlaugh
thistime.”“Surething,Lucy.”“No,really.”Clairelifted
herheadoffthepillow,
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gentlykissingmylowerlip.“Let’sseewhatyou’vegot,Mr.Mann.”Istaredather,waitingfor
hertosayshewasonlykidding.Callingmebymylastnamewassometimesatip-off.Notthistime,though.“You’restalling,”she
insisted.“No,juststumped.Nota
lotofholidaysinJune.”Clairechuckled,playing
along.Shealwaysplayed
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along.“You’vegotFlagDaynextweek,”shesaid.“Maybesomethingaboutyourpole?”“Veryfunny.”“Speakingofhalf-mast,
though.”Iglanceddownbeneaththe
sheets.“Well,whosefaultisthat?”Clairesuddenlygrabbed
mybackside,rollingmelikeakayak.NextthingIknew,shewasontopandpushing
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herlongauburnhairbackfromhereyes.“Sometimesitjusttakesa
woman,”shesaid.Shethenleaneddownto
myearandwhisperedarequestthatwaseasilythedirtiestthingI’deverheardhersay.Justfilthy.X-rated.Obscene.AndIlovedit.ButbeforeIcouldshow
herjusthowmuch,weboth
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frozetoahorriblesoundfillingtheroom.NowIreallycouldn’t
believemyears.
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CHAPTER2
CLAIREUNATTACHEDherselffromme,forlackofamoredelicatewaytodescribeit,andreachedfor“theStopper”onmybedsidetable.Thatwasmynicknameforit.Whenitrang,everythingelsestopped.
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“I’msorry,”shesaidbeforetakingthecall.“Youandmeboth,”Isaid
undermybreath.Inall,Claireownedthree
cellphones.Thefirst,heriPhone,wasforpersonaluse.Friendsandfamily.Thesecond,aBlackBerry,
wasforwork.ClaireS.Parker,asherbylineread,wasanationalaffairsreporterfortheNewYorkTimes.
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Herthirdphone,anoldMotorola,wasalsoforwork.Exceptthisphoneanditsnumberwereforaverysmallandselectgroup.Hersources.Whichwasanotherreason
whytheStopperwasagoodnameforthisphone.Theidentityofthesesourcesstoppedwithher,cold,endofstory.Nothereditor,nottheexecutiveeditor,notevenJudgeReginaldMcCabehad
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everbeentoldthenameofasinglesourceofClaire’s.Asfarasthatlastguy,
JudgeMcCabeoftheUnitedStatesDistrictCourt,wasconcerned,hewentsofarastochargeClairewithcontemptwhensherefusedtoidentifyasourceafterbeingsubpoenaedinacriminalhomicidecaseinvolvinganAmericanmilitaryattachéassignedtotheUN.Thatgotherthirty-sixdaysandnights
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attheTaconicCorrectionalFacilityinBedfordHills,NewYork.Ihavetosay,sherockedtheorangejumpsuittheymadeherwear.“Hello?”Claireanswered.Theunwrittengroundrules
forwhenshetookthesecallsweresimple.IfIhadbeenatherplacedowntown,I’dhavegottenupandgivenhersomeprivacy.Sincewewereatmyplace,though,Ihadsquatter’srights.Ifsheneededprivacy,
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she’dbetheoneleavingthebedroom.Butsheremainedsitting
thereontheedgeofthebed.Naked,noless.Shelistenedforafew
moments,thebeat-upoldflipphonepressedtightagainstherear.Then,hervoicehigh-pitchedwithsurprise,sheasked,“Wait,you’rehereinthecity?”Quickly,shebegantappingherthumbandforefingertogether,twisting
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herwristintheair.IfI’dbeenawaiterinarestaurant,Iwould’vebeenbringingherthecheck.ButIknewwhatsheactuallywanted.Ileanedovertothebedside
tableclosesttome,pullingoutthedrawer.Afterhandingherapen,IwasabouttoofferupsomepaperwhenIsawherreachforayellowlegalpadthatwassittingatopatallstackofbooksonthefloor,alsoknownasmyto-read
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pile.Mostlybiographies.Somehistoricalfictionmixedinaswell.AsClairescribbled
somethingonthepad,Istaredatthefrecklesonthecurveofhershoulders,hundredsofthem.MyeyesdrifteddownherspineandIsmiled,thinkingofthetripwetooktoBlockIslandafewsummersago,whenIrubbedsuntanlotiononherbikiniedbackandsneakilyleftbareasmall
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stretchofrealestatespellingoutmyinitials,TM.“TrevorMann!”she
screamedlaterthatafternoonwhenshecaughtaglimpseinthemirrorasshesteppedoutoftheshower.Afterdeliveringapunchtomyshoulder—withmorewallopthanherthinframewouldeverhavesuggested—shebrokeuplaughing.“I’vebeentrademarked!”
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Evennow,squintingabitinthedimnessofmybedroom,IcouldstillsortofseemostoftheTandsomeoftheM.OrsoI’dconvincedmyself.“Okay,don’tgo
anywhere,”Clairesaidintothephone.Damn.Iwashopingshe’dhang
up,turnaround,andsay,“Now,wherewerewe?”butIknewthatwasbeyond
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wishfulthinking.Bythetimeshelookedbackatmeoverhershoulderandallthosefreckles,Ialreadyknew.“Youhavetogo,don’t
you?”Isaid.Sheleanedoverandkissed
me.“I’msorry.”Thosesameunwritten
groundruleshaditthatIwasn’tsupposedtopry.ButasIwatchedherdress,andsawthebounceinherstep,Icouldn’thelpmyself.
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“You’vegotsomething,don’tyou?”Iasked.“Somethinggood.”Shenoddedwithatouchof
giddiness.Istaredather,waitingfor
something,anythingthathintedatwhatitmightbe.Imusthavelookedlikeadogsittingattheedgeofthedinnertable,silentlybeggingforscraps.“Iknow,”shesaidfinally.
“Butwehavetokeepsome
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mysterybetweenus,don’twe?”Buttoningthelastbutton
onhernavy-blueblouse,shereturnedtothesideofthebedandkissedmeonelasttimebeforeleaving.“Callmeinthemorning,”I
said.Shesmiled.“Promise.”Alittleovertwohours
later,Iwasjoltedawakebythesoundofmyphone.Itwasjustshyofonea.m.
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Claire’soldersisterwascallingfromBoston.Shewascryingandcouldn’tgetthewordsout.Shedidn’thaveto.ItwasasifIknewthesecondIpickedupthephone.TherewasacertainsomethingsimpaticobetweenClaireandme.Somethingterriblehad
happened.
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CHAPTER3
DETECTIVEDAVELamontshookmyhandfirmlyinthefrontwaitingareaoftheMidtownNorthPrecinctonWestFifty-FourthStreetandledmeupstairstothefarbackcornerofasquadroomthatwasemptyandsilent,save
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forthebaritonehumofthefluorescentlightingoverhead.“Haveaseat,”hesaid,
pointingtoafoldingmetalchairinfrontofhisdesk.“Youwantsomecoffee?”“No,I’mokay.Thanks.”Hegrabbedamugwitha
fadedNewYorkGiantslogoonitthatwassittingontopofsomeoverstuffedfolders.“I’llberightback.”Iwatchedhimashe
walkedoff.Lamontwasatall
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man,filledoutbyage,butstillwithabuildthatsuggestedadegreeofathleticismsomewhereinhispast.GiventheGiantsmug,Iwasthinkingtherewasprobablyanoldhighschoolyearbookouttherewiththewordlinebackernexttohisname.Claireonceshowedmeher
highschoolyearbook.HerseniorquotewasfromAndrewMarvell:“Hadwe
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butworldenoughandtime…”Christ,thisisreally
happening,isn’tit?She’sreallygone.Justlikethat.Ifeelnumb.No,that’snotright.Ifeeleverything.Andit’shurtinglikehell.Claire’ssister,Ellen,had
givenmeDetectiveLamont’snameandnumber.He’dmadethecalltoherupinBoston,breakingthenews.
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Iwasn’tnextofkin,husbandorfiancé,oreventhelastpersontoseeClairealive,butwhenI’dtoldLamontmynameoverthephoneI’dbeenprettysurehe’dagreetoseemerightaway.“YouwerethatADA,
weren’tyou?”heasked.“Yeah,thatwasme,”I
answered.Me,asinthatformer
Manhattanassistantdistrictattorney.BackwhenIplayed
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forthehometeam.BeforeIchangedjerseys.BeforeIgotdisbarred.Iknewheknewthestory.
Mosteverycopinthecitydid,atleasttheveterans.Itwasthekindofstorytheywouldn’tforget.Lamontcamebacknow
andsatbehindhisdeskwithafullmugofcoffee.HetookasipashepulledClaire’sfileinfrontofhim,thesteammomentarilyfoggingthe
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bottomhalfofhisdrugstore-varietyglasses.Thenheshookhishead
slowlyandsimplystaredatmeforamoment,unblinking.“Fuckin’random,”hesaid
finally.Inoddedasheflippedopen
thefiletohisnotesinanticipationofmyquestions.Ihadalotofthem.Christ.Thepainisonly
goingtogetworse,isn’tit?
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CHAPTER4
“WHEREEXACTLYdidithappen?”Iasked.“WestEndAvenueat
Seventy-Third.Thetaxiwasstoppedataredlight,”saidLamont.“Theassailantsmashedthedriver’ssidewindow,pistol-whippedthedriveruntilhewasknocked
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outcold,andgrabbedhismoneybag.HethenrobbedMs.Parkeratgunpoint.”“Claire,”Isaid.“Excuseme?”“PleasecallherClaire.”Iknewitwasaweirdthing
formetosay,butweirderstillwashearingLamontrefertoClaireasMs.Parker,notthatIblamedhim.VictimsarealwaysMr.,Mrs.,orMs.foradetective.Hewassupposedto
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callherthat.Ijustwasn’treadytohearit.“Iapologize,”Isaid.“It’s
justthat—”“Don’tworryaboutit,”he
saidwitharaisedpalm.Heunderstood.Hegotit.“Sowhathappenednext?”
Iasked.“Whatwentwrong?”“We’renotsure,exactly.
Bestwecantell,shefullycooperated,didn’tputupafight.”
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Thatmadesense.Clairemighthavebeenyourprototypical“tough”NewYorker,butshewasalsonofool.Shedidn’townanythingshe’driskherlifetokeep.Doesanyone?No,shedefinitelyknewthe
drill.Neverbeastatistic.Ifyourtaxigetsjacked,youdoexactlyastold.“Andyousaidthedriver
wasknockedout¸right?He
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didn’thearanything?”Iasked.“Noteventhegunshots,”
saidLamont.“Infact,hedidn’tactuallyregainconsciousnessuntilafterthefirsttwoofficersarrivedatthescene.”“Whocalleditin?”“Anoldercouplewalking
nearby.”“Whatdidtheysee?”“Theshooterrunningback
tohiscar,whichwasbehind
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thetaxi.Theywerethirtyorfortyyardsaway;theydidn’tgetagoodlook.”“Anyotherwitnesses?”“You’dthink,butno.Then
again,residentialblock…aftermidnight,”hesaid.“We’llobviouslyfollowupintheareatomorrow.Talktothedriver,too.HewastakentoSt.Luke’sbeforewearrived.”Ileanedbackinmychair,a
metalhingesomewhere
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belowtheseatcreakingitsage.ImusthavehadadozenmorequestionsforLamont,eachonetryingtogetmethatmuchclosertobeinginthetaxiwithClaire,toknowingwhathadreallyhappened.Toknowingwhetherornot
ittrulywas…fuckin’random.ButIwasn’tfooling
anyone.NotLamont,andespeciallynotmyself.AllIwasdoingwas
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procrastinating,tryinghopelesslytoavoidaskingtheonequestionIwastrulydreading.Icouldn’tavoiditany
longer.
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CHAPTER5
“FORTHErecord,youwereneverinhere,”saidLamont,pausingatacloseddoortowardthebackcorneroftheprecincthouse.Istaredathimblanklyasif
Iweresomechronicsuffererofshort-termmemoryloss.“Inwhere?”Iasked.
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Hesmirked.Thenheopenedthedoor.ThewindowlessroomI
followedhimintowasonlyslightlybiggerthanclaustrophobic.Afterclosingthedoorbehindus,Lamontintroducedmetohispartner,DetectiveMikeMcGeary,whowasatthehelmofwhatlookedlikeoneofthosevideoarcadegameswhereyousitinacaptain’schairshootingatalienspaceshipsonalarge
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screen.Hewasevenholdingwhatlookedlikeajoystick.McGeary,square-jawed
andbald,gaveLamontasidewaysglancethatallbutscreamed,Whatthehellishedoinginhere?“Mr.Mannwasaclose
acquaintanceofthevictim,”saidLamont.Headdedaslightemphasisonmylastname,asiftojoghispartner’smemory.
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McGearystudiedmeinthedimlightoftheroomuntilheputmyfaceandnametogether.PerhapshewasrememberingthecoveroftheNewYorkPostacoupleofyearsback.AnHonestMann,readtheheadline.“Yeah,fine,”McGeary
saidfinally.Itwasn’texactlyaringing
endorsement,butitwasenoughtoconsidertheissueofmybeingthereresolved.I
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couldstay.Icouldseetherecording.Icouldwatch,frameby
frame,themurderofthewomanIloved.Lamonthadn’thadtotell
metherewasasurveillancecamerainthetaxi.I’dknownrightaway,givenhowhe’ddescribedtheshootingoverthephone,someofthedetailshehad.Therewerelittlethingsnoeyewitnessescould
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everprovide.Hadtherebeenanyeyewitnesses,thatis.Lamontremovedhis
glasses,wearilypinchingthebridgeofhisnose.Nooneevertrulygetsusedtothegraveyardshift.“Anymatchessofar?”heaskedhispartner.McGearyshookhishead.Iglancedatthelarge
monitor,whichhadshiftedintoscreensavermode,anNYPDlogofloatingabout.
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Lamont,Icouldtell,waswaitingformetoaskhimaboutthespace-ageconsole,thereasonIwasn’tsupposedtobeintheroom.Themachineobviouslydidalittlemorethanjustdigitalplayback.ButIdidn’task.Ialready
knew.I’msurethethinghadan
officialname,somethingultra-high-techsounding,butbackwhenIwasintheDA’s
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officeI’donlyeverhearditreferredtobyitsnickname,CrackerJack.Whatitdidwascombineeveryknownrecognitionsoftwareprogramintoonegiantcross-referencing“decoder”thatwaslinkedtopracticallyeverycriminaldatabaseinthecountry,aswellasthosefromtwenty-threeothercountries,orbasicallyallofourofficialalliesinthe“waronterror.”
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Inshort,givenanyimageatanyangleofanysuspectedterrorist,CrackerJackcouldsourcealitanyofidentifyingcharacteristics,beitanexposedmoleortattoo;theexactmeasurementsbetweenthesuspect’seyes,ears,nose,andmouth;orevenapieceofjewelry.Clothing,too.Apparently,foralltheprecautionsterroriststakeintheirplanning,itrarelyoccurstothemthatwearingthesame
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polyestershirtinLondon,Cairo,andIslamabadmightbeabadidea.Ofcourse,itdidn’ttake
longforlawenforcementinmajorcities—whereCrackerJackswereheavilydeployedbytheDepartmentofHomelandSecurity—torealizethatthesemachinesdidn’thavetoidentifyjustterrorists.Anyonewithacriminalrecordwasfairgame.
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SoherewasMcGearygoingthroughtherecordingsentoverbytheNewYorkTaxi&LimousineCommissiontoseeifanyimageoftheshootertriggeredamatch.Andherewasme,havingaskedifIcouldwatchit,too.“Mike,cueitupfromthe
beginning,willyou?”saidLamont.McGearypunchedabutton
andthenanotheruntilthe
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screenlitupwiththefirstframe,thetaxihavingpulledovertopickClaireup.Theimagewasgrainy,black-and-white,likeonanoldtubetelevisionwithasetofrabbitears.ButwhatlittleIcouldseewasstillwaytoomuch.ItwasexactlyasLamont
haddescribedit.Theshootersmashesthedriver’ssidewindow,beatingthedriversenselesswiththebuttofhisgun.He’swearingadark
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turtleneckandaskimaskwithholesfortheeyes,nose,andmouth.Hisglovesaretight,likethoseIsotonersthatO.J.Simpsonpretendeddidn’tfit.Sofar,Claireisbarely
visible.NotoncecanIseeherface.ThenIdo.It’srightaftertheshooter
snatchesthedriver’smoneybag.Heswingshisgun,aimingitatClaireinthebackseat.Shejolts.There’s
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noPlexiglasdivider.There’snothingbutair.Presumably,hesays
somethingtoher,butthebackofhisheadistowardthecamera.Claireoffersupherpurse.Hetakesitandshesayssomething.Iwasneveranygoodatreadinglips.Heshouldbeleaving.
Runningaway.Instead,heswingsoutandaround,openingthereardoor.He’soutofframefornomorethan
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threeseconds.ThenallIseeishisoutstretchedarm.Andthefearinhereyes.Hefirestwoshotsatpoint-
blankrange.Didhepanic?Notenoughtofleerightaway.Quickly,herifflesthroughherpockets,andthentearsoffherearrings,followedbyherwatch,theRolexMilgaussIgaveherforherthirtiethbirthday.Hedumpseverythinginherpurseandtakesoff.
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“Waitaminute,”Isaidsuddenly.“Gobackalittlebit.”
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CHAPTER6
LAMONTANDMcGearybothturnedtome,theireyesaskingifIwascrazy.Youwanttowatchherbeingmurderedasecondtime?No,Ididn’t.Notachance.Watchingitthefirsttime
mademesonauseousIthoughtI’dthrowupright
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thereonthefloor.Iwantedthatrecordingerased,deleted,destroyedforalleternitynottwosecondsafteritwasusedtocatchthegoddamnsonofabitchwho’ddonethis.ThenIwantedalong,dark
alleyinthedeadofnightwhereheandIcouldhavealittletimealonetogether.Yeah.That’swhatIwanted.ButIthoughtIsaw
something.
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Upuntilthatmoment,Ihadn’tknownwhatIwaslookingforintherecording,ifanything.IfClairehadbeenstandingnexttome,she,withherloveoflandmarkSupremeCourtcases,would’vedescribeditasthedefinitionofpornographyaccordingtoJusticePotterStewartinJacobellisv.Ohio.IknowitwhenIseeit.She’dalwaysadmiredthe
simplicityofthat.Not
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everythingthat’struehastobeproven,sheusedtosay.“Whereto?”asked
McGeary,hishandhoveringoveraknobthatcouldrewindframebyframe,ifneedbe.“Justafterhebeatsthe
driver,”Isaid.Henodded.“Saywhen.”Iwatchedthesped-up
images,everythinghappeninginreverse.IfonlyIcouldreverseitallforreal.Iwaswaitingforthepartwhenthe
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gunwasturnedonClaire.Afewmomentsbeforethat,actually.“Stop,”Isaid.“Right
there.”McGearyhitPlayagain
andIleanedin,myeyesgluedtothescreen.Meanwhile,IcouldfeelLamont’seyesgluedtomyprofile,asifhecouldsomehowbetterseewhatIwaslookingforbywatchingme.
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“Whatisit?”heeventuallyasked.Isteppedback,shakingmy
headasifdisappointed.“Nothing,”Isaid.“Itwasn’tanything.”Becausethat’sexactly
whatClairewould’vewantedmetosay.Alittlewhitelieforthegreatergood,shewould’vecalledit.Shewasalwaysaquick
thinker,rightupuntiltheend.
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CHAPTER7
NOWAYinhelldidIfeelliketakingataxihome.Infact,Ididn’tfeellike
goinghomeatall.Inmymind,I’dalreadyputmyapartmentonthemarket,packedupallmybelongings,andmovedtoanotherneighborhood,maybeeven
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outofManhattanaltogether.Clairewasthecitytome.Bright.Vibrant.Alive.Andnowshewasn’t.Ipassedabar,looking
throughthewindowatthesmatteringof“patrons,”toputitpolitely,whowerestilldrinkingatthreeinthemorning.Icouldseeanemptystoolanditwascallingmyname.Morelikeshoutingit,really.
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Don’t,Itoldmyself.Whenyousoberup,she’llstillbegone.Ikeptwalkinginthe
directionofmyapartment,butwitheverystepitbecameclearwhereItrulywantedtogo.ItwaswhereverClairehadbeengoing.Whowasshemeeting?Suddenly,Iwaschanneling
OliverStone,somehowtryingtolinkhermurdertothestoryshe’dbeenchasing.Butthat
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wascrazy.Isawhermurderinblackandwhite.Itwasarobbery.Shewasinthewrongplaceatthewrongtime,andasmuchasthatwasacliché,so,too,washerdeath.She’dbethefirsttoadmitit.“Imaginethat,”Icould
hearhersaying.“AvictimofviolentcrimeinNewYorkCity.Howoriginal.”Still,I’dbecomefixatedon
wantingtoknowwhereshe’d
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beenheadingwhensheleftmyapartment.Atwo-hundred-dollar-an-hourshrinkwouldprobablycallthatsublimatedgrief,whilethefour-hundred-dollar-an-hourshrinkwouldprobablycounterwithsublimatedanger.Iwasstickingwithoverwhelmingcuriosity.Iputmyselfinhershoes,
mentallytracingherstepsthroughthelobbyofmybuildingandouttothe
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sidewalk.AssoonasIpicturedherraisingherarmforataxi¸itoccurredtome.Thedriver.Heatleastknewtheaddress.Forsure,Clairegaveittohimwhenhepickedherup.Almostoncue,ataxi
sloweddownnexttomeatthecurb,thedriverwonderingifIneededaride.Thatwasacommonoccurrencelateatnightwhen
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supplyfaroutweigheddemand.AsIshookhimoff,Ibegan
thinkingofwhatelseClaire’sdrivermightrememberwhenLamontinterviewedhim.Toughtosayafterthebeatinghetook.Maybetheshooterhadsaidsomethingthatwouldkeyhisidentity,oratleastthinoutthesuspects.Didhespeakwithanykindofaccent?
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Ormaybethedriverhadseensomethingthatwasn’tvisibletothatsurveillancecamera.Eyecolor?Anodd-shapedmole?Achippedtooth?Unfortunately,thelistof
possibilitiesdidn’tgoonandon.Theskimask,turtleneck,andglovesmadesureofthat.Clearly,thebastardknewthatpracticallyeverytaxiinthecitywasitsownlittle
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recordingstudio.Somuchforcamerasbeingadeterrent.Astheoldexpressiongoes,
showmeaten-footwallandI’llshowyouaneleven-footladder.Thetwentyblocks
separatingmefrommyapartmentwereadaze.Iwasonautopilot,onefootinfrontoftheother.OnlyatthesoundofthekeysasIdroppedthemonmykitchen
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counterdidIsnapoutofit,realizingIwasactuallyhome.Fullydressed,Ifellinto
mybed,shoesandall.Ididn’tevenbotherturningoffthelights.Butmyeyeswereclosedforonlyafewsecondsbeforetheypoppedopen.Damn.Allittookwasonebreath,oneexchangeoftheairaroundme,andIwaslyingtherefeelingmorealonethanIeverhadinmyentirelife.
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Thesheetsstillsmelledofher.Isatup,lookingoveratthe
othersideofthebed…thepillow.IcouldstillmakeouttheimpressionofClaire’shead.Thatwastheword,wasn’tit?Impression.Herswaseverywhere,mostofallonme.Iwasabouttomakea
beelinetomyguestroom,which,ifanything,wouldsmellofdustorstalenessor
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whateverotherodorisgivenoffbyaroomthat’srarely,ifever,used.Ididn’tcare.Solongasitwasn’ther.Suddenly,though,Ifroze.
Somethinghadcaughtmyeye.Itwastheyellowlegalpadontheendofthebed,theoneClairehadusedwhenshetookthephonecall.She’drippedoffthetopsheetshe’dwrittenon.Buttheonebeneathit…
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CHAPTER8
IALLbutlungedforthepad,grippingitbeyondtightwhilestaringattheindentationsshe’dleftbehind.Anotherimpression.Icouldmakeoutaletter
here,aletterthere.AnSfollowedbysomething,
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followedbyaB.Orwasthata6?Iflippedonthenearby
lampformorelight,anglingthepadeverywhichway,tryingtodeciphertheever-so-slightgroovesinthepaper.Itcould’vebeenaname,butallmymoneywasonitbeinganaddress.ItwaswhereClairewasgoing.Ithadtobe.ButIstillcouldn’tmakeitout.
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Ithoughtforafewseconds,rackingmybrain.BeforeIknewit,Iwasdashingacrossmylivingroomandintomyoffice,grabbingapencil,followedbyapieceofpaperfrommyprintertray.Thiscouldwork,Ithought.Layingthepaperoverthe
pad,Ibegangentlymakingarubbing,likepeopledowithtombstonesandothermemorials.Buttheprinter
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paperwastoothick.Ineededsomethingthinner.Iknewexactlywheretofindit,too.ItwasaninvitationI’djust
receivedtoalegalaidbenefitbeingheldattheNewYorkPublicLibrary.Prettyhardtomisstheirony,giventhatClairewouldhavebeenmyplus-one.Theinvitationitselfwason
athickstock,butallIcouldseeinmyheadwaswhathadbeeninsertedtoprotectthe
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embossedtype:apieceofvellumasthinastracingpaper.Perfect.Iriffledthroughmypileof
mail,findingtheinviteandthevellum.Layingitonthelegalpad,Iagainbegangentlyrubbingthepencilbackandforth.Likemagic,thelettersstartedtoappearbeforemyeyes.Lettersandnumbers.Itwasanaddress,allright.
DowntownontheWestSide.
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She’dalsowritten1701belowit.Wasthatanapartmentnumber?Iturnedonmylaptop,
grabbingmykeysandthrowingonabaseballcapwhilewaitingforittopowerup.Quickly,IGoogledtheaddress.Thefirstresultwasthe
onlyoneIneededtosee.Thiswasn’tsomeone’shome.Clairehadbeenheadingto
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theLucindaHotel,room1701.NowIwas,too.
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CHAPTER9
ANINTERRUPTION.ThatwaswhatOwen
Lewiswaswaitingforinroom1701oftheLucindaHotel.Thetinycamera,nobiggerthanalipstickcylinder,wastapedtotheexitsignabovetheentrancetothestairwell,wirelessly
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transmittingtohislaptopthesameimageofthelong,emptyhallwayoutsidehisdoor.Itwasmonotonyinblackandwhite.Acontinuousloopofstillnessandsilence,overandover.Uninterrupted.Foranyoneelse,it
would’vebeenthemostboringmovieofthecentury.ToOwen,itwaseasilythescariest.Especiallyhowitmightend.
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Shesaidshe’dbehereintwentyminutes.Thatwashoursago.Didtheygettoher?AmInext?He’dthoughtaboutleaving
town,butitwasalreadysolate.Therewerenobuses,trains,orplaneshecouldcatchatthishour,andheknewyouhadtobetwenty-fivetorentacar.Hisdriver’slicensecouldn’tgethimabeer,letaloneaBuick.
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Allinall,theonlyrealoptionwasataxi,butthatdidn’tfeellikeagoodidea,forsomereason.Justhisgutinstinct.No,hewouldwaititout
untilmorning,stickwithhisplan.Itwasagoodplan,
extremelywellthoughtout,withthehighestattentiontoeverydetail.Ofcourse,whenyou’resportinganIQthatapproachestheboilingpoint
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ofwater,anticipationisyourstockintrade.Youseethefuturebeforeothersdo.Youliveit,too.“TheBoyGenius!”
declaredhishometownpaperbackinAmherst,NewHampshire,inafront-pagestorywhenOwenwasonlyfour.Bythen,hehadmemorizedtheperiodictable,couldreadandwriteinthreelanguages,andwasdoingcomplexalgebra.Thephoto
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accompanyingthearticleshowedhimshakinghandswithSteveJobsata“PioneersofTomorrow”conferenceatApple’sheadquartersinCupertino.Foranentireyearafter
that,Owenworeonlyablackmockturtleneckeverywherehewent.Elementaryschoolwas
finishedatagesix,juniorhighateight,andthenhighschoolwhenhewaseleven.
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Atfourteen,hewastheyoungestevertograduatefromCalBerkeley,earningsummacumlaudeandsalutatorianhonors.Hewould’vebeenvaledictorianifithadn’tbeenforaB+incomparativeRussianliterature.Evengeniuseshavetheirblindspots.Nextupwerecombined
MDandPhDdegreesfromHarvardMedicalSchoolandMITatageseventeen,after
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whichOwenspentnearlytwoyearsatEidgenössischeTechnischeHochschuleZürich,akatheSwissFederalInstituteofTechnologyinZurich,studyingwhathadbecomehistruepassion:artificialneuralnetworks.Thatwaswhenthetwo
menfirstapproachedhim,onenightashewasleavingthelibrary.TheywereAmericans.
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“Howwouldyouliketohelpsavetheworld?”oneasked.Owenlaughed,nottaking
himseriouslyatfirst.“OnlyifIgettowearacape,”hesaid.Apredilectionforsarcasm
commensuratewithsapience,readtheextensivepsychprofileofOwenthatthetwomenhadalreadyseen.“No,I’mafraidthere’sno
capeorevenaskintightsuit,”saidtheotherman.
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“However,youwillgettobeapartofthedigitalage’sequivalentoftheManhattanProject.”Owenlikedthesoundof
that.Lovedit,tobemoreprecise.Itwashischancetomakehistory.Andwhodoesn’twanttodothat?Butthatwasthen.Now,lessthanayearlater,
herehewashidingoutinacrampedhotelroom—inManhattan,noless—hoping
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againsthopethathe’dlivetoseeanothersunrise.Turnedout,OwenLewis
hadtheoneproblemheneverthoughthe’dhave.Notinamillionyears.Orcertainly,atleast,notbeforehistwenty-firstbirthday.Itwaswhytheywantedto
killhim,theBoyGenius.Heknewtoomuch.
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CHAPTER10
WITHOUTONCEtakinghiseyesoffhisscuffed-uplaptopandthelivefeedfromthehallway,Owenbitoffanothertriangleofthetwelve-dollarTobleronefromhisminibaranddialedClaireParker’scellforathirdtime.Andforthe
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thirdtimethecallwentstraighttovoicemail.Somethingwaswrong.He
justdidn’tknowwhat.Therewereafewplausibleexplanationsastowhyshehadn’tshownupathisroom,rangingfromtherelativelyharmlesstotheabsoluteworst-casescenario.Hecouldspeculateallhewanted,butthatwasallitwouldbe.Speculation.Theimportantthingnowwaswhetherornot
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shewastheonlyonewhoknewhislocation.Shewasn’t.Twominuteslater,the
imageofthemansteppingofftheelevatorattheotherendofthehallwaytoldOwensomuchatoncethathisbraintingledwithoverload,whichwasnosmallfeat.Male…solo…decent
physique…runningshoes…baseballcapwithcurledbill
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…noroomkeyinhand…nosuitcaseorcarryon…Themanpausedbythe
elevatorbanktolookatthedirectionalsignfortheroomsonthefloor.Ifhe’djustbeencheckingin,thoughtOwen,he’dalmostcertainlyhavehadluggage.Ifhe’dbeenstayingatthehotelalready,he’dhavehadnoneedtolookatthesign.Plus,withthatcurledbill
onhisbaseballcap,hecould
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shieldhisfacefromanysecuritycamerasinthehotel.Butmostincriminatingof
all?Noneofthatmattered.Theguycould’vebeena
blindmidgetwearingaclownsuit,anditwouldn’thavechangedanything.Itwasfourinthemorningandhewasheadingstraighttowardroom1701.Thirtyyardsawayandclosing.
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Asifhischairhadsprings,Owenjumpedupandslap-closedhislaptop,stuffingitinhisalreadypackedbackpackalongwiththewirelessreceiverforthetransmittingcameraoutsideinthehallway.Hesprintedintothe
bathroom,wherehe’dalreadyfilledthetubtothebrimwithwater,notaninchofporcelainleftdry.Witha
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hardyank,heturnedtheshoweronfullblast.Asforthehotel’shair
dryer,itwasalreadypluggedin,thesurgeprotectordismantledandtheoutletrewiredtodeliverthemaximumcurrentpossible.Sufficeittosay,thatsortofthingdoesn’tgetachapterinElectricalWiringforDummies.Quicklybackingoutofthe
bathroom,Owentookonelast
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lookatthesetupbeforeshuttingthedoor,hiseyesdartingabouttomakesurealltheelementswereinplace.Theshowercurtaindrawn
closed,tuckedinsidethetub.Thecordofthehairdryer
knottedaroundthetowelbartoensurethatitwouldremainpluggedintotheoutletnomatterwhat.Andthefloormat
strategicallyplacedonthetilefloortoensurethatOwen
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wouldn’tslipwhenhecamebarginginbehindtheguy.Fromtheroomnextdoor.Thiswastheplan,allright.
BasedontwothingsOwenknewassurelyasheknewthatsunrisewasonlyafewhoursaway.Thefirstwasprimal.
Sometimesinlifeit’sassimpleaskillorbekilled.Second,professionalhit
menaren’texactlysuckers.Youcan’texpectthemtofall
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forthe“I’mintheshower”tricksimplybecauseyou’vegotthedoortotheroomcrackedopenandhavethewaterrunning.They’llsearchtherestofyourroomfirst,toptobottom.Sohidingbehindthe
armchairinthecornerorsqueezingyourselfunderthebed?Probablytheverylastdumbideayou’lleverhave.No,ifyouwantthetrue
elementofsurprise,youneed
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tothinkoutsidethebox.Betteryet,comeupwithyourownbox.Justmakesurethere’sa
connectingdoor.“I’dliketworooms,”he’d
toldtheclerkatthefrontdeskwhenhecheckedin.“Andtheyneedtobeadjoining.”Owenslippedthroughthe
doubledoorsseparatingroom1701from1703,pullingthefirstoneclosedbehindhim.Hisheartwaspoundinglikea
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jackhammeragainsthischest,buthecouldn’thelpnoticingthatitwasn’tjustfear.Ascrazyasitsounded,healsofeltatwingeofexcitement,asortofin-the-momentbuzzofanticipationthatcamefromanintellectualcuriosityalwaysinhyperdrive.Aprodigy’sconceit,ifyouwill.Inotherwords,he
desperatelywantedtoknowifhisplanwouldwork.And
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therewasonlyonewaytofindout.Pressinghisearupagainst
thedoor,allOwencouldnowdowaswaitandwonder.“Willyouwalkintomy
parlor?”saidtheSpidertotheFly.
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CHAPTER11
IOWNEDonlyonecellphone,asopposedtoClaire’sthree,anditwaspinnedtomyearasIenteredthelobbyoftheLucindaatfourinthemorning,pretendingtobecompletelyengrossedinaconversation.
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Thelobby—whichsadlylookedasifithadn’tbeenupdatedsincetheKochadministration—wascompletelyempty,asitshould’vebeen,giventhehour,saveforawary-eyedwomanbehindthefrontdeskinaturquoiseblazerwhowasclearlyinthemidstofdecidingwhetherornottoaskmeifIwasaguestofthehotel.
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ThatwaswhenIdeliveredtheclinchertomyimaginaryfriendontheotherendoftheimaginaryline.“Yeah,I’mheadingupto
myroomnow,”Iannounced.AsIwalkedpastthefront
desk,walkingstraighttowardtheelevators,thewomandidn’tsayaword.Iwasin.ThenIwasup…tothe
seventeenthfloor.Withatugonmybaseballcap,Isteppedofftheelevatorandstopped
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brieflybeforethesigntellingmewhichroomswereinwhichdirection,leftorright.Room1701wastothe
right.Iwalkeddownthelong,
narrowhallway,thebeigecarpetblendinginwiththebeigewallstoformaseamlesstunnelofblandness,theonlysplashofcolorcomingfromtheglowingredexitsignannouncingthestairwellattheveryend.The
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odd-numberedroomsweretomyleft.1723…1721…1719…Iwasrepeatingthem
silentlyinmyhead,likeacountdown.Towhat,though,Iwondered?AndwhatwasIgoingto
sayafterIknocked?WhoeverwasontheothersideofthedoorwasexpectingClaire,butthatwashoursago.Nowitwasthemiddleofthenight,andIwasacompletestranger
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withalotofexplainingtodo.This,afterfirstbreakingthenewsthatClairewasdead.1709…1707…1705…Myvisionwassotrained
ontheroomnumbersthatIdidn’tevennoticeitatfirst.Myhandwasliterallyintheair,knucklestuckedandreadytoknock,whenIsawthatthedoorwasopen.Notopenlikesee-into-the-roomopen,butratherthedoorwasjustshyoftheframe,asif
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someonehadforgottentocloseitalltheway.IfIwantedtostepinside,
allIhadtodowaspush.Instead,Isteppedback.
Therewasabadviberacingthroughme,headtotoe.Somethingwasn’tright.Istoodthereonthebeige
carpet,myfeetfrozen,whilemybrainsiftedquicklythroughtheoptions.Badvibeornot,leavingwasn’toneofthem.Infact,thatdoorbeing
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open—beiteversoslightly—justmademeallthemorecurious.Forbetterorworse.Iknocked.Softly,atfirst,
ontheoutsidechancethatwhoeverwasintherewasstillawakeatfourinthemorning.Veryoutsidechance.After
tensecondsofsilence,Iknockedagain.Thistime,louder.Thenlouderstill.Oh,shit.Tooloud.Thejarringsoundcame
fromdirectlybehindme,a
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deadboltslidingonthedoortoanotherroom.I’dwokensomebodyup,allright,justthewrongperson.Suddenly,Iwasinno-
man’s-land,andmyonlythoughtwasthatIcouldn’taffordtobeseen.Callitinstinctorsheerpanic,butIwasdoneknockingonthedoorofroom1701.Iwasnowinroom1701.AndIwasn’talone.
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CHAPTER12
ITWASpitchblack;Icouldn’tseeathing.Buttherewasnomistakingthesoundofrunningwater.Itwastheshower.Meanwhile,therewasthe
othersoundbehindme.Adooropeningandclosingoutinthehallway.WhoeverI’d
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wokenupwasgoingbacktobedwithoutlayingeyesonme.Onebulletdodged.Nowwhat?Icouldpracticallyhear
myselfplayinglawyerwiththepolice,tellingthemthiswasn’tbreakingandenteringbecausetechnicallythedoorwasopen.Thetrespassingcharge,however,wouldbealittlehardertoargue.No,thiswasaneasy
decision.I’dslipbackoutside
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thedoorandwaitforwhoeverwasintheshowertogetout.I’dknockagain,andthistimeClaire’ssourcewouldhearme.ItwouldbeasifI’dneversetfootintheroom.ButasIturnedtoreachfor
thehandle,Ifeltthesquishbeneathmyshoe.Thecarpetwaswet.Soaked,actually.Fromthere,itwasalla
blur.Immediately,Islappedmy
handblindlyagainstthewall
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untilIfoundthenearestlightswitch.TheentrywaylitupasIrushedintothebathroom,thewatersplashingupbeneathmyfeet.Again,Ifeltaroundfora
lightandfoundtheswitch.Butitwasn’tworking.Icouldn’tseeanythingbeyondshadows.Reachingformyphone,I
hittheflashlightappandwaitedformyeyestoadjust.Whentheydid,Iliterally
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jumpedback,almosttrippingovermyself.Halfhisbodywasinthe
bathtub;theotherhalf—hislegs—dangledovertheside.Alsodanglingwasthecordofthehairdryerthatwassubmergedinthewater.Itdidn’ttakeageniustoputittogether.Thiswasnoaccident.Claire’ssourcehadbeenmurdered.Itookastepforward,the
lightfrommyphoneedging
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uptowardhisface.Itwaslikeagrotesquefreeze-frameoftheelectrocution.Everymusclecontracted,hismouthovaledasifmidscream.Thestuffofnightmares.IknewwhatIwas
supposedtodonext.Itwaswhatallthestupidcharactersinmoviessomehowdecidenottodorightbeforethingsspiralhopelesslyoutofcontrol.Gotothepolice.Inthebigschemeofthings,it
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didn’tmatterhoworwhyIwasthereinthatroom.Asaforensicpsychologist
oncetoldmeinadeposition,withaslownodofhisbeardedchin,“Adeadbodychangeseverything.”Problemwas,allIcould
reallythinkaboutinthatmomentwasClaire.Whateverstoryshewaschasing,itwasthekindsomeoneelsedidn’twanttold.Reallydidn’twanttold.
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Andjustlikethat,therandomactofviolencethathadendedherlife—ataxirobbery—didn’tseemsorandom.
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CHAPTER13
THENEXTthingIknew,Iwasholdingoffaminuteoncallingthepolice.Yes,itwasacrimescene.
Yes,IwasawareIshouldn’tbetouchingthevictim.ButIwasinthathoteltofindoutwhomClairehadbeencomingtosee,andIstill
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didn’tknow.Rightorwrong,theanswerwasonlyafewfeetaway.Anglingmyphonenearthe
sink,IspottedandgrabbedafacetoweltopreventmyleavinganyfingerprintsasIturnedofftheshower.Ikneltdownattheedgeofthebathtubandbeganlookingforawallet,oranythingelsethatwouldIDtheguy.Onehandwasstillholdingmyphoneforlight,theothersearching
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hispockets.Itwould’vebeenaloteasierifhehadn’tbeenwearingjeans.Thefronttwopockets
didn’tturnupanythingexceptperhapsameasureofguilt.MostofClaire’ssourceswerepeopledoingthe“rightthing”inonewayoranother.Whistle-blowingoncorruption,settingtherecordstraight,thingslikethat.Someofthemriskedtheirlivesindoingso.Now
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herewasone,itseemed,who’dpaidtheultimateprice.UntilIsearchedhisback
pockets.Atfirst,Ithoughtitwashis
walletIwasfeeling.Itwasn’t,butitwascertainlyaformofID.Evendrenchedandbunchedinaballasitwas,IknewrightawaywhatIwasholdinginmyhand.Askimask.Lookedlikethesameonefromthetaxisurveillancevideo.
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Thiswasn’ttheguyClairehadbeengoingtosee.Thiswastheguywhokilled
her.Allatonce,therestofthe
piecescametogetherbeforemyeyes.Underneaththeguy’sgraysweatshirtwasthesameblackturtleneckI’dseeninthevideo.Therewasalsoablackbaseballcaponthetilefloornexttothetub.Therewasnodoubtthis
washim,whoeverhewas,
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andallIcouldthinkof,allIwantedtodointhatveryinstant,wastobringhimbacktolifejustsoIcouldkillhimagainmyself.I’dneverknownsucha
feeling.Vengeancewasanabstractiontome,themelodramaticwordthatalwaysseemedabittoomuch.Nowitwasn’tnearlyenough.Wherehaveyoutakenme,Claire?
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Istoodup,lookingatthecordofthehairdryerknottedaroundthetowelbar.Thetubhadbeenfull,thewaterrunning.Asaplan,itwasbrilliantinitssimplicity.Claire’ssourcehadknownhewasindanger,andhadknownenoughtoturnthetables.Damngoodforhim.NowifIonlyknewwherehe’dgone.Clairewould’vebeenall
overmeforassumingthat
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onlyaguywould’vehadthewherewithaltooutwitakiller,andshewould’vebeenright.Hecould’veeasilybeenashe.Anyproofeitherway,
though,wasnowheretobefoundasIsearchedtherestoftheroom.Itwasspotless.Thetwoqueenbedsweremade,thewastebasketwasempty,nothinghadbeendisturbed.Exceptforthedeadguyinthe
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bathtub,ofcourse.Nowitwastimetocallthepolice.ButbeforeIcouldeven
reachformyphoneagain,Isuddenlyhadabrand-newproblem.Itwasthedistinctsoundofthingsabouttospiralhopelesslyoutofcontrol.Someonewasknockingon
thedoor.
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CHAPTER14
THEFIRSTthingIdidwasfreeze.Therewasnosecondthing.Atleast,notrightaway.Ihadnoideawhattodo.Instead,itwasallabout
whatnottodo.TherewasnowayIwasopeningthatdoor.
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NowayIwasasking,“Who’sthere?”ButIdidneedtoknow.If
itwasanyonefromthehotel,theyweren’tnecessarilygoingawayifnooneanswered.Abouttwentyfeetofthat
beigecarpetseparatedmefromthedoor,thefinalfewfeetdrenchedwithwater.Ihadtotimeitjustright.Quickly,Itiptoedrightup
tothedoorofthebathroom.
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ThenIwaited.Icouldn’tcoverupthesquishingsoundofmylastfootstepsonmyown.Itwouldtakesomehelp,andIknewitwascoming.Thesecondknockonthe
door—evenlouderthanthefirst—wasallIneededtogetrightupnexttothepeephole.Iheldmybreathandtookafastlookbeforepeelingofftotheside.Damn.Thereweretwo
possibilities.One,the
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peepholewassomehowbroken.Two,itwasworkingjustfine.Eitherway,allIcouldsee
wasblack.AsIreachedoverandoh-so-silentlyswungthedoorguardclosed,Iwasbettingmyentirestackontheperfectlyworkingpeephole…andahandinthehallwayplacedoverit.Tensecondspassed.
Twenty.Halfaminute.Iremainedwithmyback
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plasteredagainstthewall,inchesawayfromthehinges,hopingthenextthingI’dhearwouldbefootstepsfadingawaytowardtheelevator.Ifonly.Itwasmoreliketheexact
oppositeasthesoundofthekeycardslidingintothelockwasfollowedbyaclickandabeep.Thedooropened,onlytobestoppedshortbythedoorguard.Littlehardto
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pretendnoonewasintheroomnow.Iwaitedforthevoiceof
hotelsecurity,oratleastsomeonewhoworkedatthehotel.Anyone.Ididn’tcare.Letitberoomserviceorhousekeeping.Mymouthwashalfopen,readytorespondtowhateverwassaid.Butnothingwas.What’stakingsolong?No,wait…afarmore
pressingquestion.
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What’sthatsmell?
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CHAPTER15
ITWASstraightoutofanIanFlemingnovel,somethingQwould’vegiven007.Juttingthroughthetwo-inchopeninginthedoorwaswhatlookedatfirstglancelikeacommonpairofpliers.Theonlydifferencebeingwhattheyweredoing,literallymelting
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themetalloopofthedoorguard.Silently,noless.Thiswasn’tsomeonefrom
thehotel.Astarter’spistolwentoff
inmyhead,butIhadnowheretorun.Ilookedoveratthewindows,whichdidn’topen,andthebedI’dbeafooltohideunder.DittofortheoneandonlyclosetasIpicturedmyselftryingtoduckbehindahotelrobe.The
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ultimateindignity.Dyingwhilestupid.TheonlyrealshotIhad
waserectingtheworld’squickestwalloffurniture.Basically,I’dlodgeeverythingintheroomthatwasn’tbolteddownagainstthedoor.Itcouldwork.Ithadtowork.Questionwas,howmuchtimedidIhaveleft?Istaredbackatthedoor,
thoseplierscuttingthroughthemetalasthesmellof
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sulfurcontinuedtooverwhelmtheair.IhadtostepbackjustsoIwouldn’tcough.AsIslidalongthewall,it
wasmyhandthatfeltitfirst—theconnectingdoortothenextroom.Myeyeshadpassedrightbyit,andIcouldn’tblamethem.Countlesstimes,ifonlyforshitsandgiggles,I’dbeeninahotelroomandopenedthefirstdoor,onlytoseethedoor
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behindit,leadingtotheadjoiningroom,staringbackatme,shuttightasadrumandlocked.Heregoesnothing…Iopenedthedooronmy
side,peekingaroundtheedge,andinone,beautifulskipofaheartbeat,itwasasifAlMichaelswerebroadcastingmylifeinsteadoftheUSmen’sOlympichockeyteam.“Doyoubelieveinmiracles?Yes!”
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Theseconddoor—thedoorthatwasneveropen,notever—showedasliverofdaylight,orwhateverkindoflightwascomingthroughfromtheotherside.GiventheoddsIwasbeating,itmightaswellhavebeentheburningbush.AssilentlyasIcould,I
slippedintotheadjoiningroom,closingbothdoorsbehindmeandlockingtheonenowfacingme.IknewimmediatelyIwasn’tbarging
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inonanyone.Theroomwasempty,withaneatlymadekingbedandnoluggagelyingaround.Ipeekedintothebathroom.Nodeadbody,either.Let’skeepitthatway,I
thought.Myfirstinstinctwasto
stripdowntomyboxers,crawlbeneaththesheets,andsimplyplaydumbshouldtherebeaknockonthedoor.I’dansweritwhilerubbing
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thesleepfrommyeyesandconvincewhoeverownedthosemagicpliersthatIwasnothingmorethananinnocentbystander.Apissed-offoneatthat,forhavingbeenwokenup.Therewasjustone
problem.Whothehellflippedthedoorguardshutintheotherroom?Theguyinthebathtub?No,Ihadtogetoutofthis
room,too.Toorisky,
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otherwise.Andagain,Ihadtotimeitjustright.Listeningthroughthe
walls,Ipacedandwaited.Itwaslikeasurrealgameofmusicaldoorsinsteadofchairs,anditwould’vebeenfunnyifIhadn’tbeensopessimisticaboutthepenaltyforlosing.Finally,thesoundcame.
Thedooropeninginthenextroom,andmoreimportantly,thesamedoorclosing.That
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wasmycue.AsquietlyasIcould,Islippedbackintothehallway.Tohellwiththeelevator.Thestairswererightthere,andIdidn’thavetowaitforthem.Iwasoutofthere,lickety-split.Atleast,Ishould’vebeen.Icouldn’thelpmyself,
though.AsIpassedthedoortoroom1701,Istoppedandlistened.Icouldhearaguy’svoice.Atfirst,Ithoughthewastalkingtosomeoneelse
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intheroom,thathehadn’tcomealone.Thenhemadeitclearhehad.Hewastalkingonaphoneorsomekindofradio.“Thekid’sstillalive,”he
said.“Irepeat,thekidisstillalive.”
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CHAPTER16
IDIDN’TneedanyaddedincentiveforwhatIplannedtodonext,butthereshewasanywayasIwalkedascasuallyaspossiblethroughthelobbyoftheLucindaandouttothestreet.Thesamewary-eyed
womanbehindthefrontdesk
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wearingaturquoiseblazerwatchedmestepbystep.Still,shedidn’tsayaword.Thatwouldchange,ofcourse,onceshelearnedofthedeadbodyinthebathtubseventeenfloorsup.She’dhaveplentytosaythen,adescriptionofmesuretobeincluded.“Didyounoticeanything
oranyoneoutoftheordinary?”thecrimescenedetectiveswouldaskher.
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WiththehelpofForensics,theywould’vealreadydeterminedthetimeofdeathasduringhershift,andquitepossiblybetweenthetimesIcameandleft.Safelydowntheblock,I
dialedmyowncrimescenedetective.AstheysayinbothPRandpolitics,alwaysgetaheadofthestory.“Wait,slowdown,”said
DetectiveLamontfrombehindhisdesk.Icouldhear
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himthroughthephoneshufflingpapers,probablymovingClaire’sfilebackinfrontofhim.Iapologized.Iwasgetting
toofaraheadofthestory,talkingamillionwordsaminute.Myheartbeat,stillracing,wasactinglikeametronomeformymouth.Istopped,tookadeep
breath,andbeganagaintodetailwhathadhappenedsinceIshookhishandonmy
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wayoutoftheMidtownNorthprecincthouse.“Talktoyousoon,”Lamonthadtoldme.He’dhadnoideajusthowsoon.IcouldtellnowthatIwas
tryinghispatience.ThefactthatClairehadleftmyapartmenttogoseeasourcedidnothingtochallengewhatheknew—or,atleast,thoughtheknew—tobetrue:thatshewasinthewrongplaceatthe
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wrongtimeinthebackofthattaxi.Andwhywouldn’the
believethat?Icertainlyhad.Theincidentwasdesignedthatway,caughtonvideoforalltosee.Itoldhimaboutthephone
callClairehadreceived,andhowI’dfiguredouttheaddress.Lamontinterruptedme.
“Whereareyougoingwith
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allthis?”heasked,wantingmetomovethestoryalong.“TotheLucindaHotel,”I
answered.“Hurryupandgetthere.”Icouldn’tblametheguy.It
waslateandhewastired.ButIknewallwouldbeforgivenwithonesentenceaboutroom1701.“Theguyinthebathtubis
theguywhokilledClaire,”Isaid.
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Icouldliterallyhearhimsitboltuprightinhischair.“Whereareyouright
now?”heasked.No,demanded.“EighthAvenueand
Thirty-Fourth.”“Don’tmove,I’llhaveit
radioedrightnow.Acruiserwillbethereshortly,”hesaid.“I’llmeetyouatthehotel.”“Holdon,there’sonemore
thing,”Isaid.
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IwasbacktotalkingamillionwordsaminuteasItriedtoexplaintheguywiththemagicpliers.ThemoreIlistenedtomyself,themoreIrealizedhowcrazyitmustsoundtoLamont.Ifitdid,though,hedidn’tleton.Instead,hecuttothechase,theonlythingthatmatteredatthemoment.“Goodguyorbadguy?”he
asked.“Badguy,”Isaid.
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Hepausedforamoment.“Aren’ttheyall?”Click.
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CHAPTER17
FROMTHEmomentIfirstgotthecallfromClaire’ssister,Ellen,somuchhadchanged,andthenchangedagain.Still,insomeways,Icouldn’thelpthinkingIwasrightbackwhereI’dstarted.Withmorequestionsthananswers.
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Thekidisstillalive.AsIwaitedforthecruiser
courtesyofLamont,Ikeptrepeatingthelineinmyhead.Itcouldn’tliterallybeakid,couldit?Ididn’tthinkso,butanythingwaspossible.Thenightsofarwasatestamenttothat,andherewewererollingintothenextday.Afewminuteslater,I
caughtaflashofredandbluelightsoutofthecornerofmyeye.Iturnedtoseemy
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escortspullingupalongthecurbonEighthAvenue.Theofficerridingshotgunsteppedout.HelookedlikeaveryyoungversionofKieferSutherland,albeitonsomeserioussteroids.Theguywasrippedandheknewit.Hadthesleevesonhisuniformbeenrolledupanyhigher,hewould’veofficiallybeenwearingatanktop.“TrevorMann?”heasked.“Yeah.”
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Henoddedatthedoortothebackseat.“Let’sgo.”Iclimbedinandanswered
arapid-firesuccessionofquestionsfromhimwhilehispartner,aguywhodidn’tresembleanyactorIknew,tooktheturnontoThirty-FourthStreet,drivingslowlytowardthefrontoftheLucinda.Basically,Iwasconfirming
everythingI’dtoldLamont.Theroomnumber.Theguyin
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thebathtub.Theotherguywhostillmightbeintheroom.“Andthisotherguy,you
neveractuallysawhim?”askedtheofficer.“No,Ijustheardhim
throughthedoor.”“Whatdidhesoundlike?
Black?White?Hispanic?”“White,”Isaid.Heturnedtohispartner
behindthewheeland
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smirked.“Shootthewhiteguy.”Theybothchuckledaswe
pulledupinfrontofthehotel.Engineoff,batteryon.Ireachedforthedoorhandle,thinkingIwasgoinginsidewiththem.Sillyme.“Stayhere,”Iwastold.Itmadesense.Ofthethree
ofus,Iwastheonlyonewhodidn’thavea9mmpistolstrappedtomybelt.Besides,
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IwashappynevertosetfootinsidetheLucindaagain.“Domeafavor,though,”I
said.“Couldyouturnofftheflashers?”Thecopbehindthewheel
smiledandnodded.Heunderstood.Theremightnothavebeenalotoffoottrafficonthecuspofdawn,buttherewasstillnoneedformetolooklikeaperpsittinginthebackseat.Offwenttheflashers.
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ThetwodisappearedintothehotelasIdidmybesttokeepmyeyesopen.Iwasexhausted,mylackofsleepsuddenlycrashingdownonme.Pointbeing,IhadnoideahowmuchtimehadpassedwhenIwasjoltedawakebythesoundofknucklesrappingonthewindow.Kiefer’sdoppelgangerwaswavingformetojoinhimonthecurb.Isteppedout,glancing
quicklyathisnameplate.
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OFFICERBOWMAN,itread.ThemomentseemedtosuggestthatitwastimeIknewthat.“Wastheotherguyinthe
roomgone?”Iasked.Henodded.Itwastheway
henodded,though.Therewassomethingelse,moretoit.“Howlongdidyouwait
beforeyoucalledthisin?”heasked.“Ididn’twait,”Isaid.“It
wasrightaway.”
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Henoddedagain.Thesamekindofnod.“Followme,”hesaid.
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CHAPTER18
SOMUCHformyneversettingfootintheLucindaagain.IfollowedOfficer
Bowmanthroughthelobby,wherehispartnerwasquestioning—whoelse?—thewary-eyedwomanintheturquoiseblazerbehindthe
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frontdesk.Ikeptwaitingforhertoglareatmeaswepassedby,butitdidn’thappen.Ontherideupinthe
elevator,IkeptwaitingforBowmantogivesomeclueaboutwhatwasgoingon.Butthatdidn’thappen,either.Wewalkedthelong,beige
hallwayinsilence,andaswereachedthedoorofroom1701,hesteppedinsidefirstandimmediatelyspunaround
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tolookatme.OnlyinhindsightdidIrealizewhathewasdoing.Gaugingmyreaction.Iturnedandstaredintothe
bathroom,myjawliterallydropping.Itwasasifnothinghadhappened.Thelightwasworking.The
hairdryerwasunpluggedandsittingontheshelfbeneaththesink,thecordneatlywound.Therewasn’tadrop
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ofwateronthefloororinthetub.Alsonotinthetub?The
guywhokilledClaire.Hewasgone.IstaredbackatBowman,
whowasstillwatchingmelikeIwasascienceexperiment,ormoreaccurately,ascienceexperimentwiththetitle“IsThisManTellingtheTruth?”“Youdon’tseriouslythink
I’vemadethisup,doyou?”I
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asked.“Ofcoursenot,”hesaid.
“Thatwouldmakeyoucrazy.”Ofcourse,thewayhesaid
itmadeclearthathewasleavingthedooropen.Speakingofwhich…“Youdidnoticethe
sheared-offdoorguardbehindme,right?”Iasked.IcertainlyhadasIwalkedin.Bowmannodded.“Yep,
sawit,”hesaid.“Icanalso
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feelthesquishbeneathmyfeet.Thecarpet’sdefinitelywet.”Heleftitatthat.Iknew
whathewasthinking,though,ifonlybecauseIwasthinkingthesamething.Therewasnodeadbodyinthebathtub,andthecombinationofasheared-offdoorguardandsomewetcarpetdidn’tprovethereeverhadbeen.“Theymusthavemoved
thebodyandcleanedup
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afterward,”Isaid.“They?”“Iheardonlyonevoice
throughthedoor,butthatdoesn’tmeantherewasonlyoneperson.”“You’reright,itdoesn’t,”
saidBowmanbeforecheckinghiswatch.“Andabouthowmuchtimewouldtheyhavehadtodothis?”“Apparentlyenough.”ButevenIwasdoingthe
mathinmyhead.Ten
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minutes.Fifteen,tops.Ilookedbackintothebathroomattheneatlyfoldeddrytowels,andespeciallythedryfloor.Inadditiontothemagicpliers,wastherealsoamagicmop?IcouldseehowBowman
oranyoneelsewouldbeabitskeptical.Thatdidn’tconcernme.Truthwas,itdidn’tmatterhowit’dbeendone.Ithadbeendone.Quickly.Quietly.Professionally.And
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thatcombinationcouldmeanonlyonething.ThestorythatClairewasworkingonwasgettingbiggerbytheminute.Thekidisstillalive.Thewordswereechoing
againinmyhead.Someonehadcheckedintothisroomandmaybeeventheroomnexttoit.AllIcouldlookatnowwastheotherthingstrappedtoBowman’sbeltbesidesapistol.Hisradio.
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“Yourpartnerdownstairs,”Isaid.“Didhegetthenameofwhowasstayinginthisroom?”“Yeah,hegotaname,”
cameavoicefrombehindme.Iknewrightawayitwasn’tBowman’spartner.IturnedtoseeDetective
Lamont.Quitethesight.Hisglasseswereaskew,histieloosenedtothepointoflookinglikeanoose.Hissuitjacket,meanwhile,hadmore
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creasesthananunfoldedpieceoforigami.Still,foraguyso
disheveled,hesomehowmaintainedanauraofcompletecontrol.Youcan’tfakeexperience.Aftersilentlystudyingthe
sheared-offdoorguardforafewseconds,Lamontsteppedpastme,gazinginsidethebathroomasifconfirmingwhathe’dalreadybeentold
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inthelobby.Therewasnodeadguyinthetub.Allthewhile,Iwas
waitingforhimtosaythenameofwhoeveritwaswho’dbeenstayingintheroom.Hedidn’t.“Isitsupposedtobesome
kindofsecret?”Ifinallyasked.Icouldn’thelpthesarcasm.“No,”saidLamont,
bendingdowntotouchthewetcarpet.“Nosecret.It’s
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justnothisrealname,that’sall.”“Howdoyouknow?”Hestoodup,lookingatme
forthefirsttime.“BecauseIgraduatedhighschoolin1984.”“What’sthatsupposedto
mean?”askedBowman.“Besidesthefactthatyou’reold.”Lamontignoredhim.He
wasalsoignoringthenotepadclutchedinhishand,
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suggestingthathe’dneverevenbotheredtowritedownthename.Instead,hesimplyrecited
it,asiffrommemory.“WinstonSmith.”Bowmanlookedatbothof
usandshrugged.IlookedatLamontandnodded.“You’reright,”Isaid.
“That’snothisrealname.”
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CHAPTER19
“WHYCAN’TWinstonSmithbehisrealname?”askedBowman.“It’sfromabook,”said
Lamont,straighteninghisglasseswithaprofessorialnudge.Classwasinsession.“GeorgeOrwell’s1984.Everyoneinmyhighschool
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hadtoreaditthatyear.Theypracticallymadeusmemorizeit.ThenameofthemaincharacterwasWinstonSmith.”Bowmanshruggedagain.
“What?Sonooneelsecanhavethatname?”“Theycould,butWinston
SmithwassupposedtorepresentEveryman,”Isaid.IcaughtLamont’seyesandcrackedasmile.“Itwasafew
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yearslater,butIreaditinhighschool,too.”“Goodforyouboth,”said
Bowman,gettinghisBronxup.“Iwasn’tevenbornin1984.”Iwasreallystartingto
dislikethisguy.“Anyway,”Isaid,“WinstonSmithissimplyamorecleverversionofJohnDoe.”“Nottomentionthatour
Mr.Smithalsopaidincash
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forthisroomandtheonenextdoor,”saidLamont.Asifhavingprompted
himself,hetookawalkthroughtheconnectingdoorstolookattheotherroom.Hewasbackwithinseconds.“Domeafavor,Bowman,”
hesaid.“GiveMr.Mannandmeafewminutes,willyou?”Bowmanwasmorethan
happytooblige.“I’llbeinthelobby,”hesaid.
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Ashewalkedout,Lamontclosedthedoorbehindhim.Heturnedandmadeabeelinefortheminibarfridge,grabbingaDietCoke.“Whatdoyouthinkthey
chargeforthis?”heasked,diggingafingernailunderthetab.Hepoppedopenthecanwithaloudsnapandgrinned.“Iguesswe’lljusthavetoputitonMr.Smith’sbill.”Aftertakingalongsip,he
steppedbackandsettledinto
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thearmchairinthecorner.Hewasinnorush,andwhetherornotthatwascalculatedIdidn’tknow.Hesurelyhadquestionsforme.Ijustdidn’texpecthisfirstonetobethesameoneIhad.“Sowhathappensnow?”
heasked.“I’mnotsurewhatyou
mean,”Isaid.“Well,IknowwhatIneed
todo,”hesaid,pointingathischest.“Ineedtoeyeballall
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theexitsandhopethatthesecuritycamerasaimedatthemwereactuallyrecording.IalsoneedtogetadescriptionofourMr.Smithfromtheclerkwhoactuallycheckedhimin,sincethebeady-eyedwomandownstairstoldmeitwasn’ther.”Hewasright.Ihadthe
wrongword.Thewomanatthefrontdeskwasmorebeady-eyedthanwary-eyed.
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Lamontpaused,takinganothersip.“Thenmaybe,justmaybe,wecanstartpiecingthiswholethingtogether.Becauseuntilthen,we’vegotalittleproblem.”Yes,wedid,andhedidn’t
needtospellitout.I’dlearneditinlawschool;he’dlearneditatthepoliceacademy.Nobody?Nocrime.“So,likeIsaid,what
happensnow?”heasked.
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“Whatdoyouneedtodo?”“Youmean,besidesgetting
somesleep?”“That’sagoodstart,”he
said.“Butyeah,besidesthat.”IwasstallingbecauseIhad
noideawhathewasgettingat.Ofcourse,thatwashispoint.“YoutriedtotraceClaire’s
footstepstonightandlookwhereitgotyou,”hesaid.“Iknowherkillerisdead,
don’tI?”
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“Yes,andifitwasn’tforthosedumbdoorsbeingopentothenextroom,youcould’vebeennext.”“Isthisyourwayofsaying
letusdoourjobs?”Lamontwinced.“God,I
hopenot.Theyonlysaythatoncopshows.WhatI’msayingisthis:Stoptryingtodohers.”Iwasabouttoshakemy
head,tellhimhewasoffbase.No,worse.Delusional.
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LikeDonaldTrumpwithacomb.ButLamontknewthatwas
comingandwaswayaheadofme.He’dalreadyreachedintohispocketandwasnowholdingitintheair,ExhibitA.“Wherethehelldidyouget
that?”Iasked.Hebrokeintoasmile,and
ashedid,Icouldpracticallyseethecanaryfeatherscaughtinhisteeth.
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“DidImentionyou’realousyliar,Mr.Mann?”
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CHAPTER20
LAMONTWASholdingClaire’scellphone,theoldMotorolasheusedstrictlyforhersources.TheStopper.“Whydidn’tyousay
anythingbackattheprecinct?”heasked.
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“Iwasn’tsurethatwaswhatshewasdoing,”Isaid.“Still,whatthehellwere
youplanning?HopthefencelaterthisafternoonattheWhitestonePoundandsearchbehindthebackseat?”“Itwasreallythere,huh?”“Thesecondyouwantedto
watchthatpartoftherecordingagain,Iknewyousawherdosomething,”saidLamont.
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“OnlyIdidn’tknowitwasherphoneshewashiding.”“Youknowwhyshe
would,though,don’tyou?”Hehadmedeadtorights
oneverything,rightdowntomywaitinguntilthetaxihadbeenclearedbyForensics,thenshrink-wrappedandflatbeddedfromLamont’sprecinctto,yes,theWhitestonePoundinQueens,whereitwouldeventuallybe
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claimedbywhoeverownedthemedallionforit.Theonlypartthedetective
gotwrongwasthetiming.Screwtheafternoon.Waytoorisky.Criminaltrespassingisbetterleftforthedark,no?Iwasn’tplanningonhoppingthatfenceuntilwellaftermidnight.“Shewasjustprotecting
hersources,”Isaid.“Thatphonewasforthemexclusively.”
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Withthat,Icockedmyhead,andheimmediatelyshookhis.HeknewwhatIwasabouttoask.“Counselor,webothknow
Ican’tturnitovertoyou,atleastnotyet,”hesaid.“Prettydamnimpressive,though,herpresenceofmind.Eveninthatmoment…wantingtoshieldthem.”Heflippedopenthephone.“Ofcourse,Icanseewhy.Therearealotofboldfacednamesinthe
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directory,atleastthoseIcoulddecipher.Mostwerejustlistedbyinitials.”“WasthereaW.S.,byany
chance?”“Nosuchluck,”hesaid,
pointingatthetablebetweenthetwobeds.WinstonSmithhadcalledfromthephoneintheroom.Thekidwasstillalive,and
westillhadnowayofcontactinghim.
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Likeakickinthehead,though,itoccurredtome.Whataboutthepeoplewhowantedtokillhim?Whataboutcontactingthem?Itookoutmyownphone,
quicklysendingananonymoustexttoanumberIknewbyheart.Lamont’seyesnarrowedto
asuspicioussquint.“Whatareyoudoing?”heasked.Somethingyou’redefinitely
notgoingtolike,Detective.
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CHAPTER21
ONEGOODsetupdeservedanother.Onlyminehadtobebetter,becauseI’dalreadydiscoveredtheirs.Lessthanthreehourslater,
IwassittingononeoftheconcretebenchesliningtheperimeterofBethesdaTerracebytheLakein
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CentralPark.I’dtriedtogetalittlesleepbeforehandbackinthesparebedroomatmyapartment,butitwasimpossible.Closingmyeyesjustseemedtomagnifyeverything,ifthatmakesanysense.InmylapnowwasaNikon
D4,the300mmlenspeekingoutbeneaththebottomoftheDailyNews.Withtheweatherwarmandbreezyandnocloudsinsight,Icouldn’t
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haveaskedforamorepicture-perfectday.Aboutthirtyyardsinfront
ofmewasthefamousfountainknownastheAngeloftheWaters,thelilybeingheldinthebronzestatue’slefthandrepresentingthepurityofthecircularpoolaroundher.Clairehadtoldmethat.IsuspecteditwaswhyI’dchosenthelocation.That,andthecrowdsofpeople.Therewerejoggerspassingby,
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localssippingcoffeeandhangingout,evensomeearly-birdtouristslookingintheirguidebooksorjustlookinglost.Allinall,safetyinnumbers.Clairehadcleverlyhidden
theStopperbehindherseatinthetaxi,butherothertwophoneshadbeeninherpurse,whichhaddisappearedwithherkiller.Hesuredidn’thaveitwhenheshowedupdeadinthetubattheLucinda.
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Questionwas,whohadthephonesnow?I’dsentthetexttoClaire’s
BlackBerry,thephoneprovidedandpaidforbytheTimes.Iwasposingasaconfidant—someonesheknewandtrusted—andasrolesgo,itwashardlyastretch.Thetoughpart,ineverysense,wasactingasifshewerestillalive.Timingwaseverything.Thetexthadtobesentbeforeherdeath
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hadmadethemorningnews.Samethingforthemeeting.Ruupyet?Needtocu
asap.Thinkkidmightbetellinguthetruth.Meetmeinpark,farendofBethesdaFountat9.Somethingtoshowu.Tenminuteslater,afterI’d
lefttheLucinda,thereplycame.AtextfromClaire’sBlackBerry.Ok,cuthere.
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EvenifClairehadstillbeenalive,Iwould’veknownthereplywasn’tfromher.Shehatedtheshorthandoftexting,countlesstimescomplainingtomethatitwasdumbingdownkidsandadultsalike.Notonlywouldsheneveruseshorthand,butshemadefunofmewheneverIdid.Ok,seeyouthere,she
would’vetyped.Notavowelorconsonantless.
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Eitherway,thetimeandplacehadbeenset.Allthatwasleftwastheguestlist.Myendwassimple.Itwasjustme.Icould’vetoldLamontaboutit,butthatwould’vechangedeverything.Policedetectivesmightnot
havetheequivalentofaHippocraticoath,buttherewasnowayLamontwould’veallowedmetosetthistrapalone.He’deither
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havetohandcuffmetoalargeinanimateobjectfarfromtheparkorberightnexttomebythefountain.Mostdefinitelywithbackup.Thatwasthedifference,
really.WhyIhadn’ttoldhim.Hisjobwastoarrestpeopleforwhattheydid,notwhytheydidit.IfIhadinvolvedhim,he’dimmediatelyhavebroughtthispersoninforquestioning.Possessionofstolengoods,atthebare
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minimum,withaneyetowardaccessorytomurder.Orwasitaccessories?Who
knewwhocouldshowup,orhowmany?Thatwastheirendoftheguestlist.SoIhadtobepatient.Take
pictures.Nottaketheminforquestioning.Betheirshadow.Identifythem,followthem,andfigureoutthewhy.Becauseifyouwanttogetsomerealanswersfrompeople,thelastthingyoudo
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isletthemknowyou’rewatchingthem.Ipulledbackmy
shirtsleeves,checkingmywatch.Twominutesafternine.AsmuchasIdidn’tknowwhoIwaslookingfor,Iknewitwasn’ttheelderlymanandwomandeepinconversationwho’dbeensittingbythefarsideofthefountainsinceI’darrived.Turningthepageofthe
DailyNewsspreadbetween
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myhands,Icontinuedtopretendtoread.Throughdarksunglasses,Ikeptpeekingabovethepaper,myeyesscanningforanyonewhomightbeapproaching,oratleastlookinginthedirectionof,theelderlycoupleonthebench.Theminuteskeptticking
away.Noonelookedsuspiciousoroutofplace.Thenagain,neitherdidI.OrsoIthought.
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IwasabouttocheckthetimeagainwhenIfeltthequick,shortvibrationofmycell.Itwasanincomingtext.Onlyitwasn’tfromClaire’sphone.Infact,Ididn’tknowwhosephoneitwasfrom.Thesenderwasanonymous.Getoutofthere!itread.Butitwastoolate.
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CHAPTER22
HECAMEoutofnowhere.Amanwearingsunglassesevendarkerthanmine,walkingaroundthecurveofthefountainandheadingstraighttowardme.Notfast.Notslow.Just
walking.Theclickofhis
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heelswitheachstepnowtheonlysoundintheworld.HowhadImissedhim?Hewasdressedinadark
suitwithanopen-collaredwhiteshirt.Helookedtobeinhisthirties.Short-croppedblondhairandingoodshape.Icouldn’tseehiseyesbehindthosesunglasses,butIhadlittledoubttheyweren’taimedatanyoneelse.Icouldliterallyfeelhisstare.
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Orwasitjusttherushoffearshootingupmyspine?Suddenly,Ididn’tknow
whattodowithanypartofmybody.Myfeetwerestucktotheground,myhandsfrozenandlockedintheair,thenewspaperpinchedbetweenmyfingertipsfeelingasheavyasoneofthoseleadblanketstheycoveryouwithbeforeanX-ray.Hehadanewspaper,too.
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Ididn’tseeitatfirst,thewayitwastuckedneatlyunderhisleftarm.NowitwasallIcouldlookat.Therewassomethingaboutit,howitwasfoldedsotightlyasiftherewassomething…shit.Insideit.Hisrightarmwasabluras
itswungacrosshisbody,hishandoutstretchedwithhisfingersspread.Allatonce,hisleftarmloosened,thepaperholsterslidingdownto
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hiselbowwhilebeginningtoopen.Thewayhecaughttheguninmidair,Iwasinstantlysureoftwothings.One,he’ddonethisbefore.Andtwo,Iwassimplydone.It’snottruewhattheysay.
Youdon’tseeyourlifeflashbeforeyoureyes.Youseeyourdeath.Inslowmotion,noless.He’dcometoacomplete
stop,tenmercilessfeetinfrontofme,withtheAngelof
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theWatersrisingupbehindhim.Butshewasn’tlookingmyway.Otherswere,though.There
wasawomanscreamingtomyleft,herhighpitchandvolumesendingnearbypigeonsscatteringintheair.Tomyright,therewasthesoundoffeetscampering,someoneliterallyrunningforhislife.Gun!Gun!Gun!Ihearditall.Still,I
couldn’tmove.
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Hisarmbegantounfold,thebarrelofthegunliningupwithmyhead.ItwastheonlythingIcouldsee.Until,outofnowhere,therewassomethingelse.Itwasanotherblur,I
couldn’tseewhatexactly.Moreimportantly,neithercouldmyexecutioner.Hewasbeingblindsided,someonetacklinghimatfullspeed.Likealinebacker.
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CHAPTER23
IWATCHEDasbothbodiesslammedagainstthepavementandrolled,atumbleofarmsandlegshurtlingoverandover.Icouldn’ttellwhowaswho,butIwasconvincedIknewoneofthem.Lamont!Ithadtobehim.
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Butitwasn’t.Asthebodiesseparated,bothsprawlingontheground,Icouldtellthisguywasyounger.Hewasatleasthalfthedetective’sage.Andnotnearlyasbig.Bigenough,though.I
certainlywasn’tcomplaining.Hepushedhimselfup,
standingquickly,ifnotalittlewobbly.“Thegun!”hebarked,pointing.
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Ihadn’tseenitgoflying,butthereitwas,matteblackagainsttheterracottaoftheRomanbricksaroundthefountain.Itwasclosertomethantohim.Asforthegun’soriginalowner,hewassomewhereinbetweenandstaringrightatit.Thenatme.Thenrightbackatthegun.Itwasupforgrabs.Isprangfromthebench
intoaheadfirstdivewhilemy
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camera,launchedfrommylap,shatteredtopieces.Scoopingupthegun,Iwhippedmyarmandlockedbothelbows,anddammitiftheviewwasn’tsomuchbetterfromthisangle.“Staydown!”Iyelled,
jabbingthebarrelofhisBerettaM9straightathischest.Withitsfifteen-roundstaggeredboxmagazine,heandIbothknewIcould
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remindhimoverandoverwhohadtheupperhand.Yeah,Iknewguns.Iknew
themwell.EversincemyhighschooldaysatValleyForgeMilitaryAcademy.Ishotthem,cleanedthem,tookthemapartandputthembacktogetheragain.Evenoncewhilenaked,blindfolded,andbeingblastedbyapowerwasherduringtheschool’sversionofHellWeek.Ihatedguns.
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“Callnine-one-one,”Isaidwithaquickglanceattheguywho’dsavedmylife.Man,didhelookyoung.Hewaspracticallyakid.Hell,hewasakid.Hewasalsowayaheadofme,hiscellalreadyinhand.“Onit,”hesaid.Icouldhearhimperfectly
amidthehushthathadfallenovertheterraceandthefountain.NeverhadsomanyNewYorkersbeensoquiet
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allatonce.Icouldfeelthem,though,astheybeganpeekingoutfromwhatevertheywereduckingbehind,atleastthosewhodidn’thavethecameralensesfromtheircellphonestrainedonme.IwasabouttotrendmightilyonYouTube.Allthewhile,Ikeptmy
eyesfixedonthemanontheground,hopinghewouldn’tevenblinkuntilthepolicearrived.Turnedout,hisgun
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wasn’ttheonlythingthathadgoneflyingwhenhewastackled.Gone,too,werehissunglasses.Goodthing.Ifhe’dstillhadthemon,I
wouldneverhaveknownabouthispartner.
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CHAPTER24
ITWASN’Tmuchofapokerface.Infact,ifanything,Icould’veswornhecrackedtheslightestofsmilesthesecondheglancedovermyshoulder.Followinghiseyes,I
quicklyturnedtoseetheonlypersoninthecrowdwhowas
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actuallyrunningtowardus—asecondguyingreatshapesportingshort-croppedhairandapparentlythederigueurwardrobeamongtheassassinset.Darksuit,whiteshirt,opencollar…andasemiautomatichandgun.Somuchformyhavingthe
upperhand.Hewasracingdownthe
fartherofthetwomassivestaircasesthatconnectedBethesdaTerracetothe
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Seventy-SecondStreetCrossDrive.Fiftyyardsawayandgaining.Fast.HemightaswellhavebeenMoses,thewaypeoplewerepartingforhim.Wieldingadeadlyweaponhasafunnywayofdoingthat.“C’mon,let’sgo!”saidthe
kid.Thekid.Thewayhe’dsaidit,asif
thereweren’tevenadecision,itallclicked.HewasClaire’s
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source.HewastheoneattheLucinda.Hewaswhatthiswasallabout—eventhoughIstillhadnoideawhatthiswasreallyallabout.Exceptthatthiswashim.Thekid.“C’mon,”herepeated.
“Let’sgo!”Hetookoff,hurdlingthe
concretebenchwhereI’dbeensitting.Hewassprintingacrossthelawn,headingforthecoverofthetreesliningtheLake.Ididn’tneedany
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morepromptingtofollowhim,butitcameanywaywiththecrackofasingleshotsplittingtheair.Peopleandpigeonswerescatteringalloveragain.Imighthavebeentheonly
otheronewithagun,butthebulletwasn’tintendedforme.Assassin#2wasaimingforthekidandnearlygothim,thedivotofgrassflyingupamerefoottohisleftasheran.Therewasabetter-than-good
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chancetheguywasn’tgoingtomisstwice…unlessIdidsomething.Hoppingovertheconcrete
bench,Ididn’trunrightaway.Instead,Ispunaround,crouched,andletgowithafewrounds.Thenafewmore.Notathim,though.Youstillsmiling,buddy?Theguyonthegroundhad
seemedalltoopleasedtostaythereandwatchmesweat,butasIsprayedacircleof
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bulletsaroundhim,hewasquicktofindthefetalposition.Evenquickerwashispartner,whogotthemessage.Fromafullsprinthestoppedonadime,loweringtheguntohisside.Iwasabouttotellhimto
layitonthegroundandbackaway.Problemwas,Ididn’thavemuchofaplanfromthere.Iwasjustbuyingtime,andonlyafewextrasecondsatthat.Assoonashestepped
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back,Iwastakingoff,andthenwe’dseehowfastwebothcouldrun.ThatwaswhenIglanced
upandsawher.Thereshewas,theAngelof
theWaters,perchedhighintheairandwatching.Nowshewaslookingoutforme,andherplanwasahellofalotbetter.Ijerkedmyheadatthe
fountain.Ididn’tneedtoexplain.Infact,Ididn’tsay
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anotherword.AllIdidwaskeepaimingwhereIwasaiming.MaybeIhaveitinmeto
shootyourassholepartner,ormaybeIdon’t.Butdoyoureallywanttotakethechance?Mytwowould-bekillers
exchangedglances,theoneonthegroundnoddingsomewhathelplesslyattheonewiththegun.Henodded
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back.Then—plop!—hetosseditintothefountain.OneMississippi,two
Mississippi,three…Iwaswaitinguntilthe
countwasten,longenoughforthebarreltofillwithwater.Woulditstillfire?Sure.Butfirsthe’dhavetofishitoutandshakeitdry,andeventhenthecompressionwouldbeoff.Andasforme?
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EightMississippi,nineMississippi,ten…Iwasoffandrunning.Sprintingformylifeacross
theopenstretchofgrass,Icouldfeelmylungsonfire.OnlywhenIreachedthetreesdidIlookbackforthefirsttime,relievedashelltoseetheyweren’tchasingafterme.Still,Ikeptrunning.Fear
oftheunknown,partly,andtheresthopingIcouldfind
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thekid.Buthewasnowheretobefound.Until,thatis,Ifeltthequickvibrationofmyphoneagain.Itwasanothertextfromhim.Last4ofurSS#Iknewrightawaywhathe
wasdoing—makingsureitwasreallymewhohadmyphone.Heobviouslyhadn’thungaroundtoseehowthingsplayedoutbackatthefountain.Couldn’tblamehim.ButIalsocouldn’t
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figureouthowhewouldknowmySocialSecuritynumber.JustaddthattothelitanyofquestionsIhadforhim.Itextedbackthelastfour
digits,andwithinsecondsherespondedwithalocationwhereweshouldmeet.Finally,Iwasgoingtogetsomeanswers.Carefulwhatyouwishfor
…
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CHAPTER25
IDIDN’TlookaroundthestreetbeforeopeningthedoortotheOakTavernonSeventy-FourthoffBroadway,butIknewhewaswatchingmefrombehindsomestooporparkedcar,ormoreaccurately,watchingtoseeifanyonewasfollowing
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me.Thekidwasn’tdumb.Thatwaswhyhewasstillalive.Thatwaswhywewerebothstillalive.Sothisguywalksintoa
barwithaBerettaM9tuckedunderhisshirt…MostNewYorkerscantell
youthatlastcallinthecityis4a.m.Farfewerofthemcantelltheflipside—firstcall,thetimeatwhichabarcanlegallystartserving.It’s8a.m.Iknewitonlyastrivia.
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Forsure,thefourguysscatteredalongthestools,whodidn’tevenbothertoglancemywayasIapproachedthebartender,knewitasawayoflife.“DoubleJohnnieBlack,
rocks,”Iordered.ThefactthatIwashaving
whiskeyforbreakfastdidn’tseemnearlyasrelevantasmyhavingjusthadagunaimedatmyhead.DrinkingtonumbthepainofClaire’sdeathwas
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onething;drinkingtosettleanentirebodyoffrayednerveswasanother.Thebartender,tallandthin
andhunchedwithage,nodded,completelyexpressionless,beforeheadingofftograbthebottle.HemightaswellhavehadasignhangingaroundhisneckthatreadNOJUDGMENTS.Waitingforhimtoreturn,I
lookedaroundabit.Fittingly,theOakTavernwasa
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genuinethrowback,notthekindofplacethathungreproductioncraponthewalltoimitateatimegoneby.Instead,whathungonthe
wallwasactualcrapandoldasshit.SignedphotosofD-listcelebritiesfromtheseventies.Apaintingofahorsethatlookedasifithadbeenboughtatoneofthosehotelartfairsoffthehighway.Andrightnexttoit,
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acoatrackmissinghalfitspegs.Genuineaswellwasthe
mustysmelloftheplace.Icouldpracticallyfeelthedusttravelingupmynosewitheachbreath.“Fivefifty,”saidthe
bartender,standinginfrontofmeagainandpouring.Igavehimseven,picked
upmyglass,andheadedfortherearofthetavernandarowofbooths.Theywere
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thoseclassichigh-backones,thecrimsonleathersowornandcrackeditlookedlikeamarbleizedporterhouse.Islidintothelastboothontheleft,beyondthelineofsightfromthebar.Afewminuteslater,the
kidarrived.Ashewalkedtowardme,I
noticedthatalmosteverythingabouthimwasacontradiction.Hewasskinny,withunusuallybroad
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shoulders.HehaddisheveledhairandslackerclothesandwasstaringaheadwiththemostfocusedeyesI’deverseen.Hisgaitwasslowanddeliberate,andyethishandscouldn’tkeepstill.Hewasrubbingthemtogetherasiftheywereundersomeimaginaryfaucet.Thekidsatdownacross
frommewithoutsayingaword.Nointroduction.Noofferofahandshake,either,
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lestoneofthosehandsofhismightactuallyhavetostopmovingwhilewaitingtogripmine.Finally,hespoke.“Sorryforallthis,”hesaid.Thatwasthebiggest
contradictionofall,asfarasIwasconcerned.“Forwhat?”Iasked.“Yousavedmylife.”“I’mtheonlyreasonitwas
everindanger,dude.”“We’llgettothatina
moment,”Isaid.“That,andwhetherI’mreallygoingto
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letyoucallmedude.Butspeakingofnames,what’syours?Anddon’tsayWinstonSmith.”“It’sOwen,”heanswered.“Andyoualreadyknow
mine,don’tyou?Amongotherthings.”Henodded.“Areyousomekindof
hacker?”Iasked.“It’snotwhatIdofora
living,ifthat’swhatyou’rewondering.”
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“Okay.Whatdoyoudoforaliving?”Butitwasasifhehadn’t
heardme.Or,morelikely,asifheneededtoaskafewquestionsforhimselfbeforeansweringthatone.
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CHAPTER26
“WHAT’SYOURconnectiontoClaire?”“Closefriend,”Ianswered.
Itwasagoodenoughexplanationforthetimebeing.“Areyouareporter?”“No.”
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“Youdon’tworkattheTimes?”“No.”Hehesitated,reluctantto
askhisnextquestion.Heneededtoknow,though,andIneededtotellhim.“She’sdead,isn’tshe?”he
asked.“Yes,”Ianswered.Iexplainedhowithad
happened.Hisheaddropped.“It’smyfault,”hesaid.“Everything.”
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“Clairewould’vebeenthefirsttotellyouthatisn’ttrue,”Isaid.“AndI’dbethesecond.”“Howdoyouknow?”“BecauseIwaswithher
beforeshewenttomeetyou.Thiswasherjob,Owen.It’swhatshedid.”“Soyouknewaboutme?”Ismiled.“No.Clairenever
discussedhersources.Idon’tevenknowhowshefoundyou.”
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“Shedidn’t—Ifoundher,”hesaid.“Iknewherwork.That’swhyIcalledher.”“Whenwasthis?”“SheandIspoketwodays
ago,”hesaid.“Iwasplanningoncomingupherenextweek.”“Whatchanged?”Hereachedintohispocket,
takingouthisiPhone.Afterafewtaps,hehandedittome.Onthescreenwasanobituaryfromtheonlineeditionofthe
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SunGazettedowninVirginia.“Dr.StephenHellerman,48,LeadingNeurologist,”theheadlineread.Apictureofaclean-cut,good-lookingguywasunderneath.“Who’sthat?”Iasked.“Myboss.”Ileanedin,squintingto
readthefirstfewsentences.“‘Anearly-morninghomeinvasion’?”
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“That’swhatitwasmadetolooklike.Theyshothiminthehead.Then,lastnight,theyalmostgotme,too.”“Who’sthey?”“I’mnotsureyet.Iwas
hopingClairecouldtellme.”Werewehomingin,I
wondered,orjustgoingaroundincircles?“Whywouldsheknow?”Iasked.“Thepieceshewrotelast
yearabouttheCIAblacksiteinPoland.”
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Iknewthearticlewell,ifonlybecauseClairewasinWarsawfortwoweeksresearchingit,andmissedmybirthday.“Thesecretjail?”“Yeah,inStareKiejkuty,”
hesaidwithaperfectPolishaccent.Impressive.StareKiejkutywasaPolish
intelligence-trainingsitetuckedawayinaforestabouttwohoursnorthofthecapital.ClairegotaguidedtourofitfromPolishofficials,thekey
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wordbeingguided.Asshedescribedit,thewholepurposeofthetourwastoconvincehertheCIAwasn’tusingaspareroomortwotointerrogatesuspectedMuslimterroristsoutsidethereachofUSlegalprotections.“Soyouhaveactualproof
thatit’saCIAblacksite?”Iasked.Thekidshookhishead
slowly.“No,whatIhavegoes
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waybeyondthat,”hesaid.“Waybeyond.”
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CHAPTER27
“DOYOUknowthenameAbdullahal-Hazim?”Owenasked.“No,”Isaid.“ShouldI?”“Hewasthoughttobethe
numbertwoguyinAlQaeda,”heexplained.“Ofcourse,it’sprettysillyhowweimagineterroristgroupsto
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bestructuredlikeourowngovernment,withaneatlyorganizedlineofsuccession.Let’sjustsayal-HazimwasoneoftheringleadersbasedinYemen.”“Was?”“Aboutayearago,the
StateDepartmentannouncedhe’dbeenkilledbyadroneattackintheShabwahprovince,”Owensaid.“IfI’mnotmistaken,theTimesgave
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ittwocolumnsabovethefoldintheInternationalsection.”Twocolumnsabovethe
fold…“YousoundlikeClaire,”I
said.“Therewasthestory,andthentherewaswherethestorywasplaced.”“Inthiscase,though,the
storywaswrong.”“Theguy’sstillalive?”“No,al-Hazimisdead,all
right.Itjustwasn’tadroneattackthatkilledhim.”
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Withthat,Owenslidoutoftheboothandjoinedmeonmyside.Ididn’tknowwhathewasdoinguntilheremovedasmalldevicefromhispocket,attachingittotheLightningdockonhisiPhone.Itwasoneofthosetinyportableprojectors.Weweregoingtothemovies.Thebackrestofthebench
wherehe’dbeensittingbecamethescreen.Thevideowasblack-and-whiteandas
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grainyastheleatherofthebooth,butitwasclearenoughtoseewhatwashappening…andtowhom.“That’sal-Haziminthe
chair,”saidOwen.TheMiddleEasternman
wasprobablyinhislatethirties,withashortbeardandrimlessglasses.Iwashardlyanexpertonbodylanguage,butthiswasaneasyread.Al-Hazimwas
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tryingtoactdefiantbutwasclearlyscaredtodeath.“ThisisfromStare
Kiejkuty?”Iasked.“Yeah.”Theroomwasaverage-
sizedandwelllit,albeitwithnowindowsIcouldsee.Thechairal-Hazimwasshackledto—handsandfeet—wastheonlyfurniture,atleastinfrontofthecamera.ThereweretwomalevoicesinthebackgroundspeakingEnglish,
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butIcouldn’tmakeouttheconversation.IturnedtoOwen.“What
aretheysaying?”“Ihaven’tbeenableto
makeitout,”heanswered.“Keepwatching,though.”Ileanedforwardfora
quickpeektowardthefrontofthetavern.Icouldn’tseeanyone,andnoonecouldseeus;thiswastrulyaprivatescreening.IfIhadn’tbeensointrigued,Iwould’vebeen
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moreawareofhowsurrealthisallwas,evenbyNewYorkstandards.WhatthehellamIaboutto
see?Torture?Somesortofconfession?Acombinationofboth?OrisitD,noneoftheabove?Ikeptwatching.Seconds
later,threemenenteredthepicture.Twowereinsuitsandties,whilethethirdwaswearingawhitemedicalsmock.Thatman,presumably
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adoctor,washoldingsomethingasheapproachedal-Hazim.“Isthatasyringe?”Iasked.“Yes.”“He’snotgettingaflu
shot,ishe?”Owenshookhishead.
“Nope.”
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CHAPTER28
THETWOmenrestrainedal-Hazim,oneofthemgrippinghiminaheadlockasthedoctorswabbedthesideofhisneckwithanalcoholpad.Quickly,thedoctorinjectedthecontentsofthesyringeintothecarotidartery.All
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threethensteppedoutofframe.Asal-Hazimsimplysat
thereashehadbefore,IwasabouttoaskOwenwhatwasgoingon.ThatwaswhenIheardamanclearinghisthroatoffcamera.Thissound,unlikethepreviousconversation,Icouldhearperfectly.“Whatisyourname?”the
manasked.
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Immediately,anothervoiceoffcameratranslatedthequestionintoArabic.Ihadn’tsuddenlylearnedthelanguage—therewereactuallysubtitlesatthebottomoftheframe.Itwaslikeaforeignfilm,albeitnotthekindClaireandIwouldwatchattheAngelikadowninSoHo.Al-Hazimdidn’tanswer,
andeverythingrepeateditself.Onevoiceaskedthe
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questionagaininEnglish,theothertranslateditagaininArabic.Andonceagain,al-Hazimdidn’trespond.“AreyouamemberofAl
Qaeda?”camethenextquestion.Thetranslationfollowed,alongwiththesubtitles.Still,al-Hazimdidn’tsayaword.Thensomethingstrange
startedtohappen.Itwasasifhischairhadbeenelectrified,althoughnotwithasudden
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jolt.Rather,aslowbuild.Hisarmsandlegsbegantoshake,hisfacecontorting.Hewasclearlyfeelingpain.“Areyouawareofany
plansbyAlQaedatokillAmericancitizens?”camethethirdquestion,theinterrogator’svoiceunchanged.Itwascalm,placid,evenasal-Hazimbegantoshakeuncontrollablyasifhewerehavingaviolentseizure.Hewasinagony,and
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noonewaslayingafingeronhim.Meanwhile,thequestion
wasrepeated—louder,finally,soastobeheardabovethemetalcuffsaroundhisanklesandwrists,whichwerenowclankingandrattlingincessantlyagainstthechair.“Areyouawareofany
plansbyAlQaedatokillAmericancitizens?”
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Ifhewas,al-Hazimstillwasn’tsaying.Iwasn’tsurehecouldevenifhewantedto,atthispoint.Hismouthwasopenasiftoscream,buttherewasnosoundcomingout.Hiseyesrolledback.Helookedpossessed.Therewasnocontrol,notanywhere.Hisjumpsuitdarkenedaroundhiscrotchandthighs.Hewasurinatingonhimself,ifnotdefecating.
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Suddenly,everythingstopped.Likesomeonehadpulledtheplug.Al-Hazimcollapsedinthechair,hisbodylimpandlifeless.Thedoctorinthewhite
smockreappearedandplacedtwofingersontheneck,exactlywherehe’dadministeredtheshot.Heturnedandshookhisheadtothosebehindthecamera.Hisfacewasasexpressionlessas
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thebartenderwhohadpouredmemywhiskey.“Christ!”wasallIcould
sputteratfirst.Iwasstillstaringattheoppositesideoftheboothandwhatwasnowjustanemptywhitesquarebeingprojected.Itwasallsinkingin.Finally,IturnedtoOwen.“Thesyringe.Whateverwasinitkilledhim,right?”“Technically,no,”hesaid.“Technically?”
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Hefoldedhisarmsonthetable.“Whatyoujustsawwasactuallyasuicide.”
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CHAPTER29
BEFOREIcouldaskwhatthehellthatmeant,Owenreachedforhisphoneandbegantappingthescreenagain.Hewasbringingupanothervideo.Itwasadoublefeature.“Ifthisisthesamething
withadifferentprisoner,I
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don’tneedtoseeit,”Isaid.“Justwatch,”saidOwen.HehitPlayandpositioned
thephoneagain,theimagebeamingacrosstheboothasithadbefore.Sameroom,samechair,differentMiddleEasternmanchainedtoit.Hisbeardwasslightlylonger,andhedidn’twearglasses.Theonlyotherdifference
wasthathefilledouthisjumpsuitmore.Helooked
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bloated,puffywheretheremightotherwisebeedges.Maybeforthatreason
alone,hisblankstaredidn’tseemasdetermined.Thesamethreemen
enteredtheframe,theoneinthewhitesmockadministeringtheshot.Astheyretreatedbehindthecamera,Iwasalreadybracingforwhatwastocome.Itcame.Themanwas
askedhisnameinEnglish,
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followedbyArabic,andherefusedtoanswer,onceandthentwice.Aswithal-Hazim,the“symptoms”started.“AreyouamemberofAl
Qaeda?”camethenextquestion,andagainherefusedtoanswer.Butthatwaswhenthingstookaturn.Ashisheavybodyshook
andconvulsed,theman’sfacelookedasifhewereinatug-of-war.Hewastryingtofightthepain,notgiveintoit,but
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ashisteethgnashedandthetendonsinhisneckstretchedsotightIthoughttheywouldsnap,heopenedhismouthnottoscream…buttotalk.“Yes,”readthetranslation
beneathhim.Thevoiceofthe
interrogatorresumed.Socalmly,soeerily.“SoyouadmitthatyouareamemberofAlQaeda?”“Yes,”themanrepeated.
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Andnosoonerhadhedonesothantheshaking,theconvulsing,theoutrightagonyhewasexperiencingbegantodissipate.Quickly,theinterrogatorfollowedup.“Areyouawareofany
plansbyAlQaedatokillAmericancitizens?”Secondspassedastheman
remainedsilent—andmotionless—inthechair.Hewasclearlydecidingwhattodo,howtoanswer.His
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foreheadwasdrippingsweat.Hedidn’thavemuchtime,andheknewit.“No,”heanswered.“I
don’tknowanything.”Hetriedtosellit,hiseyes
pleadingdesperatelywitheveryonebehindthecameratobelievehim.Theroomwassilentforanotherfewseconds…andthencamethesound.Thehandcuffs,theanklecuffs—theybegantorattleagainstthechair.Hisfaced
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seizedup,hisdarkeyespracticallypoppingoutofhishead.Everythingwasstartingallover,onlyfasterandmoresevere.“Yes!”hescreamed.In
English,noless.“Yes!Yes!Iknowofplans…”Andforasecondtime,
everythingstopped.Nomoreconvulsing,nomorepain.Nomorevideo,either.Itendedabruptly.
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Owenturnedtome.“Gofigure,huh?Ofallthings,it’stheplanstheydidn’twantrecorded.”“Howthehelldidyouget
these?”Iasked.“It’salongstory.”“I’vegotnothingbut
time.”“Yeah,that’swhatIused
tothink.”Igotwhathewassaying.
Hislifewasnevergoingtobethesame.Maybethatwas
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whyhewaseyeingmyglassasIthrewbackthelastofmywhiskey.“Youwantone?”Iasked.“Nothanks,”hesaid.Butitwasthewayhesaid
it,likeitwasn’tevenapossibility.“Howoldareyou,bytheway?”“Nineteen.”“Areyouinschool?”“No,”hesaid.“Iwork.”“Whatdoyoudo?”
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“Idesignartificialneurologicalimplants.”Istaredathimblankly.“Yeah,Iknow,”hesaid.
“ButSubwaywasn’thiring.”Thekiddefinitelyhada
snarkystreak.Inagoodway,though.Clairewould’velikedhim.HeandIwereallalonein
thebackoftheOakTavern,everyoneelseoutofearshot.Still,Icouldn’thelploweringmyvoiceforwhatIwas
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abouttoask.Itwasjustoneofthosekindsofquestions.“DoyouworkfortheCIA,Owen?”Henoddedathisphone.
“Notanymore,I’mguessing.”“Andthoseinjections,
whatwejustwatched.Didyouhavesomethingtodowiththat?”“Itdepends.”“Onwhat?”“Whetheryouthinkthe
WrightBrothershad
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somethingtodowithnine-eleven,”hesaid.Heslidoutofmysideoftheboothandbackintohisbeforeexplaining.“Iwasworkingonartificialneurotransmittersforthehumanbrain.I’mnotasap,Iknewtherewerepossiblemilitaryapplications.ButIalsoknewthattheywerethecurefordozensofneurologicaldiseases.Sometimesyoujusthavetotakethegoodwiththebad.”
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“Untilyousawthebadwithyourowneyes,”Isaid.“Iwastheirmissinglink.
Theyhadisolatedalltheneurologicalchanges,everythingthebraindoeswhenwelie,buttheydidn’tknowhowtomanipulateit.”Hedrewadeepbreath,exhalingwithregretwellbeyondhisyears.“IthoughtIwascuringAlzheimer’s.”Theironywasinescapable.
“Theyliedtoyou.”
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“No,notexactly,”hesaid.“Thosepeopleintherecordings—themeninsuits,thedoctor—Idon’tevenknowwhotheyare.”“Buttheyknowwhoyou
are,don’tthey?Theyknowyouwantedtogopublic,andnowtheywantyoudeadandanyoneelseyoumighthavetold.”Ileanedback,sinkinginto
theboothasthoselastwordsofminehungintheairfora
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fewseconds.I’dsaidthemthinkingentirelyaboutClaire.Thatwaswhenitdawned
onme,themorningI’dhad.Iwasleavingsomeoneoutoftheproverbialriskpool.Me.Asifoncue,Owentilted
hisheadand,ofallthings,smiled.“Welcometotheclub,dude.”
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BOOKTWO
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STRANGERTHAN
FICTION
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CHAPTER30
BRETTONSAMUELMorris,tenmonthsintohisfirsttermaspresidentoftheUnitedStates,shookwhatremainedofhisbourbonandrocks,thespringwatericecubesrattlingagainstthecrystalofhisfavoriteglass.Tink-tinkity-tink.
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Theglass,speciallycommissionedfromWaterfordandfeaturinganetchedAmericanflagononesideandabaldeagleontheother,hadoriginallybeenagifttoRonaldReaganfromthepresidentofIreland,PatrickHillery.Intotal,therewerefourglassesintheset,butafteravisittotheWhiteHousebyBorisYeltsinafewyearslater,onlythreeremained.TheRussianleader
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notoriouslycouldn’tholdhisliquor,andsincehewasmissingthethumbandforefingeronhislefthand,heapparentlycouldn’tholdtheglass,either.“Whattimeisit?”asked
thepresident,breakingthesilenceoftheOvalOffice.Hewasstaringoutthewindowbytheeastdoor,whichledtotheRoseGarden,hisbackturnedtotheonlyother
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peopleintheroom,histwomosttrustedadvisors.ClayDobson,thechiefof
staff,glancedathiswatch.“It’sapproachingmidnight,sir.”Thepresidentdrewadeep
breathandthenexhaled.“Yeah,thatfigures….”Inlessthantwelvehours,
theSenateconfirmationhearingforLawrenceBasstobecomethenextdirectorofCentralIntelligencewas
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scheduledtobegin.Withtheextensivebackgroundchecklongsincecompleted,confidenceintheWhiteHousehadbeenridinghigh.SincethedaysofGeorgeTenet,noonedaredusethephraseslamdunkanymore,buteveryonewascertainlythinkingit.Bass,thecurrentdirector
ofintelligenceprogramswiththeNSC,didnotkeephighlyclassifiedinformationonhis
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unsecuredhomecomputer;hedidnotbelongtoanall-whitecountryclub;hedranksocially,andsparinglyatthat;hepaidSocialSecuritytaxesforhisGuatemalanhousekeeper;hedidnotsecretlyliketodressupinwomen’sclothing;andhedidnothaveathingforlittlegirls.Or,forthatmatter,littleboys.LawrenceBass,theearly-to-bed-early-to-riseex-marineandSilverStarMedal
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recipient,hadbeenvettedbacktohisdiapers.Checkedandrechecked.Everythinghadcomeupclean.Spic-and-span.Spotless.Thepresidentturnedfrom
thewindow,facingtheroom.“Tellmethismuch,atleast,”hesaid.“Areyouabsolutelysurewhatyou’vegotistrue?”“Assureaswecanbe,”
saidDobson,glancingdownatthefileinhishands.He
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thenwatchedasthepresidentnoddedslowly.“So,basicallywhatyou’re
sayingis…we’rescrewed.”“That’sonewaytolookat
it,sir,”saidIanLandry,sittingcross-leggedonthefarsofa.TheWhiteHousepresssecretarythenshiftedtohisbreadandbutter:thespin.“Ontheflipside,knowingthere’saproblemnowsurebeatsthehelloutofknowingitafterthehearingtomorrow.
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Atleasttonightwehavesomeoptions.”“Whodoyouguyshavein
mind?”askedthepresident.Dobsondidn’thesitate.
“Karcher,”hesaid.“Karcher?Hewasn’teven
ontheshortlist.”“That’snotwhattheTimes,
thePost,andPoliticowillbereportinginacoupleofdays,”saidLandry,allbutbragging.
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“AndwhataboutBass?”askedthepresident.“WhatamItellinghim?”Withaquicknod,Landry
deferredtoDobson.Goldenparachuteswerestrictlythechiefofstaff’sdomain.“YousimplytellBassthat
hissupportcollapsedinthewakeoftheassault-riflebanbill,andthathe’sthesacrificiallambfortheRepublicansonthecommitteelookingfor
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payback,”saidDobson.“I’lltakecareoftherest.Afterthreemonths,he’lllandonKStreetclearingamillionfiveayear.Trustme,he’llplayalong.He’llhavenochoice.”Tink-tinkity-tink.The
presidentrattledhisglassagain,hiseyesnarrowinginthought.Fivesecondspassed.Thenten.“Okay,”hesaidfinally.
“Wakethepoorsonofabitchup.”
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DobsonandLandrybothquicklyassuredtheirbossthathewasdoingtherightthing.Then,evenfaster,theylefttheOvalOfficebeforehecouldchangehismind.PresidentMorriswasprone
tothatsometimes.Uncertainty.AsaBlueDogDemocratfromIowa,hemanagedastraight-shooterpersonainpublic,butbehindcloseddoors,accordingto“unnamedsources,”hehada
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tendencytoagonizeoverdecisions.Hiscriticsrelentlesslyseizeduponthisastheultimatesignofweakness.AparticularlyscathingarticleintheNewYorkObserverwentsofarastoattributeittohisheight,orlackthereof.Onlytwopresidentsinthepastcenturyhavemeasuredundersixfeettall,thearticlepointedout:JimmyCarterandBrettonMorris.
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ButashesatbehindhisdeskandwaitedforDobsontopatchhiminwithBasssohecouldbreakthebadnews,PresidentMorrisfeltsomethingdeepandstronginhisgut.Somethingcertain.Thatthisnight,ofallnights,wasgoingtohaunthimfortherestofhislife.Clearly,Dobsonhadn’t
sharedthedetailsofthatfileinhishandsbecausewhatwasinthatfilecould
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embarrassthehelloutoftheadministration,ifnotworse.Givingspecificstohisbossmeantknowingthetruth,andknowingthetruthmeantaccountability.Rule#1:Presidentsdon’t
getimpeachedforthethingstheydon’tknow.Soleaveitatthat,right?
LawrenceBasshadbeeninvolvedinsomethingheshouldn’thavebeen,andwhateveritmightbewas
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enoughtokeephimfrombecomingthenextdirectorofCentralIntelligence.Therewasjustone
problem,onemorethingthepresidentdidn’tknow.ThatfileinClayDobson’shand?Therewasnothinginit.Itwasempty.
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CHAPTER31
“WHOIShe?”askedDobson,pausingbeforeasipofcoffee.Atninea.m.thefollowingmorninginhisWestWingoffice,hewasalreadyonhisthirdcupoftheday.Atleastthreeadditionalcups,ifnotmore,would
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followbeforenoon.Alwaysblack.Justblack.Nosugar.“Maybeit’sbetterifyou
don’tknow,”repliedFrankKarcher,sittingontheothersideofDobson’sdeskwithhisthickarmsfolded.ThecurrentNationalClandestineServicechiefoftheCIAneverdrankcoffee.Nordidhesmokeorconsumealcohol.Fromtimetotime,though,hedidgiveorderstohavepeoplekilled.
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Thiswasthefirsttimethetwoweremeetingpublicly,asitwere,inDobson’soffice.Forthepasttwoyears,theyhadmetinsecret,aroutinethathadbeennosmallfeatgiventhatthebeatbloggersworkingthenation’scapitalmadeHollywoodpaparazzilooklikeagoraphobicslackers.Theemptyparkinggaragesaftermidnight,theabandonedwarehouseinIvyCity—thatpartoftheirplan
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wasover.ItwouldnowbeexpectedthatKarcher’snameshowupontheWhiteHousevisitors’log.Dobsonforcedasmile,an
attemptatpatiencewithhisstrangestofpoliticalbedfellows.“IfIdidn’tneedtoknowtheguy’sname,Frank,youwouldn’tbesittinghere,”hesaid.“Yourmessismymess.”Karchercouldn’targue
withthat,choosinginsteadto
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simplyscratchthebackofhisverylargeheadbeforeopeningthefileinhislap.Thisonewasn’tempty.“HisnameisTrevorMann,”hebegan,summarizinginbullet-pointfashion.“FormerManhattanADAwithanoutstandingconvictionrate…lefttobecomegeneralcounselforahedgefund…apparentlythatdidn’tgotoowell.”
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“Whathappened?”askedDobson.“Thefirmwassuedbyone
ofitslargestclients,thePolicePensionFundofNewYorkCity.Thisguy,TrevorMann,discoveredduringthetrialthatthehedgefundmanagerswerewithholdingevidencethatshould’vebeengiventotheprosecution.Inshort,thecopsweregettingscrewedoutofprofits.”
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KarcherwasabouttocontinuewhenheglancedupatDobsonandsuddenlystopped.TherewassomethingaboutDobson’sexpression,althoughKarchercouldn’tquitepegit.“Whatisit?”heasked.“Nothing,”Dobsonlied.
“Goon.Orbetteryet,letmeguess.Thelawyergrewaconscienceandsoldoutthehedgefundmanagers.”
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“Somethinglikethat,”saidKarcher.“Heendedupbeingdisbarred.Nowhe’steachingatColumbiaLaw.Ethics,noless.Justfinishedhissecondyearthere.”Dobsontookanothersipof
coffee,leaningbackinhischair.HeknewthatKarcher,allsixfoottwoandtwohundredandfortypoundsofhim,couldbeasickfuckwithashortfuse,ifprovoked.
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ButDobsonalsoknewwhattheyhadincommon,whathadinitiallybroughtthemtogether.Acompleteandthorough
understandingofleverage.
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CHAPTER32
“FRANK,DIDyouevertakeLatin?”Karcher,abitwaryofthe
lackofseguefromDobson,slowlyshookthatlargeheadofhis.Whenhefirstenlistedinthearmyoverthirtyyearsago,theyhadtospecial-order
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hishelmet.“I’massumingyoudid?”heasked.“Yeah,fouryearsofitat
PhillipsExeterAcademy,”saidDobson,fullyawareofhowpretentiousthatsounded.“Andyouknowwhattheironyis?TheonlyLatinexpressionthat’severhadanymeaningtomewhatsoeverinmyjobisonethatmostanybodywouldknowwithoutstudyingthe
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languageforasinglegoddamnday.Quidproquo.”Karcherwaswell
acquaintedwiththeexpression.HealsoknewwhereDobsonwasheadingwithit.Butbeforehecouldevenopenhismouthtomounthisdefense,Dobsonwentrightontalking.“Lastnight,Iconvinced
thepresidentoftheUnitedStatestomakeyouthenextdirectoroftheCIA.You,
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Frank.Notthehalfdozenorsomorequalifiedmenatthetopoftheintelligenceworld,butyou.Ididthisbecausethiswasouragreement,whatyougotinreturnforhelpingmewithmyplan.Andeverythingwasgoingwellwiththatplan,wasn’tit?”Dobsonpaused.Itwasa
rhetoricalquestion,buthestillwantedatleastanodfromKarcher,somethingthatwouldmakeitallveryclear.
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NotthatKarcheragreedwithhim.Screwthat.Rather,thatKarcherunderstoodjustwhoexactlyhadtheleverage.Solet’sseeit,bigboy.Tilt
thathugemelonofyoursupanddownlikeagoodsoldier.Andthereitwas,righton
cue.Itwastheslightestofnodsbutanodjustthesame,andforaproudmanlikeKarcher,easilymorepainfulthanpassingacactus-sizedkidneystone.
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Dobsoncontinued.“Sonowyou’reheretellingmethatnotonlyisthekidstillaliveupinNewYork,butthere’salsoanewguy,theboyfriendofthereporter,whomightknoweverythingaswell?”“I’lltakecareofit,”said
Karcher.“Thatsoundsawfully
familiar.”“Thenwhatdoyouwant
metosay?”
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“Nothing.Iwantyoutodo,”saidDobson.“Asin,whateverittakestocleanthisup.Doyouunderstand?”“Yes.”“Quidproquo,Frank.”“Igotit.”Thehellhedid,thought
Dobson.“Quidproquo!”heshoutedatthetopofhislungs.“Iwantmyfuckingquidproquo!”Karcherdidn’tsayanother
word.Notevengood-bye.He
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stoodupfromhischairandwalkedoutofDobson’soffice.Cavequiddicis,quando,et
cui.
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CHAPTER33
PARANOIA,Iwasquicklydiscovering,hasasoundallitsown.Loud.“Christ,doyouhearthat?”
IaskedaswewalkedsouthalongBroadwayafterleavingtheOakTavern.Owenturnedtomewithout
breakingstride.“Hearwhat?”
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“Everything,”Isaid.Itwasasifsomeonehad
grabbedagiantmunicipaldialwithtwohandsandturnedupthevolumeontheentirecity.Theclankingofaconstructioncraneoverhead,theidlingenginesofthebumper-to-bumpertraffic,theback-and-forthchatterofthepeoplewepassedalongthesidewalk—IcouldheareverysinglenoiseManhattanhadtooffer,louderthaneverbefore.
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Andeachone,Iwasconvinced,wantedtokillme.“It’sactuallyprettycool,if
youthinkaboutit,”saidOwen.Thatwasn’texactlythe
reactionIhadinmind.“Cool?”“Yeah.Three-point-eight
billionyearsofevolutiontuckedawayinyourDNA,”hesaid.“Survivalinstincts.Hearbetter,livelonger.”
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WecametoastopataDON’TWALKsignatthecornerofFifty-EighthStreet.MyneckwascraninglikeLindaBlair’sinTheExorcist.Wewereoutintheopen,twosittingducks.“Areyousureitisn’thidebetter,livelonger?”“Iknowhowitmust
seem,”hesaid,“butwe’reactuallyfineforabit.”“Whatmakesyouso
sure?”
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“TheAchilles’heeloftheintelligencecommunity,”hesaid.“Theyonlyactonintelligence.”“Meaningwhat,exactly?”“Ourtwofriendsfromthe
parkaretoobusyrightnowturningyourapartmentupsidedown.Theywanttoknowwhatyouknow.They’llcombthrougheveryharddriveyouhave;they’llhackyourphonerecords,bankandcreditcardaccounts,anythingand
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everything.Thenthey’llwaitandhope.”“Forwhat?”“Forustodosomething
foolish,”hesaid.“Thatremindsme.CanIborrowyourphoneforasecond?”“Sure,”Isaid,handingitto
him.“Hey!Whatthehell?”Thekidpromptlytookmy
iPhoneanddroppeditdownthesewer.Plop.“Nowwe’refineforabit,”
hesaid.
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Igotit.GPS.Onoroff,it’salwayson.Inwhichcase…“Whataboutyourphone?”
Iasked.Iknewhehadoneonhim.“Let’sjustsaymyphone’s
configuredalittledifferently.”TheWALKsignalflashed.
Itmightaswellhavebeenastarter’spistol.Owenimmediatelytookoff,crossingBroadwayandheadingeastonFifty-Seventh
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Street.Iwasstrugglingtokeepupwithhimineverysense.“Wherearewegoing?”I
calledout.“Itoldyou,”hesaidover
hisshoulder.“Ineedtomakeastop.It’scloseby.”Ijoggedupalongsidehim.
Thekidwasaworkout.“Yeah,butyoudidn’tsaywhere.”“It’srightupahead.”
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Aswewalkedanotherblock,Icouldn’thelppicturingthetwoguysransackingmyapartment.Asunsettlingasthatwas,though,theideathattheywerethereinsteadofgettingreadytoleapoutfromaroundthenextcornerwithgunsblazingmanagedtomuffletheloudnessbetweenmyears.Still…“Ifwe’resupposedlysafe
forabit,”Isaid,“whyare
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youwalkingsodamnfast?”“Marginoferror,”hesaid,
hisshouldersliftingwithaquickshrug.“There’salwaysthechanceIcouldbedeadwrong.”Andjustlikethat,thecity
wasscreamingintomyearsagain,rightupuntilthenextcorner,whereOwenstoppedonadimeandpointed.“There,”hesaid.“That’s
wherewe’regoing.”
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Ifollowedthelineofhisfingeracrossthestreettoagiantglasscube,atleastthreestorieshighandjustaswide.Ifithadbeenshapedlikeapyramid,wewould’vebeeninfrontofI.M.Pei’sentrancetotheLouvreinParis.Instead,itwastheentrance
totheApplestorebeneaththeconcourseoftheGeneralMotorsBuilding.IsthekidbuyingmeanewiPhone?
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“Whatdoweneedtodointhere?”Iasked.“Whatthey’rehopingfor,”
hesaid.“Somethingfoolish.”
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CHAPTER34
OWENLOOKEDasifhewerecasingthejoint,butonlytome.TotherestofthestorehesimplylookedlikeanotherApplefanboybrowsingaboutthetablesofiPads,iPods,andiPhones.Iwasfollowingclosely
behindhim.“Arewewaiting
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forsomething?”Ifinallyasked.“Orsomeone?”Owenstoppedinfrontofa
MacBookPro,anglingthescreentowardhimabitbeforeclickingontheiconfortheSafariWebbrowser.Icouldn’ttellifhe’devenheardme.“McLean,Virginia,”he
said.“Excuseme?”“That’swheretheveryfirst
Applestoreopened.Itwasin
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amallcalledTysonsCornerCenterinMcLean,Virginia.”“Iwould’veguessed
somewherenearCupertino,”Isaid.“Yeah,Iwould’veguessed
thesamething.”Hewastypingaseriesoflettersandnumbersintothesearchbar.Itlookedlikegibberish.“Instead,SteveJobsopenedthefirststorenearlythreethousandmilesawayfromhis
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headquarters.”Owenturnedtome.“Interesting,huh?”“Isuppose.”“Ofcourse,youknow
what’salsoinMcLean?”heasked.ThismuchIdidknow.Or,
atleast,Iwasabletofigureitoutgiventhekid’srésumé.“Langley,”Ianswered.Henodded.“Justsaying.”Withthat,hepunchedthe
Enterbutton,thescreeninstantlygoingblackasif
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he’dturneditoff.Justasquick,itflashedbackonwithaburstofwhiteandaloadingiconI’dcertainlyneverseenbeforeonaMacoranyothercomputer,forthatmatter.Weweren’tinKansasanymore.“Anyblue-shirtslooking
thisway?”heasked,typingwhatlookedtobeapassword.Ilookedaround.Allthe
Applestoreemployeesin
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theirblueT-shirtswerebusywithothercustomers.“Allclear,”Isaid.For
what,though?ASwissbankaccountwithdrawal?ReroutingplanesoverKennedy?Owenpulledaflashdrive
fromhispocket,slidingitintoaUSBportandpullingupavideofile.Immediately,Irecognizedtheimage.Thebeigecarpet,thebeigewalls,
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theseamlesstunnelofblandness…Onceagain,Iwasbackat
theLucindaHotel.Theangleofthevideo—
lookingdown—wasfromtheendofthehallwayontheseventeenthfloor.MyfirstthoughtwasthatOwenhadtappedintoafeedfromasurveillancecamera,albeitacoloronewithasuper-crisppicture.Whywouldthe
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Lucindaspringforthat?Theywouldn’t.“Iattachedthecamera
abovetheexitsignbythestairs,”saidOwen,allbutreadingmymind.“It’swireless.”Heinterruptedthelivefeed
tocueupthefootagefromthebeginning,backwhenhefirstcheckedintothehotel.Hehadrecordedeverything.Everysecondofeveryminuteofeverypersonwhowanted
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tokillfirsthimandthen,later,me.Hewasfast-forwarding
throughitall,butitwasallrightthere,surrealashell.Claire’skillerarriving.Owenleaving.Myshowingup,followedbytheduofromBethesdaTerrace,who,afterwieldingtheirmagicpliers,indeedpulleddoubledutyastheworld’sfastestcleanupcrew,completewithremovingClaire’skiller
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wrappedinablanket.Perhapsthemostunsettlingpartaboutthatdetailwashownonchalanttheywerecarryingadeadbodytowardthestairwell.Justanotherdayattheoffice.Nextcamethearrivalof
thepoliceandmeagain.Or,atleast,itwould’vebeen.Owenhadpausedtherecording,rewindingslowlybeforestoppingonacleanshotofoneofourwould-be
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assassins.Withacrop,cut,andpaste,OwenfedtheimageintowhatIgatheredwassomekindofrestrictedpersonnelfileoftheCIA.Butnothingwashappening.“Shit,”hemutteredunder
hisbreath.“Somuchforthefrontdoor.”Thatwaswhenthingsgota
bitfreaky.Owenreachedintohis
otherpocket,pullingoutasmallcontactlenscase.
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BeforeIcouldevenaskwhatthehellhewasdoing,he’dputared-tintedlensinhislefteyeandstareddirectlyintothetinycameraabovetheMacBookPro’sscreen.Now,suddenly—open
sesame—everythingwashappening.Pixelatedfragmentsoftheguy’sfacialfeatureswerebouncingfromonephototothenextatthespeedofastrobelightwhilechartsandgraphsmeasured
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thesimilarities.Seizurealert.ThescreenlookedlikethelovechildofaPowerPointpresentationandapinballmachineontilt.“Thismighttakeawhileto
getamatch,”saidOwen,removingthelensfromhiseyewithaquickpinch.“Youjusthackedyourway
intotheCIA,didn’tyou?”Iasked.Helookedatmeand
flashedthequickest—and
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guiltiest—ofsmiles.“Hackedissuchanuglyword,”hesaid.
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CHAPTER35
OWENWATCHEDthescreenandwaited.IwaitedandwatchedOwen.Hewasdoingthatthingagain,washinghishandsunderanimaginaryfaucet.Andme?WhatwasI
doing?
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Fromtheget-go,theverybeginning,I’dbeenplayingcatchup.WhokilledClaire?Whowasthesourceshewasgoingtosee,andwhatdidheknow?NowIknew.Sowhat
next?Itseemedprettyobviousto
me.Ofcourse,thatshould’vebeenmyfirstredflag.“Owen?”Isaid.“Yeah?”
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Hiseyesremainedlockedonthescreen.Hewasbarelyevenblinking.Thatwasfine.Hedidn’tneedtolookatmesolongashelistened.“Weneedtogotothe
police,”Isaid.“Yeah,Iknow.Thatmakes
sense.”“Good.”“Butwe’renotgoingto.”“Whynot?”“Becauseitdoesn’twork
thatway,”hesaid.“They
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can’thelpus.”“Theycanatleastprotect
us.”Hethrewmealook.“You
reallythinkso?”Ithadoccurredtome.
MaybeIwasn’tseeingthebigpicture,oratleasthowitlookedfromhispointofview.“Youwanttogotoanotherpaper,isthatwhatyou’resaying?Maybeanewsnetwork?”Iasked.
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Finally,hestoppedrubbinghishandsandturnedtome.Thewordswerecalmandmeasured,butthemeaningwasanythingbut.Tohellwithwhistle-blowing.Thiswasnolongeraboutgoingpublic.Thiswasnowpersonal.“Adecisionwasmadeto
killmyboss…thenClaire…thenme…thenyou,”hesaid.“Andifyoucanmakeadecisionlikethat,you’renot
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worriedaboutthelaw.You’reabovethelaw.”Attorneys,especially
formerprosecutors,generallybristleattheideaofanyonebeingabovethelaw.Thenagain,I’dbeendisbarred.“Whatexactlydoyouhave
inmind?”Iasked.“Theonlywaytosmoke
themoutistoremaintheirtarget,”hesaid.“Thinkaboutit.Aslongasthey’recomingforus…”
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“It’sapathrightbacktothem,”Isaid.Owennodded—bingo—
beforeglancingbackatthescreen.“Nowwejustneedalittlebackgroundinformation,”hesaid.“Alwaysgettoknowbetterthepeoplewhowantyoudead.”Wordstoliveby.Sothereyouhadit.Why
wewerestandinginthemiddleofanApplestore
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playingmatch-dot-comwiththepersonnelfilesoftheCIA.Letthemcomeafterus,Owenwassaying.Let’sbefoolish.“CanIborrowyourphone
foraminute?”Iasked.“Iseemtohavelostmine.”Owenignoredmysarcasm.
“Whoareyoucalling?”“Noone.”Hestillwasn’tsure,buthe
handedittomeanyway.ThenhewatchedasImadea
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beelinetotheaccessoriessection,pullingani-FlashDriveofftheshelf.AsIbegantoopenthe
package,afemaleblue-shirtwithaponytailandgeek-chicglassescameoverinapanic.ShelookedasifI’djustdefacedtheMonaLisa.“Sir!Youcan’tjust—”“Howmuchisit?”Iasked,
reachingformywallet.Shecranedherneckto
checktheprice.“Forty-four
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ninety-five,”shesaid.“Plustax.”Igaveherfifty.Then,
beforeshecouldtellmesheneededtoscanthebarcode,Iremovedthedriveandhandedoverthepackaging.“IthinkI’llpassontheextendedwarranty,”Isaid,walkingaway.IreturnedtoOwenwhile
pluggingthedriveintohisphone.“Whatarethefilenamesofthetworecordings
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youshowedmeattheOakTavern?”Iasked.Hegavemethenamesand
Itransferredthemtothedrive.Ihandedhimbackhisphone.“Thanks,”Isaid.Hemotionedtothedriveas
Iputitinmypocket.“What’sthatfor?”“JusttellmewhereIcan
meetyouinanhour,”Isaid,takingacoupleofstepsback.“Wait.Whereareyou
going?”
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Ireachedformysunglasses,slidingthemon.“Marginoferror,”Isaid.“Justincaseyougetusbothkilled.”
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CHAPTER36
IQUICKLYwroteeverythingdownontheonlyblankpieceofpaperIcouldgetmyhandsoninthebackofthecabtakingmeacrosstowntoEighthAvenue.Itwastheflipsideofalogsheetthedriverwasusingtokeeptrackoffares.Hewas
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finelettingmehaveit,althoughwhenIalsoaskedforhispenandclipboarditwasclearIwaspushingmyluck.“Youwanttodrive,too?”
heasked.Afterhedroppedmeoffin
frontoftheNewYorkTimesBuilding,itdawnedonmehowlongithadbeensinceI’dlastsetfootinClaire’soffice.Onereasonwasthatshedidn’tactuallyhavean
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office,justadeskoutintheopenintheverycrowdednationalaffairssection.VisitingClairewaslikebeingonthewrongsideofthebarsatthezoo.Noprivacy.Youwereessentiallyondisplay.Theotherreasonwasthe
guysittingtwentyfeetfromherdeskwhoactuallydidhaveanoffice,aBritbythenameofSebastianCole.BeforeIfirstmetClaire,sheandSebastianhadabrief,
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hush-hushofficeromancethat,accordingtoClaire,“wasthesecond-best-keptsecretafterDeepThroat.”“Youmightwanttogo
withadifferentanalogy,”Isuggestedaftershetoldmethat,ononeofourearlydates.“Atleastformybenefit.”Irememberedweboth
crackedupoverthat.Anyway,asClaire
describedit,shewasyoung
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andhewasherboss,asurefirewaytojeopardizeyourcareerevenbeforeyoureallyhaveone.Afterfourmonths,sheendedit.Inthegrandtraditionofthe
Britishstiffupperlip,Sebastianhandledherbreakingupwithhimwithaplomb,sparingheranyretaliationsuchasreassigninghertotheobituarydepartment.Goodforhim.
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EvenbetterforClaire.Asforme,thatwasadifferentstory.Thetrueextentof
Sebastian’scopingabilitieswasputtothetestacoupleofyearslateratcocktailpartythrownbyanothereditorinnationalaffairs.ThetestconsistedofsevensimplewordsspokenbyClaire.Sebastian,I’dlikeyoutomeetTrevor…SomuchfortheBritish
stiffupperlip.Instead,Igot
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thestinkeyealongwithallthebloodyattitudethatanOxford-educated,bow-tie-wearingchaphailingfromStoked’Abernoncouldthrowmyway.SebastianhatedAmericanlawyersandhatedevenmoretheideathatClairewouldbewithone.Atleast,thatwashowsheexplaineditlater.Iwasmorepartialtotheadagethatguyswillbeguys,especiallywhenitcomestogirls.Jealousyrulestheday,
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andattheendofitwe’realljustalyricinaJoeJacksonsong.Isshereallygoingoutwithhim?Butthatwasthen.Thiswas
now.Clairewassuddenlygone,andneitherofuswouldeverbewithheragain.ThatwascertainlythesubtextasIsatdownwithSebastian.Letbygonesbebygones.“I’minshock,”hesaid
frombehindhisdesk,slowlytwistingapaperclipinhis
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hands.Icouldtellhe’dbeencrying,ashadeveryoneelseI’dpassedenroutetohisoffice.“Shockisagoodword,”I
said.Wediscussedthedetailsof
howhe’dheardthenews,anearly-morningphonecallathomefromtheexecutiveeditor.“Wherewasshegoing?”
Sebastianasked.“Seeingasource,”Isaid.
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Iwatchedhisfacecarefully,lookingforatell.IfheknewanythingaboutOwenandhisrecordings,he’dneveradmitit.Notverbally.WhileIwas99.9percentsureClairehadn’tsaidanythingtohimoranyoneelseatthepaperyet,the.1percentchancethatshehadwouldcertainlygrowwithaslighttwitchorflinchfromSebastian.Buttherewasnothing.
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Nor,Iwassure,wouldtherebeanythingtobefoundonthecomputeratherdesk.EversincesomeChinesehackersinfiltratedtheGrayLady’scomputersystemsbackinthefallof2012,Clairekeptallhersensitivefilesonherpersonallaptopandnowhereelse.Ofcourse,maybethose
“Chinesehackers”werereallyjustOwenshowingofffromanApplestorein
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Beijing.Anythingwaspossibleatthispoint,Ifigured….“Idon’tmeantoberude,”
Sebastiansaidfinallyafteranawkwardsilence.Weweresimplystaringateachotheracrosshisdesk.“ButI’mfairlycertainyoudidn’tcomeherejusttocommiseratewithme,Trevor.”“You’reright,”Isaid.“I
needtoaskyoutodosomething.”
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“Youmean,likeafavor?”“Sortof.Although
dependinghowthingsplayout,Imightactuallybetheonedoingyouafavor,”Isaid.“Confusedyet?”“Intriguedismorelikeit.”“That’sgood,”Isaid.
“Nowtellme,onascaleofonetoten,howstrongisyourwillpower?”“Mywillpower?Isthisa
trickquestion?”
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“No,I’msimplylookingforthetruth.”“Inthatcase…nine-point-
five,”heanswered.“How’sthat?”“I’mnotsure,”Isaid.“Why?Whatnumberwere
youlookingfor?”Ifoldedmyarms.“Ona
scaleofonetoten?Eleven.”
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CHAPTER37
I’DPIQUEDhisinterest.Sebastianwasanewsman,afterall.Hewasactuallyleaninginabitoverhisdesk,waitingformetoexplain.“First,canIborrowan
envelopeandapenforamoment?”Iasked.“Whatfor?”
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Icockedaneyebrow.“Really?”Thecabdriveronthewayoverhere—acompletestranger—hadgivenmelessofahardtime.Sebastianrelented,
reachingbehindhimtograbanenvelopefromhiscredenzabeforescoopinguparedfelt-tippennexttohiskeyboard.“Hereyougo,”hesaid.Hecouldn’tseewhatI
begantowriteinmylap.That
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wasonpurpose.WhatIdidwanthimtosee,however,wasthei-FlashDriveItookoutofmypocketwhenIwasfinished.AfterIplaceditinfrontof
meontheedgeofhisdesk,itimmediatelybecameallhecouldlookat.EvenmoresowhenIsealeditintheenvelopealongwiththenoteI’dwritteninthecabontherideover.
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Ihandedhimbackthepen.Thentheenvelope.“It’sallyours,”Isaid.Sebastianadjustedhis
horn-rimmedglassesashereadthefrontoftheenvelope.Helookedatme,thenattheenvelope,andthenbackatmeagain.“You’rekidding,right?”he
asked.“Unfortunately,no,”Isaid.“What’sthisallabout?”
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“It’sallinthenoteandontheflashdrive.”“No,Imeanthe
instructions.”Heflippedthefrontofthe
envelopearoundtome,butofcourseIknewwhatI’dwritten.OnlyopenintheeventofTrevorMann’sdeath.Admittedly,itwasabit
melodramaticasfarasinstructionswent,butI
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couldn’thavebeenmoreconciseordirect.“AndImeanit,too,”I
said.“TheonlywayyouopenthatenvelopeisifI’mdead.”“ThishastodowithClaire,
doesn’tit?”“Ofcourse.”“Whycan’tyoushareitme
whileyou’realive?”“Goodquestion,”Isaid.
“Butthat’saflashdriveforanotherday.”
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IwatchedasSebastianlookedattheenvelopeagain,staringatitnow.Heknewexactlywhatwasinhishands.Amajorstory.Frontpage,farrightcolumn,abovethefold.“Whywouldyoutrust
me?”heasked.“Becauseyouweretheone
whotaughtClaire,”Isaid.“‘Neverburnasource.’”Inthatmoment,theway
Sebastiannoddedwhile
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chokingbackatear,itwasasifClaireweresuddenlyintheroom.Althoughfortheveryfirsttime,shewasnolongerstandingbetweenus.“You’reanidiot,”hesaid.
“Yourealizethat,don’tyou?”“Yes.”“Shelovedyou.”“Iknow,”Isaid.“Imean,shereallyloved
you.”“Iknow.”
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Therestdidn’tneedtobesaid.IhadlovedClairejustasmuchasshehadlovedme—thatwasn’twhyIwasanidiot.IwasanidiotbecauseI
hadn’tdoneanythingaboutit.Standing,Ithanked
Sebastianforhistimeand,yes,histrust.“Keepitinasafeplace,”Ihalfjoked,referringtotheenvelope.Hesmiled,althoughIcouldtell
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therewassomethingelseonhismind.Hehesitated,fallingsilent.
“Trevor,maybeyoushouldsitdownagain,”hesaid.Slowly,Idid.“Whatisit?”
Iasked.“Iwasn’tgoingtotell
you,”hebegantoexplain,almostasifheweredisappointedinhimself.“NowIrealizethatwouldbewrong.”
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CHAPTER38
THEREWASN’TacloudintheskywhenIwalkedoutoftheTimesbuilding,butIwasinacompletefog.Dense.Thick.Furious.AllIcouldseewasthe
nextstepinfrontofme,nothingmore.IknewwhereIwasultimatelyheading,
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exceptIcouldn’tremembermakingthedecisiontogothere.Or,forthatmatter,eitherofthetwostopsbeforehand.Itwasabitlikesleepwalking.Inthemiddleofmyworstpossiblenightmare.“CanIhelpyoufind
something?”askedthesalesclerkattheInnovationLuggagestoreattheintersectionofSixthAvenueandFifty-SeventhStreet.Hewasablurstandingrightin
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frontofme.Hisvoicesoundedlikeadistantradiostation.“Ineedasmallduffelbag
thatcomeswithalock,”Isaid.“Alock,huh?”he
repeated,tappinghischininthought.“Combinationorkey?”“Itdoesn’tmatter.”“Willyoubeflyingwithit?
TheTSAfolkscan—”
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“Really,”Isaid.“Itdoesn’tmatter.”Heledmeovertoawall
displayofcubbyholesthatlookedlikeatic-tac-toeboard.Beforehecouldevenmakeasuggestion,IsawwhatIneeded.“Theoneinthemiddle,”I
said.Hetookdownthebagand
Igaveitaquickonce-over.Itwasblack,medium-sized,withasmallpadlock—the
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keyforit,alongwithaspare,hangingfromaziptiearoundoneofthehandles.“Yeah,I’lltakeit,”Isaid.“Doyouwantitinitsbox
orwouldyoulikethisone?”theclerkasked.Bythispoint,itwasabundantlyclearthatwhatIreallywantedwastogetthehelloutofthere.“Thisone’sfine,”Isaid,
alreadyreachingformywallet.
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Hespunthepricetagaround.“You’reinluck.It’sonsale.”“Good,”Igrunted,or
somethingtothateffect,asIpulledoutmyAmex.Ididn’tcareaboutthe
price.Ialsodidn’tcareaboutusingacreditcard.Thecharge—andmylocation—couldbetracedinaninstant.Evenquickerthananinstant.Itwouldbelikedrawinga
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straightlinetome,thenlightingitlikeafuse.Sobeit.Trevor,maybeyoushould
sitdownagain.There’ssomethingyouneedtoknow…“Areyouallright?”asked
theclerk.Hecertainlydidn’tthinkso.ItwasbadenoughthatIhadallthecharmandcharismaofacinderblock.NowIwasstandingtherefrozenlikeone.
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“Sorry,”Isaid,handingovermycreditcard.HeranitandIsigned.Ashehandedmebackthereceipt,Inoddedattheziptieholdingthekeys.“Doyouhaveanyscissors?”Heglancedaroundunder
thecounter,findingapair.“Here,letme,”hesaid,cuttingthetie.Thenheleanedinasifhewereabouttowhispersomenuclearcodes.“Justsoyouknow,thatlockreallydoesn’toffer
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muchprotection.It’ssuper-easytoopenwithoutthekey.”“Notifyou’reacop,”I
said.“Excuseme?”ButIwasalreadyhalfway
outthedoor.MeandtheFourthAmendment.Withoutjustcauseanda
warrant,mynewduffelbagmightaswellhavebeenFortKnoxwithtwosidepocketsandashoulderstrap.
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Goodthing.BecauseIwasn’taboutto
fillthatduffelbagwithjellybeans.
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CHAPTER39
WALKINGINTOabarwithaguntuckedunderyourshirtisonething.Doingitinabank?OneblockshyofmyChase
branchontheUpperWestSide,IdumpedtheBerettaM9inatrashcan.Ididn’tneedit.Trustme.
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“Doyouhaveyourkey?”askedthesafe-depositboxattendantonthelowerlevel.Maybethewomanpicked
uponmyvibe,ormaybethiswashowsheactedwitheveryonewhocamethroughthebank,buthermonotonedeliverywasmusictomyears.Therewouldbenopolitechitchat.Nodelay.Infact,sheevenhadherguardkeyraisedinherhand,readytogo.
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Quickly,Ireachedformykey—sandwichedbetweentheoneformyapartmentandtheoneformyofficeupatColumbiaLaw—andshowedittoher.Theirony.Ineverusedtokeepitonmykeychain.Then,oneday,I’daskedClaireaboutacertainkeyonhers.“ThiswayIdon’thaveto
rememberwhereIputit,”she’dtoldme.
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IneverknewwhatClairekeptinhersafe-depositbox.Ineverasked.ThatwasbecauseIdidn’twantheraskingwhatIkeptinmine.Shehatedthose“damn
things”evenmorethanIdid.Standingaloneinthesmall
viewingroomwithnothingbutwhitewallsandashelf,IopenedthelidandremovedanoriginalSIGSauerP210.Steelframe,woodgrip,lockedbreech.Oldschool.
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And,intherighthands,stillthemostaccuratesemiautomaticpistolintheworld.ThenoutcamemyGlock
34withaGTL22attachmentgivingitadimmablexenonwhitelightwitharedlasersight.AsaweaponsinstructorduringmyfirstyearatValleyForgeoncedeclaredwiththekindofsandpapervoicethatonlyalifetimeofsmokingunfilteredLuckyStrikeswill
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giveyou,“Sometimesshithappensinthedark.”Bothgunswentintothe
duffelalongwithfourboxesofammo,oneshoulderholster,andoneshinholster,thelatterbeingcustom-madetoaccommodatethelightandlasersightontheGlock34.LikeIsaid,Ididn’tneed
theBerettaM9.Finally,thereweresome
papergoods.Twowrappedstacksofhundredstotaling
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tengrand.Cashforarainyday.Or,inthiscase,whenitwaspouring.Andthatwasthat.
EverythingI’dcomefor,everythingIneeded.Beforezippingtheduffelclosed,Itookonelastlookinsideit.ThenItookonelastlookinsidethesafe-depositbox.IfonlyIhadn’t.Stickingoutfrom
underneathmybirthcertificatewasa1951
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BowmanMickeyMantlerookiecard.MyfatherhadgivenittomeaftermyveryfirstLittleLeaguegame.“Takegoodcareofit,”hetoldme.“It’syourturn.”Thecardwasfarfrommint
condition.Oneofthecornerswasdog-eared,andtherewereacoupleofcreasesalongtheside.Butithadbeengiventomebymyfather,whohadgottenitfrom
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hisfather,andthatmadeitabsolutelyperfect.Ipickedupthecard,
staringatitinmyhands,andsuddenlyitweighedamillionpounds.Mykneesbuckledandmylegsgaveout.Ifellbackagainstthewall,slidingslowlydowntothefloor.Icouldn’tstandup.Icouldn’tbreathe.Icouldonlycry.“Theautopsy…”
Sebastianhadbegun.
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Clairewasanorgandonor,soithadalreadybeenperformed.He’dseentheresults.He’dhadto.LeaveittotheTimestoneedacorroboratingsourcebeforereportingthecauseofdeathofoneofitsown.“What?”Iasked.“Whatis
it?”Sebastianhesitated,his
eyesavoidingmine.Butitwastoolateforsecondthoughts;hehadtotellme.
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“Clairewaspregnant,”hesaid.
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CHAPTER40
READYORnot,yousonsofbitches,hereIcome…Itookthestairs,walking
thesixflightsuptomyapartmentonthetopfloor.TheSIGSauerwasinmyhand,myhandwashiddenintheduffel,andtheduffelwashangingoffmyshoulder.
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Fogornofog,therewasasmallpartofmybrainthatknewexactlyhowstupidIwasbeing.Whateverfinelineexistedbetweenriskyandcrazy,Iwasnowherenearit.WhatIwasdoingborderedoninsane.Iwasawalkingdeathwish,andifithadn’tbeenfortherestofmybrain,Iwould’vesurelyturnedaroundandhightaileditoutofmybuilding.
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Buttherestofmybrainwasconsumedbyonething,andonethingonly.Loveofjusticepervertedtorevengeandspite.ThatwashowDantedefineditduringhistourthroughHell.Vengeance.Isharedthesixthfloorwith
onlyoneothertenant,atraderatMorganStanleywholefteachmorningatthecrackofdawn.Hisapartmentfacedthebackofthebuilding;mine
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facedthefront.Igotthenaturallight,hegotthequiet.Fittingly,therewasnothing
butsilenceasIpassedhisdoor,headingtowardmineattheoppositeendofthehall.OutcametheSIGSauer
fromtheduffel,leadingtheway.Allthewhile,Ikeptwaitingforasound,anoise,somethingupaheadtoletmeknowIhadcompany.Butthatwouldbetooeasy,Ithought.
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Sometimesyoujusthaveafeelingyou’reabouttocatchabreak.Thiswasn’toneofthosetimes.Whichwasallthemore
reasonwhyIwasn’texpectingthedoortomyapartmenttobewideopen,orkickeddown,orhangingoffitshingeslikesomegiantcallingcard.Andsureenough,itwasn’t.Thedoorwasclosed.
Locked,too.Easingmyback
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againstthewallandoutofthelineoffire,Ireachedoverfortheknob.Itbarelybudged.Maybethewhizkid,Owen,waswrong.Theynevercame.Theyweren’tinside.Maybe.Itookoutmykey—
everythingwasonekeyoranothernow—andunlockedthedoorasquietlyaspossible.Itwasalosingbattle.Therewassimplynopreventingtheaudiblesnap
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ofthedeadboltretreating.Inthesilenceofthehallway,thewaythesoundechoed,itmightaswellhavebeenagiantgongannouncingmyarrival.Iwaitedforamoment,
tryingtolistenagainintomyapartmentwhilestayingclearofthedoor.Icouldheareverybeatofmyheart,everyswallow,everybreathIwastaking—butnothingmore.Eachsecondpassingwasall
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themorereasontobelievenoonewaswaitingformeontheotherside.Still,thatdidn’tstopme
fromputtingtheduffeldownonthefloorandpullingouttheGlocktogowithmySIGSauer.Iwaslikethetitleofabadasswannabecountrysong.“Double-FistedwithPistols.”Ipeeledmybackoffthe
wall,myshirtdampwith
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sweatandstickingtomybody.Damn,it’shot.WhetherIwassteelingmy
nerveorjuststalling,Isuddenlyfoundmyselfcountingbackfromten.That,andthinkingofDanteonceagainandthefinallineoftheinscriptionheencounteredontheGatesofHell.Abandonallhope,yewho
enterhere.
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CHAPTER41
ISTEPPEDback,raisedmyrightfoot,andletitfly,myheelhittingthedoordeadcenterwithadeafeningbam!ThedoorflewopenandmyduffelbagquicklyfollowedasIkickeditintothefoyertodrawtheirfire.ButtheonlynoiseIheardwasthebag
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slidingacrossmyhardwoodfloors.Myturn.Crouchedlowwithboth
gunsdrawn,Iangledaroundthedoorframe,myeyesdartingleft,right,andeverywhere.Nothingmoved.Noonewasthere.Correction.Noonewas
stillthere.Creepyisn’tburstinginto
yourapartmenttoseeitransacked.It’sburstinginto
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yourapartmenttoseeeverythingasyouleftit…andstillknowingsomeone’sbeenthere.Owenwasn’twrong;I’d
hadcompany.Thevibewasimmediate.Theproofcamesoonafter.I’dalreadydoneaquick
sweepofeveryroomtoensureIwastrulyalonewhenIcircledbacktomyfoyerandtriedtothinkhowtheywouldthink.Owenhadsummedit
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up.They’dwanttoknowasmuchaboutme—andwhatIknew—astheycould.Istartedinmylibraryand
theeasiestegginthehunt,mylaptoponmydesk.Gone.Nextwasthefruitbowlin
mykitchen,wheremymailpiledupinsteadoffruit.Allthemailwasthere,butatthebottomofthebowlwaswhereIkeptasparekeytotheapartment,aswellasone
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formycarandmyofficeatColumbia.Allthreekeys?Gone.Bythen,theoldyew-wood
chestinmybedroomwasaforegoneconclusion.Ipulledopenthetopdrawerontheright,whichheldmypassportalongwiththeloneweaponIkeptintheapartmentforprotection,a9mmParabellum.Goneandgone.
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Theyhadmyharddrive.Theyhadaccesstomyhome,myoffice,mycar.TheyhadoneofmygunsandtheonlywayIcouldleavethecountry.Maybethey’dtakenafewotherthings,butbythatpointI’dstoppedlooking.ThenIjuststopped.Ifrozeinthemiddleofmy
bedroom,tryingtolisten.I’dheardsomething.Thesoundwasfaintbutdefinitelythere,oratleastsomewhere.I
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couldn’ttellwhereitwascomingfrom.Thereitwasagain.Itookafewwrongsteps
towardthedoorouttothelivingroom,onlytoturnaroundwhenIheardityetagain.Thesoundwascomingfrommybathroom.IwaspositiveI’dalreadylookedinthere.Itwouldn’thurttocheckagain,wouldit?Isureashellhopenot.
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Gunsupandelbowslocked,Iputonefootinfrontoftheotherandmovedtowardthebathroom.Afterafewsteps,Ihadthesoundpegged.Itwaswater.Notrunning,butdripping.Therewasnoneedto
channelChuckNorrisagain.Thedoortomybathroomwaswideopen.TheonlykickIneededwasonetomypants.Afterafewdeepbreaths,I
slowlypeeredaroundthe
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hinges…andsaweverythingI’dseenthefirsttime.Mysink.Mytoilet.Myshower.Nothingandnooneelse.Ker-plop.Immediately,myeyeswent
totheshower.Theslidingdoorsweretwo-thirdsclosed.Icouldseeenoughthroughthefrostedglasstoknowtheboogeymanwasn’tstandingbehindthem.Isimplyhadn’tturnedoffthewaterallthe
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wayaftershoweringthatmorning.Ishould’veknown,though.
Thedéjàvualonewasenoughofatip-off.Thosemotherfuckers…Afterafewstepsforward
toreachfortheknob,Itookonegiantjumpback.Iwasn’tsurprisedaboutanythingthey’dtakenfrommyapartment,notatall.Itwaswhatthey’dleft
behind.
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CHAPTER42
“DETECTIVELAMONT,please,”Isaid,althoughthe“please”washardlypolite.ItsoundedmorelikeRightaway,dammit!Icouldn’thelpit.Notthatitchangedthe
officer’sanswerontheotherendofthephone.“He’soff
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duty,doyouwanthisvoicemail?”No,Iwanthisactualvoice.
IstareddownagainatthebusinesscardLamonthadgivenme,evenflippingitovertwice,asifsomehowthatwouldmakehiscellphonenumbermagicallyappear.Itwasn’tprintedonthecard.“Isthereawayyoucan
reachhimforme?”Iasked.“It’simportant.”
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“Oh,waitaminute,”saidtheofficer,hisvoicetrailingoffasifhewerereachingforsomething.“There’sanotehere.AreyouTrevorMann?”“Yes.”“Holdonasecond.”Itwasmorelikethirty
seconds,butIhardlycaredsolongasthenextvoiceIheardwasLamont’s.Onsecondthought…“Whatthehellwereyou
thinking?”heimmediately
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barked,skippingrightpastanypleasantries.Thewayhesaid“hell,”itprettymuchrhymedwith“truck.”Hewaspissed.Iknewhewasreferringto
BethesdaTerrace.Therewereafewwayshecould’vefoundoutalready,butIwasn’tinterestedinasking.Ihadmyownlineofquestioning,beginningwith“Whereareyou?”
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“Athome,”heanswered.“Theypatchedthecallfromtheprecinct.Whereareyou?”“Athomeaswell.”“Itriedcalling.”“Ijustgothere,”Isaid.
“Moreimportantly,howfastcanyougethere?”“Why?”“Becauseyou’renotgoing
tobelievethis.”“Youmightbesurprised,”
hesaid.
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“NotasmuchasIwas.Claire’skillerisinmybathtub.”Iwasexpectingany
numberofresponsesfromLamont,allofthemfallingundertheheadingofdisbelief.Instead,Igotsarcasm.“Istheguystilldeadoris
hedoingthebackstrokenow?”heasked.“Youthinkthisisfunny?”
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“Doyouhearmelaughing?”No,Ididn’t.Thiswas
aboutmorethanBethesdaTerrace.Iwasmissingsomething.“Theymusthaveputhim
there,”Isaid.“They’retryingtoframeme.”“They,asinthetwofederal
agentswhojustleftmyapartmenttwentyminutesago?”heasked.“TheonesyoushotatinCentralPark?”
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“Theyweretheretokillme.Christ,whatthehelldidtheytellyou?”“Ithinkyou’regoingto
needalawyer,Mr.Mann.”“Iamalawyer,Detective
Lamont.”“YouknowwhatImean,”
hesaid.“We’regoingtoneedaformalstatementfromyouregardingClaireParker’smurder.”“AreyousayingI’ma
suspect?”
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“Morelikeapersonofinterest,”hesaid.“AndI’mhopefulyou’llcooperatewithus.”“Thisiscrazy.”“Withallduerespect,Mr.
Mann,I’mnottheonewithadeadguyinmybathtub.”“ButIcanprove—”HeshutmedownsofastI
wasactuallystartled.“You’llhaveyourchance,Iassureyou,”hesaid.
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Iwasbacktomyoriginalquestion.“Fine.ThenwhencanIexpectyouhere?”“Youcan’t,”hesaid.“It’s
notmyshift.DetectivesCharringtonandGoldsteinwillbetheresoon.We’vegottodothingsbythebook,Mr.Mann.”Hepaused.“Doyouunderstand?”“Yes,”Ianswered.Ifinally
didunderstand.Or,atleast,IwasprettysureIdid.AlotofyearshadpassedsinceI’d
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readthebookhewasreferringto.Itwastheonewehadincommon.Lamontwasn’ttickedoff.
Hewastippingmeoff.ThefasterIgotoffthatphone…Thebettermychancesof
stayingalive.
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CHAPTER43
“STUPID,STUPID,stupid…”Imuttered,beratingmyselfasIquicklyhungupthephone.Intheheatofthemoment,
attheshockofseeingClaire’skillerinmyownbathtub,I’dgottensloppy.LeaveittoLamonttocatchmymistake.
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Hewasnowtheofficialstudyguide—thehumanSparkNotes—for1984.Thetwodetectiveshetoldmewerecomingtomyapartmentinsteadofhimhadthenamesoftwoothercharactersfromthenovel.Hadhesaidonewithouttheother,Iprobablyneverwould’vemadetheconnection.Butthetwotogether?CharringtonandGoldstein?
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Bythetimehetackedon,“We’vegottodothingsbythebook,”IknewwhatLamontwastryingtotellme,theclevertomystupid.BigBrotherwasmostlikelylisteningin.Myphonelinewastapped.SonowtheyknewwhereI
was.Wherearethey?Idashedfromthephoneto
mylivingroomwindow,whichfacedthestreetbelow,pressingmynoseagainstthe
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glass.Therewasawindowlesswhitevandouble-parkeddirectlyinfrontofthebuilding.Theyhadn’texactlyspray-paintedBADGUYSonthehood,butIjusthadafeeling.Thiswasn’tthedrycleanersorafloristmakingadelivery.Norwasitthecableguy.Timetoparedown.Ikickedoffmyshoes,
threwthemintheduffelalongwithoneoftheguns—
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theGlock—andboltedfrommyapartment.Onceinthestairwell,Isilentlysteppedalongtheconcreteinmysocksforapeekovertherailing,fiveflightsdown.OneofthetwoguysfromBethesdaTerracewasturningthecornertothesecondfloor.Itwasonlyaglimpse,butthatwasallIneeded.Where’stheotherone?Iduckedbackintothe
hallway,eyeingtheelevator.
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Thefloorlightmovedfrom2to3,anditwasn’tstopping.Therewasmyanswer.Theoptionswereshrinking
fastasIruledouttheroof.TheclosestI’devergottentojumpingfromonebuildingtoanotherwaswatchingaNikeparkourcommercial.Withthealleywaysonbothsidesofmemeasuringatleasttenfeetwide,thiswasnotimeforacrashcourse,emphasisoncrash.
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Theonlyremainingoptionseemedtobestandingmygroundandlettingthebulletsfly.Itwastwoagainstone—notthebestodds—butprobablymybestchance.Unless.Imademywayovertothe
middleofthehallway.Therewereonlytwoapartmentsonthesixthfloor,buttherewerethreedoors.AsfastasyoucansayMontyHall,Iwasopeningdoornumberthree.
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LikeamomentstraightoutofThisIsYourLife,IwasflashingbacktooneofmyearliestcasesasaprosecutorwiththeManhattanDA’soffice.AsickohadkilledhiswifeintheirUpperEastSideapartmentandalmostgotawaywithit,thankstothewayhedisposedofherbody.Heliterallythrewherawaylikeyesterday’strash.Ofcourse,hedeniedit,so
oneofthethingsIhadto
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proveduringthetrialwasthata5-foot-7-inchwomanweighing145poundscouldindeedmakeitallthewaydownagarbagechute.Icameupwiththeideatofilmacrashtestdummywiththesamedimensionsandshowittothejury.Workedlikeacharm.Butwhatabouta6-foot-1-
inchmanweighing190pounds?
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Ipulledopenthechutewithmyfreehand,lookingintoablackrectanglethatmightaswellhavebeenablackhole.Therewasonlyonewayto
findout.
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CHAPTER44
ZIP-ZIP.IquicklyputtheSIGback
intheduffelwiththeGlock.Tossingthebagaheadofme,Ilistenedforthesounditmadeonimpact.Ahollow,echoing,bone-crushingBANG!wouldspellcertaindoom.
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Instead,whatcamebacktomyearswasmoreofamuffledthud,andwithitthedecentchancethattherewasenoughtrashintheDumpsterbelowtobreakmyfall.Callitonlypossibledoom.Ijumpedup,grabbingthe
exposedpiperunningparalleltothewall,andswungmylegsintothechute.CirqueduSoleilwouldn’tbecallingmeanytimesoon,butitgotthejobdone.Iwasin.
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GravitytookoverasIbegantofree-fall,asdidthepanicofnotbeingabletoslowmyselfdown.Myhandskeptslippingagainstthemetalliningofthechute,whichfeltlikeithadbeencoatedwithgreaseorwhatevergod-awfulslimehadbuiltupafteryearsandyearsoffunnelinggarbage.Ifthefalldidn’tkillme,maybethestenchwould.Butsofar,
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thesmartmoneywasonthefall.Iwasdroppingtoofast—
myhandswereuseless.Soweremyfeet,thesolesofmysneakersslidinglikeiceskates.Shit,thisisgoingtohurt….Plungingintothe
Dumpster,Ifeltmyrightkneebuckle,followedbyasharp,stabbingpaininmyleftthigh.Therewasplentyofgarbagetobreakmyfall,
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allright,butnoneofmyneighborswerethrowingouttheiroldpillows.Forafewseconds,Isimply
laytheresprawledlikeafrozensnowangel,catchingmybreathwhiletakingaquickinventoryofallmymovingparts.Nothingseemedbroken,butIcouldalreadyfeelthebruisesforming.Iwantedtoscreamoutinpain.Instead,Isettledforaslightmoan.Ihadto
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stayquietandlisten.Didtheyhearme?Withanyluck,thetwo
guyswerebackinmyapartmentsearchingformetoptobottomineveryroom.I’dnowhaveplentyoftimetoslipoutthebasementdoornearthestoragelockers.Somuchforluck,though.Iheardthesoundthe
secondIturnedtolookfortheduffelamidtheotherbagsofgarbage.Itwasthe
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creakingofhinges,oneofthedoorstothechutesomewherehighaboveme.Damn.Therewasnothingtosee
butdarknessasIlookedupintothechute.Still,Icouldpictureoneofthempeeringdown,tryingtotellifindeedI’dbeencrazyenoughtojump.Iwantedtomoveoutofthe
way,hugthesideoftheDumpster,butevenmorethanthat,Iwantedtostay
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absolutely,positivelyquiet.Ididn’tmove.Tensecondspassed.
Twenty.Everythingaroundme…everythingaboveme…wassilent.Ikeptwaitingforthesoundofthosehingesagain,thedoorclosingasoneofthemmaybeconvincedtheother.Nah,there’snowayhejumped.He’snotthatcrazy….Ifonly.
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Finally,itcame.ThesoundIwanted.Unfortunately,itwasprecededbythesoundI’dneverimagined.Crazy?We’llshowyou
crazy….
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CHAPTER45
LIKEAmissile,heshotintotheDumpsterheadfirst,hishandsoutstretched.HadIbeenstandingafewinchestotheleft,hewould’vecrushedmeforsure.IsupposeIshould’vefeltluckyaboutthat,butIwastoobusyfallingbackonmyassfrom
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theforceofhisimpacttogiveitmuchthought.Getup!Thosewerethe
onlytwowordsIwastellingmyself.IfIdidn’t,Iwasadeadman.Getup!Getup!Getup!IpushedoffwhateverI
could,tryingtostand.Hewasdoingthesame,althoughIcouldtellhewasfeelingthepainofhislanding.Hewashobbled,favoringhisrightleg.Buthisrightarmwas
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workingjustfineashedughishandintohisjacket.Hewasn’treachingforhisbusinesscard.Besides,we’dalreadymet
backatBethesdaTerrace.He’dbeenasplitsecondawayfromkillingmeuntilOwenintervened.ButOwenwasn’theretotacklehim.Itwasuptome.Ilungedforhim.Itwas
liketryingtodiveinoneofthosebirthdaybouncy
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houses,myfeetallbutgivingoutunderneathme.ThebestIcoulddowaswrapuphislegsandsendhimtopplingover,buthishandwasstillonhisholster.Mygunswereinmyduffel
somewhere.Hisgunwasathisfingertips.Blindly,Ireachedforthe
nearesttrashbag,swingingitacrossmybodyintohisashardasIcould.Thegunwentflyingashefellbackintothe
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pileofgarbage,hisheadbangingagainstthesteelwalloftheDumpsterwithahorrificcrack!Heshould’vebeenknockedoutcold.Instead,hewasjustgetting
warmedup.Screwthegun,saidhis
grin.He’dfinditlaterafterhebeatmetodeathwithhisbarehands.Ididn’tevenseethefirst
punch,alightning-fastroundhouse.Hehitmehigh
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uponthejaw,abull’s-eyetothemolars.Theonlythingthatkeptmeuprightwasthesecondpunch,aroundhousetotheothersideofmyhead.Thatonesplitmylip,thebloodsprayingeverywherelikeanexplodingpacketofketchup.HissmilegrewwiderasI
felltomyknees.Iwaspracticallyteedupforhim,abouttobelights-out.Webothknewit.Theonlything
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delayingtheinevitablewastheonethinghewantedtoknow.Hedangledthequestionasifitweremysalvation,theonlywayhe’dspareme.“Whereishe?”heasked.
“Where’sthekid?”Iwasdizzy,nauseous.My
visionwasquicklynarrowing,blurredandfuzzyaroundtheperimeter.ThatwaswhyIdidn’tseeitatfirst,eventhoughitwasonly
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afewfeettotheleft.Myduffel.Thechainofthezipperwas
catchingjustenoughlightfromthenakedbulboverhead.Thepulltabwasonthenearside,withinarm’sreach.HowfastdoIneedtobe?CanIdistracthim?Theanswercamesuddenly
withthepiercinghissofhydraulicpistonsasthetrashbegantorumbleallaroundus.Itwasn’texactlydivine
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intervention,butIwasn’tcomplaining.Thiswasn’tyourordinaryDumpster.Itwasalsoacompactor—clearlytriggeredbyweight—anditwasabouttodoitsjob.Foronesecond,hetookhis
eyesoffme.Itwaslikeareflexhammertotheknee.Hecouldn’thelpit.Hehadtoseewhatthehellwashappening…thatyes,thewallwasclosinginbehindhim.
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AndthatwasallIneeded.Justonequicksecond.Zip.
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CHAPTER46
MYHANDdoveintotheduffel,feelingforthefirstpieceofmetalIcouldfind.IpulledouttheGlockasheturnedbackaround.Surprise,buddy.Thewall’s
closinginfromthisside,too.Isqueezedofftworounds
righttohischest,hisbody
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thrashingasifhe’djustbeenjoltedwithelectricpaddles.Hewasn’ttheonlyone
shaking,though.I’dnevershotanyonebefore.Thefeelingwasotherworldly,andnotinthegoodway.Tryingtoholdittogether,I
stoodoverhim.Hiseyeswereclosed,hisbodymotionless.Theonlythingmissingwasthecoffin.Still,somethingwasn’t
right.There’ssomethingelse
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missing.Thereshould’vebeen
blood—lotsandlotsofit—staininghiswhiteshirt.ThemomentheopenedhiseyeswasthemomentIrealizedwhytherewasn’tany.Hewaswearingavest.Theshotswerestill
echoingintheDumpsterasthehydraulicsofthecompactorsuddenlyhissedtoastop.Anothersound,
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someone’svoice,immediatelyfilledthesilence.“Gordon!”Henowhadaname.We
bothlookedupatthechute.Gordon’spartnerwascallingdowntohim.He’dundoubtedlyheardthegunfire.WithmyGlockpointedat
Gordon’shead,Iraisedafingertomylips.Don’tanswer.Ineededamomentto
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think,notthatIreallyhadone.“Gordon!”camethevoice
again,evenlouder.TheonlythingIknewfor
surewasthatIdidn’twanthispartnercomingdownforavisit.“Tellhimyou’llberight
up,”Isaid.JustincaseGordonhad
thoughtsofhisown,ItightenedmygripontheGlock.AsnervousasImust
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havelooked,I’dalreadypulledthetriggertwice.WhatGordonwouldn’t
havegiventoknowwherehe’ddroppedhisgun.Hecoughed,hisface
contortingwithpain.Thevesthadstoppedtheshots,butthewindhadbeenknockedclearoutofhim.Hewasstrugglingtocatchhisbreath.“Allgood,”hefinally
yelled.“I’llbeupinaminute.”
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Ididn’tlookaway,notforasecond,asIleaneddowntopickuptheduffelwithmyfreehand.“Youhaveabadge?”I
asked,onlytoseehimshakehishead.“Howaboutawallet?”“No.”Strangethingwas,I
believedhim.Inhislineofworkyoudon’treallycarryIDaroundwithyou.Inany
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event,Iwasn’tabouttorisksearchinghim.“Ishouldkillyou,”Isaid.“Butyouwon’t.”Hewasright.Shootinga
maninself-defensewasonething.Shootinghimincoldbloodwassomethingelseentirely.SomethingIwasn’t.“Who’sbehindallthis?”I
asked.“Whowantsthekiddead?”Hejuststaredatme.Ifhe
knew,hewasn’ttelling.
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WherehadIseenthatbefore?WouldIreallybebothered
bythemoralimplicationsofaninjectionthatcouldmakehimtellmewhatIwantedtoknow?Nothingiseverblackandwhite.Noteventhetruth.
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CHAPTER47
“REALSLOWLY,”Isaid,“Iwantyoutopullupyourrightpantleg.”IfIwasevergoingtoleave
thatDumpsteralive,Icouldn’triskhishavingasecondgun.Hepulleduphispantlegtoshowmetherewasnoshinholster.
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“Nowyourleftone,”Isaid.Noshinholsterthere,
either.“Satisfied?”heasked.“Notyet,”Isaid.“Iwant
youtotieyourshoelacestogether.”Iwasexpectinghimtogive
mealookthatsaidYou’vegottobekiddingme.Insteadhejustsaidno.“No?”
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“That’sright,”hesaid.“No.”Butitwasthewayhesaid
it.Cocksure.Asifhe’dsuddenlyregainedalltheleverage.Really?Iknewexactlywhathewas
thinking.Forgettheshoelaces,ifIcouldn’tkillhim,theonlythingsabouttobetiedweremyhands.“Fine,”Isaid.ButitwasthewayIsaidit.
Andhadhebeenpayingabit
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moreattention,hewould’vestoppedsmilingwellbeforeIloweredmyaimandfiredoneshotintohisrightfoot.“Motherfucker!”he
screamedasthedime-sizedholeinhisblackwingtipgurgledbloodlikeagardenhose.HegrabbedhisfootandI
grabbedthesideoftheDumpster,climbingoutwithmyduffel.Iwalkedstraightoutthebasementdoortothe
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backofmybuilding,throughthealley,andontothesidewalk.AssoonasIturnedthecorner,Ihailedacab.Onlyaftertellingthedriver
theaddressdidIleanbackintheseatandthinkaboutwhatI’ddone,ormoretothepoint,howIhadn’tthoughttwiceaboutdoingit.Mostpeoplewilllivetheir
entirelivesbelievingtheyknowexactlywhotheyareandwhatthey’recapableof.
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Butthat’sonlybecausemostpeoplewillneverhavetofindoutforreal.Iranmytongueovermy
splitlip,tastingthewarmthandslightsaltinessofmyownblood.Thiswasforreal,allright.
Asrealasitgets.
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CHAPTER48
“JESUSCHRIST,whathappened?”askedOwenasheopenedthedoor.“Oh,nothingreally,”I
said.“Ijustbeatupafistwithmyface,that’sall.”Heleanedtowardmefora
closerlook.Thecloserhegot,
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themorehewinced.“I’llgogetsomeice.”Hebacktrackedtograbthe
icebucketnearthetelevisionandheadedoffdownthehallwaywhileIputdownmyduffelandmadeaquickturnintothebathroom.Iopenedoneeyeslowlytothemirror.Theothereyewasalreadyswollenshut.Cutme,Mick….Iwashedoffalltheblood
andgavethehandtowelsaproperburialinthegarbage
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pailbelowthesink.Housekeepingcouldputthemonourtab,becausetherewasn’tenoughbleachintheworldtobringthosepuppiesbacktowhite.Thatgotmewonderingas
Owenreturnedwithafullicebucket.Ijustwantedtomakesure.“Youdidn’tcheckinunder
WinstonSmithagain,didyou?”
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“Ofcoursenot,”hesaid.“Caretoguess,though?”Iwasn’treallyinthemood.
Thenagain,Iwastheonewho’dbroughtitup.“Fine,”Isaid.“I’lltakeFakeNamesforfivehundred.”Turnsout,thekiddida
prettydecentimpressionofAlexTrebek.“EricArthurBlair,”hesaid.Istaredathimblanklywith
myonegoodeye.Ihadnoclue.
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“WhatisGeorgeOrwell’srealname?”heanswered.Ofcourse.Thekidwasas
consistentashewasclever.Thatmighthaveexplainedwhyhe’dchosentohideoutinanotherhotel,thistimeintwoadjoiningroomsattheStoningtondowninChelsea.Frankly,though,Ididn’tknowwhichgeniustobelieve.Ontheonehandwas
AlbertEinstein’sdefinitionof
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insanity:doingthesamethingoverandoverandexpectingadifferentresult.Ontheotherhandwas
OwenchannelingtheFodor’stravelguidetoManhattan.“Thereareovertwohundredfiftyhotelsinthiscity,totalingoverseventythousandrooms,”heinformedme.“Aslongasyouweren’tfollowedhere,Ithinkwe’regood.”
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Helookedatme,cockinganeyebrow.Thatwasmycuetoassurehimthatno,Ihadn’tbeenfollowedtothehotel.“Besides,”headded,
“we’rebothindesperateneedofsomesleep,aswellasshowers.”Hesniffedtheairaroundme.“Andoneofusisalittlemoredesperateforthatshowerthantheother,ifyoudon’tmindmesaying.Wherethehellwereyou?”
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Afterfashioninganicepackfromthelinerbagintheicebucket,IfilledOweninonwhereI’dbeen.TheTimesBuilding.Theluggagestoreandthebank.(Hencetheduffelanditscontents.)Thenmyapartmentand…oh,yeah,didImentiontheDumpster?Iwould’vepreferredto
leaveoutthepartaboutClairebeingpregnant,butthatwould’veleftunansweredthe
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onlyquestionOwencould’vehadformewhenIwasdoneexplaining.Particularlyaboutthetriptomyapartment.Areyoufreakin’nuts?MaybeIwas.Butatleast
henowknewwhy.“I’mverysorry,”hesaid.“Thankyou.”Hewasstaringatthe
carpet,afreshwaveofguiltoverClaire’sdeathcrashingdownonhim.“Ijustfeelso—”
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“Iknowyoudo,”Isaid.“Butdon’t.Itoldyou,thiswillneverbeyourfault.”“It’snotfair,though,”he
said.“It’snotfair.”Ilookedathim,withhis
shaggyhairandbaggyjeans,forgettingforasecondtheincredibleintellecthepossessed.Hetrulywasjustakid,wasn’the?Nevermoresothaninthatmoment.Foreverythingheknew
abouttheworld,Owenwas
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stilllearningthegreatestlessonofthemall.Life.“Yourturn,”Isaid.“Any
luckattheApplestore?”Owen’supdatewasalot
shorter,ashe’dhadnoluckidentifyingthetwoguyswhowantedusdead.ThefactthatI’dlearnedthefirstnameofoneofthemdidn’treallychangeanything.ButIhadanideawhatcould.“Ineedtogetaholdof
DetectiveLamontagain,”I
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said.“Whereishe?”“Hopefullystillathome.
Hisprecinctpatchedmeinlasttime.”Itookasteptowardthehotelphonebeforestopping.Thoughtsofmyhomelinebeingtappedhadjumpedsquarelyintheway.“Isthereanychancetheywould’vebuggedLamont’sphone,too?”Owendidn’tanswer.He
wassuddenlygluedtothe
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television.Ihadn’tevenrealizeditwason;thesoundwasdown.“What’sup?”Iasked,
pullingupalongsidehim.Iliterallyhadtonudgehimtorespond.“Whatareyouwatching?”“Somethingpretty
strange,”hesaid.
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CHAPTER49
NEXTTOtheCNNlogowerethetwofavoritewordsofanynewsnetwork.BREAKINGNEWS.Abovethosewordswas
WolfBlitzer,presumablyelaboratingontheothertwowordsfillingthescreennexttohim.BASSOUT.
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Owenquicklygrabbedtheclicker,turningupthevolume.NosoonercouldweactuallyheartheBlitzmeister,asClairegotsuchakickoutofcallinghim,didthescenecuttotheEastRoomoftheWhiteHouse.ThenameBassdidn’t
registerwithmeatfirst,butassoonasIsawhimstandingatthepodium,Iputittogether.LawrenceBasswassupposedtobethenext
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directoroftheCIA.Nowherehewas—flankedbythepresidentononeside,hisfamilyontheother—announcingthathewaswithdrawinghisnamefromconsideration.“Wasn’thisconfirmation
hearingcomingupprettysoon?”Iasked.“Thatdepends,”said
Owen.“Onwhat?”
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“Ifyouthinkthismorningqualifiesasprettysoon.”Owenhadpeggedit,all
right.Thatwasprettystrange.Ontheflipside,Bass’srationalecouldn’thavebeenmorecommon.NotonlywasheturningdowntheCIAdirector’spost,hesaidhewasleavinghiscurrentpositionasdirectorofintelligenceprogramswiththeNationalSecurityCouncil.Why?
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Tospendmoretimewithhisfamily.“Turnitupmore,”Isaid.Owenrampedthevolume
ontheremoteaswebothsatdownontheedgeofthebedtowatch.“Somedecisionsareeasy,
othersarehard,”Bassexplained,hishandstightlygrippingthepodium.“Andthentherearetheonesthatareboth.”
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Heturnedtoglanceathiswife,whowascorrallingtheiryoungtwindaughters,anarmdrapedovereachoftheirshoulders.Thegirls,wholookedtobearoundsevenoreight,weresmiling,almostpreeningforthehostofphotographersbeforethem.Asforthewife,shewaswipingawayatear.“AshonoredasIwastobe
chosenbyPresidentMorristoleadtheCentralIntelligence
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Agency,Icouldn’tignorethesacrificeitwouldrequireofmyfamily,”Basscontinued.“Allmylife,I’veknownonlyonewaytoapproachajob—andthat’switheverythingIhave.That’swhatIwould’vebroughttomyjobasCIAdirector,justasIdidattheNSC.Butintheend,there’sanevenmoreimportantjobforme,andIalreadyhaveit.That’stobetheverybestfatherandhusbandIcanbe.
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Soasmuchasthiswasaharddecisionforme,insomeways—threeverybeautifulways,tobeexact—itwasaneasyone.”Withthat,heletgoofthe
podium,steppedback,andhuggedhiswifeanddaughters—one,two,three.Thesoundofcamerasclickingawaywasnearlydeafening,eventhroughthetelevision.
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“Verytouching,”saidOwenasthescreenswitchedbacktoWolfBlitzer.Hewasintroducingsomepunditforcomment.“Yes,itwas,”Isaid.Owenturnedtome.Each
ofusknewwhattheotherwasthinking.“Foraminutethere,Ialmostbelievedhim.”“Yeah,me,too,”Isaid.
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CHAPTER50
AHOTshowerandsomesleepusedtodowondersforme.I’dwakeupwiththatcan-doattitudestraightoutofabreakfastcerealcommercialtrumpetingallthoseessentialvitaminsandnutrients.NowIwasjustwondering
ifI’dlivetoseeanother
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breakfast.Nottosaythereweren’t
anysavinggraces.Forinstance,watching
OwenhackoneofthosedisgustingwebsitessellingpersonalinformationaboutpeoplewasthebestironyI’dseeninalongtime.Itlookedsimple,too.Thatis,untilIaskedOwenwhathewasactuallydoing.“It’scalledaStructured
QueryLanguageinjection,”
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heexplained.“SQLforshort.Itrickthewebsiteintoincorrectlyfilteringforstringliteralescapecharacters.”Stringliteralescape
characters?StructuredQueryLanguageinjection?Carryon,Itoldhim.Theupshotwasthatwe
weren’ttakinganychancesincommunicatingwithDetectiveLamont.Thatresultedinthesecond-bestironyI’dseeninalongtime.
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Wewereevadingtheprospectofthehighestofhigh-techsurveillancebygoingseriouslyoldschool.“HowdidyouknowIhad
afaxmachineathome?”askedLamontthemomentwesteppedintothebackseatofhiscarthatnightoutsidewhatusedtobetheJulietSupperClubnearTwenty-FirstStreetandTenthAvenue.Givenhowmanypeoplehadbeeneither
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stabbedorshotatcomingoutoftheplace,Ifiguredhe’dknowitwell.“I’llletOwentellyou,”I
said,makingtheintroduction.NothinginmyfaxhadmentionedIwasbringingsomeonealong,andcertainlynotsomeonesoyoung.“Howoldareyou?”asked
Lamont.Hewassquinting.Partlybecausetherewasbarelyanylightinthecar,butmostlyduetodisbelief.
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“Nineteen,”answeredOwen.Lamontturnedtome.“My
car’solderthanhim.”Iglancedaroundthe
interiorofhisBuickLeSabre,myeyesmovingfromthecrankhandlesforthewindowstotheashtraybelowtheradio.Anashtray.“Yourcar’solderthan
everybody,”Isaid.Withthat,theheadlightsof
anoncomingcarlitmy
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banged-upface.Wewerestillparkedalongthecurb.“Shit,”saidLamont.“How
didthathappen?”Itoldhimthestory.Italso
gavemeachancetothankhimfortippingmeoffaboutmyphoneline.“Callitahunch,”said
Lamont.“ThetwoguyswhopaidmeavisitwereCIA.”Owenchimedin.“Special
ActivitiesDivision,right?”
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“Howdidyouknow?”askedLamont.“Let’sjustsaywesharethe
samecompanyhealthplan.”Lamontshotmeanother
look.He’snineteenandheworksfortheCIA?“Whatothersurprisesdoyouhave?”heasked.Lamonthadhelpedmeup
untilthispointbasedonlittlemorethanhisgut.Thetimehadcometoprovehisinstinctsright.IaskedOwen
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totakeouthisphoneandshowLamontsomehighlightsfromthehallwayoftheLucindaHotel.“How’sthatforaspecial
activity?”IsaidaswewatchedthebodyofClaire’skillerbeingremovedfromtheroom.Thencamethemain
attraction.Thebigpicture,ifyouwill.OwenshowedLamontthe
tworecordingshe’dplayed
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formeattheOakTavern.Evenhavingseenthemalready,Igotthesameanxious,uneasy,pit-in-my-stomachfeelingI’dhadthefirsttime.Allofitwassopainfultowatch.AndyetthatwasallIcoulddo.Icouldn’ttakemyeyesoffthescreen.AsforLamont,he
remainedcompletelysilent.Infact,hebarelyevenmoved.Itriedtoimagineallthethingshe’dseenasaNew
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YorkCitydetective.Muchofthat,Iwassure,wasfarmoreunsettlingfromabloodandgutsstandpoint.Butthiswasdifferent.This
hadimplications.Thelikesofwhichhemostdefinitelyhadn’tseenbefore.“Weneedafavor,”Isaid
assoonasthesecondrecordingwasfinished.IhalfexpectedLamontto
shootback,“No,whatyouneedisafederalgrandjury.”
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Thiswastheguy,afterall,whohadwarnedmeabouttryingtodootherpeople’sjobs.Butthatseemedlikeavery
longtimeago.Alothadchanged.IncludingLamont.“Letmeguess,”heoffered,
noddingatOwen’sphone.“Youhavefacesbutnonames.”“Exactly,”Isaid.Lamontlookedatmeand
noddedagain.Sometimesa
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man’scharacterrevealsitselfslowly.Overmonths,maybeevenyears.Othertimes,allittakesisaNewYorkminute.“Yeah,Icanhelpyou,”he
said.Ashethrewthecarinto
driveandpulledawayfromthecurb,hebegantowhistle.Itwasthefirstfewbarsof“TakeMeOuttotheBallGame.”Buymesomepeanutsand
what?
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CHAPTER51
LAMONTREACHEDforhiscell,tappingaspeeddialnumberaswestoppedataredlightatthecornerofTenthAvenue.Hewaitedafewsecondswhilethelinerang.Weallwaited.Afteracouplemorerings,
someonepickedup.Itwasa
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guy’svoice.Icouldjustmakeitout.“Hey,”theguysaid.“Whereareyou?”“You’reabouttogetane-
mailfromsomeoneyoudon’tknow,”Lamontsaidintothephone.“Ineedyoutodomeafavor.”“Goahead.”Hearingthevoiceforthe
secondtime,Irecognizedit.Lamontwastalkingtohispartner,DetectiveMcGeary.
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“There’llbethreevideosattached,”Lamontcontinued.“LoadthemintoCrackerJackandrunthatIDfilterthingamajiggy.”IcouldhearMcGeary
chuckle.“YoumeantheISOPREPforfacialrecognition?”“Yeah,that’stheone.”“WhatamIlookingat?”
McGearyasked.“That’sthething,”said
Lamont.“Youcan’tlookat
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them,notevenaglance.Atleast,notyet.”“You’rejoking,right?”“Justtrustmeonthis,
okay?”Thelinewassilentfora
fewseconds.“Yeah,sure,”McGearysaidfinally.“Whatever.”“Thanks,partner,”said
Lamont.“I’llseeyoushortly.”Hehungup,turningtous
inthebackseat.Owen’s
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fingerswerealreadyhoveringoverhisphone,readytotypeinMcGeary’se-mailaddress.Lamontgaveittohim.“Ineedtosendthefiles
oneatatime,”saidOwen.“They’retoobigasagroup.”“Whateverittakes,”said
Lamont.“Asyoucouldtell,I’mnotthemosttech-savvyguyintheworld.AllIknowisthatpreppingfilesonthatdamnmachinetakesawhile.
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Thisway,we’vegotaheadstart.”“Ishereallynotgoingto
watchthem?”Iasked,incredulous.“Thatwaslikeputtingabiscuitonadog’snose.”“Yeah,Iknow,”said
Lamont.“Areyoutryingtoprotect
him?”“I’mtryingtogivehimthe
option.I’llexplainittohimattheprecinct,andhe’llmake
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thedecision.Thatway,heownsit,”Lamontsaid.“Youcan’tunwatchwhatyoujustshowedme.”“Done,”saidOwen,
lookingupfromhisphone.“Allthreesent.”“Good,thanks,”said
Lamontasthelightturnedgreen.HeturnedleftontoTenth
Avenue,headingtheonlywayyoucan,whichisnorth.Thetrafficwasone-way.
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Apparently,though,someonedidn’tgetthememo.“Jesus,lookatthis
asshole,”saidLamont,pointingupahead.Amidallthetaillightswas
apairofheadlights,rightsmackinthemiddleofthestreetandcomingrighttowardus.Fast.Theguywaseitherdrunkoratouristorboth.
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Lamontflashedhishighbeamsasdriversbeganleaningontheirhornsleftandright.Ataxififtyfeetaheadofusmissedgettinghitbyinchesastheoncomingcarswervedarounditatthelastpossiblemoment.Whoeveritwaswasn’t
stopping.Ifanything,hewaspickingupspeed.“Getover!”Iyelledat
Lamont.
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Buttohiscredit,hewasn’tthinkingonlyaboutus.Everycararounduswasindanger.Lamontjammedthebrakes
andreacheddownbytheshotgunseat,grabbingacherrytop.Therewasnotimetothrowitupontheroofofhiscar.Hequicklyplunkeditonthedash,flippingiton.IshieldedmyeyesasbestI
couldtotheblindingflashesofredandbluefillingLamont’scar.Evenmore
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blindingwasthewhiteofthetwoheadlightsgettingcloserandcloser.Thecarwasrightinourlaneandtherewasnothingbetweenus.Whatthehellis
happening?“Holdon!”saidLamont.
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CHAPTER52
IBRACEDforthecollision.Myarmsoutstretched,thepalmsofmyhandspressedhardagainstthebackofthefrontseat.Owenwasdoingthesame.Lamont,white-knuckled,
hadthesteeringwheelgrippedattenandtwo.He
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wasboundtogettheworstofit.IsthisLeSabresoolditdoesn’tevenhaveairbags?Icouldalreadyhearthe
crashinmyhead,thehorriblecrunchofmetalagainstmetal,ofglassshattering,ofNewton’sFirstLawbeingprovenat120decibels.Butthosesoundsnever
came.Itwasanentirelydifferentoneweheard,albeitjustasloud.
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Atthelastpossiblesecond,theoncomingcarcametoahaltmereinchesfromourfrontgrille,thetiresscreechingasiftheywerebeingrippedfromtheirrims.Icouldn’tjustsmelltheburntrubber;Icouldtasteit.“Sonofabitch!”shouted
Lamont.Whateverreliefcamefrom
notbeinghitwasquicklyovertakenbyhisanger.Hecouldn’tunbucklehisseat
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beltfastenoughtogetoutofthecarandtearthisdriveranewone.Withthecherrystill
spinningonthedash,hewasbarelymorethanasilhouetteasheopenedthedoorandswunghislegsoutallinonemove.Themomenthisheelsreachedtheasphalt,Icouldhearadooropeningontheothercar.Someonewasgettingout,anothersilhouette.
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ButIstillrecognizedhim.SodidLamont.Justnotfastenough.BeforeLamontcouldeven
reachforhisgun,thesoundofshotssplittheair.Therewerefourofthemrightinarow.Pop!Pop!Pop!Pop!Instinctively,Iducked,but
notbeforeseeingLamontdroptotheground,hishandsclutchinghischest.Hewasgasping,wheezing,tryingto
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catchhisbreath.Itwasthesoundofamandying.Allatonce,Iwantedto
puke,tomournhim,toclickmyheelsthreetimesandwakeupsafeinmybednexttoClaire.ButallIcouldseewasOwenrightbesideme,completelyfrozen.Hecouldn’thavebeenmoreexposedifhe’dhadaneontargetonhisface.“Getdown!”Iscreamed,
grabbinghisshoulders.
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AsIpulledhimflatagainstthebackseat,thesecondwavecame,asI’dknownitwould.ThereweresomanyshotsIcouldn’tkeepcount,oneafteranotherriddlingthewindshield.I’dexpectedthesoundofshatteringglass,butnotlikethis.Notwithbulletsflyingoverus.Damn,mykingdomformy
duffel…I’dleftthebagbackatthe
hotel,notwantingtobring
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whatamountedtoasmallarsenalintoLamont’sprecinct.Callmecrazy.ButIwasn’tthatcrazy.Ireacheddown,grabbing
theGlockstrappedtomyrightshin.Withthatandtwoextraclips,Ihadjustenoughforoneplan.“Getready,”Isaid.“Forwhat?”askedOwen.Iflippedthesafety.“We’re
gettingoutofhere.”
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CHAPTER53
ALLIknewwasthatmyearswouldhavetobemyeyes.Thatflashingcherrymeant
Icouldn’tseeoutofthecar,butitalsomeanthecouldn’tseein—hebeingGordon’spartner.Itwashim,allright.Thegamblewaswhetheritwasonlyhim.
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ThatwaswhatIwashearing,though.Shotsfromonlyonegun.Onegun,whichhewascurrentlyreloading.Theslideandclickwereunmistakable.Icouldalmosthearhis
thoughts,too.HeknewIhadaweapon.Hisbuddy,Gordon,hadaholeinhisfootthatprovedit.Sittingthisoneout,Gordo?Isureashellhopedso.
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Therewasnotimeforanycountdownoramomenttosteelmynerve.Mywindowwasnow,anditlookedalotlikethespacebetweenthefrontandbackseats.Thecarwasinparkandidling,butnotforlong….GO!Ipoppeduplikea
deranged,gun-totingWhac-A-Mole,firingblindlythroughthewindshieldandintotheothercar.AsI
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unloadedhalfmyclip,theonlythingIwasaimingforwastosendGordon’spartnerscramblingforcover.GO!Ilungedovertheseat,
shiftingintoreversewithmygunhandwhilepunchingthegaswiththeother.Steeringwasn’texactlyahighpriorityaswetookoffbackwardwithOwensneakingpeeksoutthebackwindow.
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“Clear!”heshouted,whileIremainedonthefloorofthefrontseat.Allthesurroundingtraffic
hadbackedthehellawayassoonastheyheardthegunfire,moreofwhichwasnowsprayingthroughwhatremainedofthewindshield.Sufficeittosay,Gordon’spartnerdidn’tparticularlylikethislatestdevelopment.Meanwhile…
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“Thirtyfeet!”shoutedOwenwiththeupdate,thedistancebeforewe’dhitanothercar.Oranythingelse,forthatmatter.Bynowithadstopped
rainingshardsofglassovermyhead.Wewereoutofrange.Timetogetabetterview.Ipulledmyselfupbythe
steeringwheel,immediatelyspinningusintoaone-eightythatnearlyflippedusover
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andhadOwenpracticallydoingasomersaultacrossthebackseat.“Jesus!”heyelled.“Sorry!”Iyelledback.Thesecondwewereonall
fourtiresagain,Igrabbedtherearviewmirror,twistingitintomyeyelinetoseewhatGordon’spartnerwasdoingbehindus.Instead,Ishould’vebeenlookingstraightahead.“Car!”saidOwen.“Car!”
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IlookedjustintimetoseeawhiteBMWswervinguponthecurbtoavoidus.Sodidthetaxibehindit.Nowweweretheassholewhodidn’tgetthememo.Weweregoingthewrongway.Thechorusofhornskicked
in,buttheonlycarthatreallymatteredwasstillbehindus.Glancingintotherearviewmirroragain,IcouldjustmakeoutGordon’spartnergettingbackbehindthe
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wheel.Forthefirsttime,Icouldseewhathewasdriving.AJeepWrangler.Ikilledthecherryand
madethefirstturnpossible,ontoTwenty-FirstStreet.Wewerefinallygoingtherightway,butitwasclearwewereabouttohavecompany.JusthowfastcanaBuick
LeSabrefromtheearlyeightiesgo?
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CHAPTER54
MYRIGHTfootwaslikeacinderblockonthegas,whilemyheadwaslikeabobbledoll,bouncingallaroundasItriedtoseethroughtheshot-upwindshield.Thereweresomanycracksandjaggededges,Imightaswellhavebeenlookingthroughaprism.
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Iblewthroughoneredlightandthenanotherwithoutascratch,adoubledoseofluckyonourwaytotheWestSideHighway.Morelanes,lesstraffic,betterchanceoflosinghim.OrsoIwasthinking.“He’sgaining,”saidOwen,
lookingoutthebackwhileIfranticallyweavedinandoutofthecarsaroundus.“Howmanybehind?”I
asked.
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“Fivecars,”hesaid.“Shit,makethatfour.”Wewereablockaway
fromthehighway,butsuddenlythatideawasn’tlookingsogood.Icouldn’tshakehim.Fourcarsbackwouldbecomethreeandthentwoandthenone,andhe’dberightonmytail,shootingoutmytires.IglancedbackatOwen.
“TimeforplanB,”Isaid.
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“Ididn’tknowwehadaplanA.”“Good,thenyouwon’t
fightmeonthis.”Hefoughtmeanyway.“Hell,no,”hesaidafterI
toldhimwhatIwantedhimtodo.“It’stwoagainstone.”“Yeah,butwe’vegotonly
onegun,”Isaid.“Thatmakesitoneagainstone.”“ThenI’llbethedecoy,”
hesaid.“I’lldistracthim.”
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“Yeah,rightbeforeheputsfourbulletsinyourchest.”Itwasn’tjustwhatIsaid,it
wasthewayIsaidit.Angry.Pissed.Guilty.AllIcouldseewasLamont
fallingtotheground.Itwasplayinginmyheadoverandover,aviciousloop.AndasOwenwentsilent,
itwasasifheknewexactlyhowIfelt.He’dfeltthesamethingwithClaire.
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Ineedyoutorunwiththisstory,kid.Literally…“Okay,”hesaid,relenting.
“Butyoubetterknowwhatyou’redoing.”“Ido,”Iassuredhim.And
withanyluck,thatwouldn’tbealie.Flippingthecherryback
on,Ilookedupaheadtotheendoftheblockaboutfiftyyardsaway.Iwasstraddlingbothlanesasparkedcarsdottedeachsideofthestreet
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likeMorsecode.WhatIneededwastwocarslinedupoppositeeachotherlikegateposts.BecauseIwasabouttoclosethegate.Thesoundofmyjamming
thebrakeswasimmediatelydrownedoutbyeveryoneelse’sbrakesbehindme.NotonlywasIstoppingonadime,Iwasstoppingonanangletoblockbothlanes.Instantchaos.
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Noonewasgoinganywhere…exceptOwen.“Now!”Itoldhim.Hehesitatedforasplit
second,butthatwasit.Heburstoutofthebackseat,dashingaroundthecornerandoutofsightasfast—andaslow—ashecould.Nowitwasmyturn.Only,Iwasheadinginthe
oppositedirection.Suddenly,mylifehadbecomeanexistentialfortunecookie.
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Manchasedtoolongmustfindnewpath.
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CHAPTER55
WITHTHEcherrystillflashingonthedash,therecameaneeriesilenceasIallbutcrawledoutofthefrontseatonmyhandsandkneestoavoidbeingseen.NewYorkdrivershavea
well-earnedrepforimpatience,buteventhey
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knowwhentolayofftheirhorns.Youhonkatacopandyou’relikelytoseesomerealimpatience,andthatoldBuickLeSabreblockingtrafficwasanunmarkedpolicecar,asfaraseveryonecouldtell.Everyone,thatis,except
theguyatthewheelfourcarsbackwhowantedmedead.Quickly,Imademyway
behindaPriusparkedalongthecurb.Theanglewas
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wrong,though.Icouldn’tseewellenoughupthestreet.Somuchforthegiftof
silence,too.Thelineofcarsnowstretchedallthewaydowntheblock,wellbeyondsightoftheflashingredandblue.Anydriverbringinguptherearhadnoideawhyhewasstopped.Thehornsbegankickingin,onelouderthanthelast.Finebyme.Iwasbanking
ontheconfusion.
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AsfastasIgottothecurbwashowslowlyIbeganmovingalongsidetheparkedcars,peeringoverthehoodsuntilIhadacleanline.Butitwasn’thappening.Theheadrestofaseat,aside-viewmirror—somethingwasalwaysintheway.Ishould’vebeenableto
spothimbynow.Finally,therecameagood
angle.Iwasmaybetwentyfeetaway,sidledupnextto
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thebacktireofaMINICooper.Lookingthroughtheglassoftherearhatch,Ihadtheperfectview.Ofnothing.IcouldseetheJeep,butthe
driver’sseatwasempty.Theenginewasrunning,andIcouldn’tsuppresstheimmediatethoughtthatmaybeIshould’vebeen,too.Grippingmypistolwith
bothhands,Iwaswhippingitaroundlikeapointer.Where
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areyou?Overhere?Overthere?Ididn’tknowwhetherto
moveorstayput.Peoplewerestartingtogetoutoftheircars.Somewereyelling,otherswalkingaheadforacloserlook.Nooneknewwhatwashappening.Includingme.Then,withoneglanceto
theleft,Isawhim.Hepokedhisheadout
frombehindthePriusback
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whereI’dstarted.I’dgonetohim;he’dcometome.We’dmissedeachother.Hehadnointentionoflettingthathappenagain.Likeabulloutofthegate
hecameatme,runningwithhisarmraised.Hisfirstshotcaromedoffthesidewalkmereinchestomyleft,thesoundsettingoffscreamsupanddowntheblock.PeoplewerescatteringeverywhereasIboltedaroundthenextcarat
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thecurb,justbarelyeludingthesecondshot.HadtheMINICooperbeenanylessmini,Iwould’vebeennailedinthebackforsure.Three-point-eightbillion
yearsofevolutiontuckedawayinyourDNA…Immediately,Ispunaround
withmyarmslocked,theinsideofmyindexfingerflushagainstthetrigger.Onceagain,Ihadtheperfectview.
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Andonceagain,itwasofnothing.Thesidewalkwasempty.
Hewasn’tthere.Buthewasfarfromgone.
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CHAPTER56
I’VENEVERcrackedthecoverofSunTzu’sTheArtofWar.It’sneverevenmadetheto-readpilenexttomybed.ButIhadtobelievethatsomewhereburiedinthebookwasarulethatsaidiftheenemyknowswhereyou
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arebutyoudon’tknowwheretheenemyis…move.AsfastandlowasIcould,
Izigzaggedacrossthestreet,stoppingonlywhenIsawsomebaldguyinasuithalfwayoutofhisshinyredCadillac.Hewascrouched,lookingthroughthewindowwithhisentireheadexposedasifhe’dsomehowmissedthatphysicsclassinhighschoolexplainingtheeffectofaspeedingbulletona
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pieceofglass.Thisjustin,pal,thebulletwins….“Hey,”Itriedwhispering,
whichwasprettymuchalostcausegiventhecacophonyofhornsstillblaring.Theentirestreethadbecomeaparkinglot,anexceedinglyangryoneatthat.“Hey!”Itriedagain,
louder.Finally,heturnedaround
andImotionedwithbothhandsforhimtogetdown.
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ThatimmediatelygotmealooksuggestingIshouldmindmyowneffin’business.Thenhesawtheguninmyrighthand.Thatdidthetrick.Heduckedbackintohisseatsofastheliterallybangedhisbaldheadonthetopofthecar.Anyothertime,anyother
place,thatwould’vebeenfunny.Iwasn’tlaughing.
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AllIcoulddowaskeeplookingleftandrightasIapproachedtheothersidewalk,myheadonaswivel.Forgetmytriggerfinger,theslightestmovementanywhereinfrontofmehadmyentirebodytwitching.Throwinsomeself-doubt,andIwasclosetodrowninginmyownsweat.DidIreallyneedtogoafteratrainedCIAfieldagenthead-on?
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Toolate.Itwaslikelightningbefore
thethunder.Ifirstsawaflashinthecornerofmyeye.Iturnedquicklytolook,squintingforfocus,andheardaboomingvoicerightbehindit.Thevoicewassaying
something.Hewassayingsomething.Buthewastoofaraway;Icouldn’tmakeoutthewords.
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Thevoice,though…Iknewthevoice.Itwasfamiliar.ItwasOwen.Hewassprintingtoward
meonthesidewalk,hiscellphonelitupwithoneofthoseflashlightapps.Damn,thosethingsarebright.Hewascloseenoughnow,thewordsbeginningtocometogether.“You!”hewasscreaming.
“Findyou!”Findme?No.
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Behindme!Ispunaround,handsout
front,myeyesblowingupwidewithpanicasIlookedoutoverthebarrelofmypistoltoseeanothergunalreadylinedupwithmychest.Somehowhe’dgottenbehindme.Nowhewasrightinfront
ofme,deadcenter.AllGordon’spartnerhadtodowaspullthetrigger.Buthesuddenlyhadaproblem…
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Hecouldn’tseeme.ThelightfromOwen’s
phonehithisfacesofastIcouldpracticallyseehispupilssnapshut.Heraisedhisarmtoshieldhiseyes,butitwastheotherarmIwaswatching.Theonewiththegun.HewasswingingitrightatOwen.Therewasnothought,no
planning,nodecision.Justinstinct.Andmaybealittletracememorythrowninfor
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goodmeasureincasehewaswearingabulletproofvest.Inotherwords,Iaimeda
littlebithigher.Igotofftwoshots.I
couldn’ttellifthefirstonehithim,buttherewasnodoubtaboutthesecond.Let’sjustsayitwasgoingtobeaclosed-casketfuneral,andleaveitatthat.“C’mon,”saidOwen.
“Let’sgo.”
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Thatwasallhesaid.OrmaybethatwasallIheard.Forsure,itwasmorethanI
wasabletosay,whichwasnothing.Icouldbarelybreathe,letalonetalk.ButIwaskeenlyaware.Thekidcamebackforme.Later,Iwouldthankhim.
Theheartratewouldslow;thethoughtsandwordswouldcome.I’dpointoutthatthiswasthesecondtimehe’dsavedmylife.I’devencrack
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thatI’dneverbeensohappytohavesomeoneignorewhatIaskedhimtodo.IfOwenhadfledbacktothehotelfromLamont’scarasI’dasked—ashe’dtoldmehewould—Iwould’vebeentheonelyingonthepavementinapoolofblood.Buthehadn’t.SoIwasn’t.Yes.Later,Iwoulddoall
this.Whentherewastimetothinkandsortthingsout.ButthemomentafterIpulledthe
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triggerwasnodifferentthanthemomentrightbefore.Nothought,noplanning,
nodecision.Justinstinct.ThesameinstinctOwenhad.Let’sgo.
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CHAPTER57
IWENTtosleephavingkilledaman.IwokeupthinkingI’datleastfindoutwhohewas.Itdidn’tmatterifhewasn’t
carryingID.Therewereotherways.Somanyotherways.Fingerprints.Dentalrecords.Facialrecognitionsoftware.
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IfevertherewasajobforCrackerJack…“Whattimeisit?”Iasked
Owenwithmyonegoodeyeopenoffthepillow.Myheadwaskillingme.Therestofmewasn’tfaringmuchbetter.Owenwassittingonthe
edgeoftheotherqueenbedinourtwo-roombunkerattheStoningtonstaringintentlyatthetelevisionandthestartofthelocalmorningnews.Hecould’vebeenastatueifit
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hadn’tbeenforhishands.Theyweredoingthatdrywashthingagain.What’sthedealwiththat?“It’ssix,”heanswered.Thatexplainedthehintof
daylightalongtheperimeterofthedrawncurtains,nottomentionwhyIstillfeltsotired.Itwasbarelydawn,andI’donlybeenasleepforacoupleofhours.LongerthanOwen,though,apparently.
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There’soneexceptiontotheage-oldmaximaboutnewsreporting—ifitbleeds,itleads—andthat’stheearly-morningbroadcast.Atthestartoftheday,onethingtrumpseverythingelse.Theweather.Shortofanapocalypse,that’swhatpeoplewanttohearaboutfirst.Theeternalquestion?It’snotthemeaningoflife.It’sWillIneedanumbrella?
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Accordingtothefar-too-chipperweathermanpointingoutsomeincomingcloudsontheDopplerradar,theanswerwasadefinitemaybe.Therewasafortypercentchanceofshowersintheafternoon.Ofcourse,therewasa
hundredpercentchanceoftwoshootingdeathsovernightintheChelseasectionofManhattan.Theweatherman,still
grinning,sentitbacktothe
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anchor,whodidherbesttosegueintoamoresombertoneasthewordsDETECTIVEDEATHappearedon-screen.NexttothemwasapictureofLamont.HemusthavefallentothegroundathousandtimesinmymindbeforeI’dfinallybeenabletodriftofftosleep.Nowtelluswhothe
goddamnsonofabitchwaswhokilledhim.Tellusabout“Gordon’spartner.”
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Asifhecouldreadmymind,Owenstoppedrubbinghishandsandglancedbackoverhisshoulderatme.“They’renotgoingto
know,”hesaidsoftly.Thesecondhesaidit,I
knewhewasright.Evenifthepolicedidknow,theywouldn’tbequicktoreleasethenametothepress.Itwouldraisemorequestionsthananswers.
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“Atthistime,theidentityofthesecondvictim,whoisbelievedtobethemanresponsibleforDetectiveLamont’smurder,isunknown,”saidtheanchor,sokeyedtoherteleprompterthatshedidn’tseemtoevengrasphowtwistedthatsounded.Evenmoresobecause
therewasn’tevenamentionoftheothertriggerman.Me.
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Wastherereallynoonewhosawmeshoothim?Theanchormovedontoa
fireinaQueenstenementbuilding,promptingOwentoshutoffthetelevision.Assoonasheturnedtome,Iknewthequestioncoming,anditcertainlywasn’tabouthowI’dslept.“Howdoyouwanttodo
this?”heasked.Thatwasthepartwe
hadn’tdiscussedafter
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returningtothehotel.Thehow.Ourfocushadbeenthewhat,asinWhatdowedonow?Thenighthadchangedeverything.DetectiveLamontwas
dead,andweknewwhy.Weowedittohim,hisfamily,andeveryoneheworkedwithtocomeforward.MaybeOwenwasright.Maybejusticewouldn’tbeservedintheend.Butitnolongerseemedlikeourcalltomake.
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“Lamont’sprecinct,”Isaid.“Ithinkthat’swherewebegin.”Owennodded.“Doyou
wanttocallahead?”“No.Let’sjustshow—”BeforeIcouldgettheword
upoutofmymouth,Owen’sphonelitupontopofhisbackpackbytheTV.Ithoughtitwasanincomingcallatfirst,buttherewasnoring,nobuzzingorvibrating.
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“That’sstrange,”saidOwen,goingovertocheckit.“Whatis?”Iasked.“It’sane-mail.”“So?”“Ishouldn’tbegetting
any,”hesaid.“TheaccountusesanentityauthenticationmechanismIdesignedmyself.It’swaybeyondtheX.509system.”Istaredathimblankly.
“Okay,nowinEnglish,”Isaid.
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“Itmeansthatformetogetane-mailithastobepiggybackedononeIalreadysent.ButIonlysetuptheaccountyesterday.Ihaven’tsentane-mailtoanyone.”Nosoonerdidhesayit
thanwebothrealizedhewaswrong.Hehadsentane-mailtosomeone.FromLamont’scar.“What’sitsay?”Iasked,
watchinghimread.
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OwentossedmethephonesoIcouldseeformyself.Itwasmorethanane-mail.Itwashope.Underneathascreengrab
fromoneoftheinterrogationvideoswereanameandanaddressinWashington,DC.Georgetown,tobeexact.Mypartneralways
believedinwhathewasdoing,McGearyadded.Ihopeyoudo,too.
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BOOKTHREE
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TRUSTNOONE,NOTEVEN
YOURSELF
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CHAPTER58
ITDOESN’Tmatterifyoudon’tknowadoorcardfromarivercardorwhetherafullhousebeatsaflush,anyoneoldenoughtoseetheinsideofaLasVegascasinocanwalkrightintothepokerroomattheBellagio.
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WalkingintoBobby’sRoomisadifferentstory.Bobby’sRoom—named
afterBobbyBaldwin,the1978WorldSeriesofPokerchampion—isthepokerroominsidethepokerroomattheBellagio.Itfeaturestwohigh-stakestablesthatarecompletelywalledofffromtheotherfortysome-oddtables,completewithapolished-lookinghost,amaîtred’ofsorts,whostands
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guardatthedoortomakesurenoneoftheriffraffevermakeitin.Minimumbuy-inistwentygrand.Thegamesbeingplayed,however,almostalwaysrequireamuchbiggerbankroll.Muchbigger.Ontheonehand,Bobby’s
Roomcaterstoaveryprivilegedclientele.Ontheotherhand,thereremainsacertainegalitarianelement.Especiallyifthatotherhandisclutchingaboatloadof
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money.Betteryet,ayachtload.Truthis,almostanyTom,
Dick,orHarryflashingalotofcashismorethanwelcometoplayinBobby’sRoom.ThatgoesforanyValerie,
too.ValerieJensen,dressedina
leatherChanelskirt,asilkValentinoblouse,andapairofredChristianLouboutinLadyPeeps,handedthehostatthedoorahousemarkerfor
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twohundredthousanddollarswiththecarefreeeaseofsomeonewhohadplentymorewherethatcamefrom.Thefactthatshedidn’twasthefirstlessonherfather,aprofessionalgambler,hadtaughtherwhenshewasalittlegirlbackinSomers,NewYork.Pokerisagameoflies.If
youwanttotellthetruth,gotoconfession….
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“Gentlemen,I’dlikeyoutomeetBeverlySands,”announcedthehostashepulledouttheloneemptychairatthetableforValerie.Itwasthe“threeseat,”threespotstotheleftofthedealer.Valerie,akaBeverly
Sands,satdownamidthepolitenodsfromtheotherplayers.Saveone,theywereallpros.Shelookedaroundthetable;she’dseenthemnumeroustimesbeforeon
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TV,playingtournaments.Andmoretimesthannot,theywerewinningthosetournaments.ButasattractiveasValerie
was—stunning,really—notasingleproallowedhimselftheslightestgawkorogle.Thatwouldbeasignofweakness.Nevershowweaknessat
thepokertable.Thatwasthesecondlesson
Valerie’sfatherhadtaught
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her.Thisonedoubledasalifelesson,hismantraallduringthebattlewiththelungcancerthatultimatelytookhislifebutneverhisspirit.Nevershowweakness…period.“Two,”saidthehost,
givingthedealerwhatwould’vebeenthepeacesignanywhereelse.InBobby’sRoom,itmeantgivetheladytwohundredthousanddollarsinchips,whichwaswhatthedealerpromptlydidafter
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gatheringupthepileofcardsinfrontofhim.Ahandhadjustfinished.ThegamewasNo-Limit
TexasHold’em.Twocardsfacedowntoeachplayer,followedbyfivesharecardsinthemiddle.Bestfivefromthesevenwins.Simpleasthat.Ofcourse,ifitwerereally
thatsimple,therewouldn’tbenearlyathousandbooksouttherededicatedtoexplaining
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howthegameshouldbeplayed.Giventhehighstakes,
therewerenoblindstojump-startthebetting.Instead,everyplayerhadafive-hundred-dollarante.ThismeantValeriewouldn’thavetowaitforthedealerbuttontocomearoundherway.Shecouldbedealtinimmediately.Withthespeedofarobotic
armonaDetroitassembly
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line,thedealerplacedthecardsfromthelasthandintheautomaticshufflertohisrightandpulledoutthesecondofthetwodecksusedinthegame.Afteraquickcut,hebegantodeal,givingValerieafewsecondstolookaroundthetableagain.Herfather’svoicewassoclearinherhead,itwasasifhewerebackfromthegrave,sittingrighttherenexttoher.
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There’safishineverypokergame.That’stheplayerwho’sinwayoverhishead.Ifyoulookaroundthetableandcan’tspothim,getthehellupimmediately.Becauseyou’rethefish.Valeriesmiledtoherself.
Shewasn’tgoinganywhere.Herfishwasseated
directlyacrossthetableintheeighthseat.Hewastheonlyothernonproatthetable,buteveryoneknewwhohewas.
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That’sjustthewayitiswithmultimillionaires.WhenyoulandinVegasinyourownGulfstreamG650,it’stoughtoflyundertheradar.ShahidAlDossariwasa
SaudiArabianbankerwhowaspurportedlyanadvisortotheSaudiroyalfamily,amongotherthings.Hewashandsome,hewascharismatic,andhewascurrentlyunderinvestigation
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formoneylaunderingbytheUSGovernment.IncludingSpecialAgent
ValerieJensen.“It’syouraction,Ms.
Sands,”saidthedealerwithaslightnod.Thebettinghadbeencheckedaroundtoher.Valeriereachedforthe
sunglassesthathadbeenrestinginherblondhair,droppingthemdownacrossherblueeyes.Slowly,shelifteduphertwoholecards
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ontheiredges,pullingthemtowardheracrossthefeltasifsheweregivingthetableashave.Gameon.Thisone’sforyou,Dad….
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CHAPTER59
VALERIEWASN’Tsurewhentheexactmomentwouldcome.Onlythatitwascoming.Itcouldtakeanhour.
Maybeupwardofthreeorfour.Ormaybeonlytwentyminutes,overanddonelickety-split.Thecardshadto
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cooperate,ofcourse.ButsodidAlDossari.Andsofar,hewas.EducatedintheStates—
Yaleundergrad,WhartonMBA—AlDossariwasasAmericanizedasaSaudicouldeverbe.HelovedTennesseewhiskey,NewYorkFashionWeek,andshoot-’em-upHollywoodmovies,butmostofall,whathelovedwaswomen.Heworshippedthem.Never
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mindthattheyweretreatedlikesecond-classcitizensbackinhishomeland.Thatwasthere.Hewashere.America.Wherewomenhadallthepower.Justsolongastheywerepretty.Whiletheprosatthetable
maintainedtheirwell-traineddiscipline,payingfarmoreattentiontotheactioninthemiddleofthetablethantotheeyecandyseatedatoneendofit,ShahidAlDossariwasa
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mandistracted.Neveragoodthinginahigh-stakespokergame.Infact,forty-fiveminutes
aftersittingdown,Valeriewasfairlyconvincedthattheonlyreasonheflat-calledherraisefromoutofpositionwassohewouldhaveanexcusetointroducehimself.Maybeevenflirtalittle.Themomenthadcome.Valeriehadraisedthe
initialbetoftwenty-five
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hundreddollars,makingittenthousand.AlDossaricalledquickly,whiletheremainingplayersallfolded,includingtheinitialbettor.ThatleftjustValerieand
AlDossariinthehand.Heads-upaction,asthesayinggoes.Thedealerpromptlyburied
acardandproceededtoturnupthreecardsinfrontofhim,otherwiseknownastheflop.7♣9♥8♥
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Itwasn’tjustanyflop;itwasanactionflop.Therewerestraightpossibilities.Flushpossibilities.Infact,withtwocardsstilltocome,therewereveryfewhandsthatweren’tapossibilityatthispoint.ThebettingwasonAl
Dossari,whopromptlycheckedwithasilenttapofthefelt.Valeriehadbeentheonewho’draisedpreflop,sothiswashardlyasurprise
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move.Shehadcontrolofthehand,buttheonlywaytokeepitthatwaywasforhertoincreasethepot.A“continuationbet.”“Twentythousand,”she
said,reachingforherchips.Behindhersunglasses,
though,shewasn’tlookingatherchips.HereyeswerefocusedonAlDossari,hopingtoseeareactionofsomekind—atell—that
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wouldgiveawaythestrengthofhishand.Buthebarelyblinked.
Instead,hesnap-calledher,tossingtwoten-thousand-dollarchipsintothepot.Somuchfortheeasyway,
thoughtValerie.Besides,easywasboring….Again,thedealerburieda
cardbeforeflippingoverthe“turn”—thefourthcard—faceupnexttotheotherthree.Itwastheaceofdiamonds.
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ThebettingopenedwithAlDossari,whocheckedashe’ddonebefore.AsmuchashewasstaringatValerie,hestillhadn’tsaidanything.Atleast,notoutloud.Thefactthathe’dcalledherlasttwobets,though,wasdefinitelytellinghersomething.Itwastimetofindoutmore.“Youwouldn’thappento
bestringingmealong,wouldyou?”askedValerie,flashing
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themostdisarmingsmileshecouldmuster.AlDossarikepthisstare,
andforamomentortworemainedsilent.Butitwasnouse.BeverlySands,thebuxomblondedressedtothenines,wasexactlyhistype.ShewashisMissAmerica.“Iwasactuallythinkingthe
samethingmyself,thatyouwerestringingmealong,”hesaid,smilingbackwithperfectteeth.“I’vebeen
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knowntohaveaweaknessforwomen.”Thatgotafewknowing
chucklesfromaroundthetable.AlDossari’sreputationprecededhim.“Sothataceofdiamonds
ontheturndidn’thelpyou?”askedValerie.AlDossaridroppeda
forearmonthepaddedrailofthetable,leaningforwardoverhisstackofchips.“WhosaidIneededhelp?”
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Andthereitwas,anabsoluterarityatthepokertable.Someonetellingthetruth.AlDossarihadamadehand.Valeriewassureofit.Becausethat’swhatmendowhenthey’retryingtoimpressawoman.Theytalktoomuch.“Inthatcase,I’llcheckas
well,”shesaid.Withasimpletaponthe
felt,Valeriesurrenderedanyleverageshehadinthehand.
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Butleveragecanbeatrickything.Andtherewasstillone
morecardtobeplayed.
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CHAPTER60
THEDEALERtappedthetablewithaclosedfist,thedeckcradledtightlyinthepalmofhislefthand.Hepeeledofftheburncardbeforeturningoverthefinalcard,the“river.”Itwasajackofspades.Theboardwasnowcomplete.
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7♣9♥8♥A♦J♠Gonewasthechanceofa
flushoranythinghigheronthepeckingorderofpokerhands.Still,thereremainedalotofpossibilities.Apair.Twopair.Threeofakind.Astraight.And,ofcourse,nothingatall—whichonpaperwouldbetheworsthandyoucanhave.Butpokerisn’tplayedon
paper.
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Forthosewiththeballstobluff,theworsthandcaneasilyturnintothewinninghand.Thosesameballsarewhatusuallyseparatetheprofromtheamateur.Orthesharksfromthefish.AlDossari,however,
wasn’tbluffingwhenhereachedforhischipstoopenthefinalroundofbetting.Valeriehadalreadyseenthewayheglancedatherstacktoseehowmuchshehadleft.
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Bet-sizingwasasmuchapartofNo-LimitHold’emasanythingelse.“Twenty-fivethousand,”
hesaid,slowlyslidingthechipsoutinfrontofhim.Theamountwasalittle
lessthanhalfthepot,notexactlysmallbuthardlybigenoughtoforceValerieoffadecenthand.AlDossariwasmakingtheclassic“valuebet.”Hewantedhertocall.
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ButValeriehadnointentionofcalling.“Raise,”sheannounced.Shemadeamoveforher
chipsandthenstopped,insteadrestingherforearmsagainsttherailing.Itlookedlikeindecision.Maybeevennerves.Attheveryleast,Valeriewantedittoappearasifshewerethinking,doingthemathinherheadandthendoingitagainwhiletryingtocalculatetherightamountto
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comeoverthetopofAlDossariandgethimtofold.Onceagain,mydarling
daughter,pokerisagameoflies….Therewasnomore
thinkingtobedone.Nomoremath,either.ValeriealreadyknewtherewasnochancethatAlDossariwasgoingtofold.Finally,sheliftedher
hands,gatheringthembehindherentirestackofchips.That
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motionmeantthesamethingateverypokertableineverylanguage,butitwouldn’tbegambling—oranydamnfun,forthatmatter—ifyoudidn’tsaythethreewordsoutloudincrystal-clearEnglish.“I’mallin,”shedeclared.AlDossarididn’taskthe
dealerforacountofhowmuchhenowneededtomatchherbet.Nordidhegiveitmuchthought.Hesimplycontinuedstaringat
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Valerieforanotherfewseconds,oblivioustotheotherwomanwho’djustsidledupnexttoher.LadyLuck.“Icall,”hesaid.Valeriewassupposedto
showhercardsfirst,butAlDossaricouldn’twait.Ifhewasn’tabouttowinthehandoutright,hethoughtforsureitwouldbeachoppedpot—thattheywouldbothhavethesamestraight.
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Confidently,heturnedoverhistwoholecards.“Ifloppedit,”hesaid.Valerie,alongwiththerest
ofthetable,lookedathis6♣and10♣.Sureenough,thefirstthreecardsontheboardof7♣9♥8♥A♦J♠hadgivenhimaten-highstraight.Itwasamadehand,andthebesthand,evenaftertheaceofdiamondsontheturn.Butthencametheriver.
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Sayingnothing,Valeriereachedforhercards.Everyoneelseatthetable—allthepros—knewwhatshewasabouttoturnover.Shewasnofish,andneitherwerethey.AlDossarilookedacross
thefelttoseethe10♦andQ♦staringbackathim.Valeriehadaqueen-highstraight.Itwasthenuts,thebesthandpossible.
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Thepot?Overfourhundredthousanddollars.AlDossari’sexpression?
Priceless.Butnotbecausehewas
upset.Hecouldn’tcarelessaboutthemoney.Nordidhecareaboutlosingtoawoman.Infact,itwasquitethe
opposite.AndexactlywhatValeriewasbettingon.AlDossariwasmorethan
intrigued.Hewasaroused.
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Thefishwasonthehook,allright.Nowitwastimetoreel
himin.
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CHAPTER61
“DEALER,WHEREwouldIfindtheladies’room?”askedValerie,calmlyrakinginthepot.Thequestionwasn’t
exactlytheprototypicalreactionafterwinningabighand.Infact,afewoftheprosaroundthetableevenlet
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gowithwrysmiles.Allinaday’swork,right,lady?Iftheyonlyknew.Poker
proswereawfullygoodatreadingpeople.Notthatgood,though.Valerieknewexactly
wheretofindtheladies’room.ShesimplywantedtomakesuretheSaudiknewwherehewasgoing.Afterstackingherchips,shestoodupfromthetableandwalkedaway,notoncelookingback
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atAlDossaritomakesurehewaswatching.Hell,thatwould’vebeenredundant.Rightoncue,hewas
waitingforValeriewhenshesteppedoutoftheladies’roomacoupleofminuteslater.Hewaspretendingtobefinishingacallonhiscell.Shewaspretendingtobesurprisedtoseehim.“Wellplayed,”hesaid.“Therightcardfellforme,
that’sall,”sheanswered.
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“Butthankyou.”Hetookasteptowardher,
extendinghishand.“Myname’sShahid,bytheway.”Valerieextendedherhand
inreturn,smilingwhenheheldontoitforasplitsecondlongeraftersheletgo.“I’mBeverly.”Hisblacksuitwasclearly
custom-made.Thewhiteshirtwassilk,andtheopencollarshowcasedagoldchainthatwasgaudybutnotquiterap
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star–esque.Somemenwillneverlearnthatoutsideofaweddingband,jewelryisbestlefttothewomen.“Whereareyoufrom,
Beverly?I’massumingnotfromhere.”“Backeast,”shesaid.
“DC.”“Iknowthetownwell.I
actuallydoalittlebusinessthere.”Morethanalittle,Valerie
wasthinking.Noneofitlegal,
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either.Thischarade,theentireoperation,wasallaboutprovingit.“Andwhatabouthere?”
sheasked.“IsVegasbusiness,too?”“Sometimesitis,yes,”he
said.“Thisparticulartrip,though,issimplyforpleasure.”“IhopeIdidn’tjustruinit
foryou.”Hesmiled.“Thatdepends.”“Onwhat?”
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“OnwhetherornotIcanbuyyouadrink.”“IfI’mnotmistaken,we’re
inacasino,Shahid,”shesaid.“Thedrinksarefree.”Hissmilewidened.“Inthat
case,I’llbuyyoutwo.”Valerieinchedcloserto
him.Itwassubtlebutunmistakable.“You’requitethecharmer,aren’tyou?”“Isthatbad?”heasked,
playingalong.“Itmaynotbegood.”
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“AccordingtoOscarWilde,itdoesn’tmatter,”saidAlDossari,flashinghisIvyLeagueeducation.“Itisabsurdtodividepeopleintogoodorbad.Peopleareeithercharmingortedious.”Valerietriedtobiteher
tongue.Thetrickiestpartofanyundercoveroperationwasforgettingwhoyouwereinlightofwhoyouweresupposedtobe.
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Sheknewthequote.SheevenknewtheOscarWildeplayitcamefrom,LadyWindermere’sFan.ButbetweenherandBeverlySands,onlyoneofthemhadbeenadramamajoratNorthwestern.Still,shecouldn’thelp
herself.Besides,thegoalwastobeguileAlDossari,wasn’tit?Valerietookanotherstep
towardhim,thisonefarless
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subtle.Theywereclosenow,veryclose.HaditbeenaCatholicschooldance,thenunswould’vesurelyseparatedthem.“Weareallinthegutter,”shewhispered.“Butsomeofusarelookingatthestars.”Immediately,AlDossari
tookastepback.Hewasgenuinelysurprised.“You’refamiliarwiththeplay?”Consideringshe’djust
quotedanotherlinefromit,it
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wasarhetoricalquestion.ButValeriewasn’tabouttopointthatout.NeitherwasBeverlySands.“Thegirlcandomorethan
justplaypoker,”shequipped.Hesteppedtowardher
again,hiscrocodileloafersbarelytouchingtheground.“I’dliketolearnmoreaboutyou,Beverly.”Valeriesmiled,thekindof
smilethatsuggestedthefeelingwasmutual.She’d
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practiceditmanytimesinfrontofamirror.Iwanttolearnmoreabout
you,too,Shahid.AndIintendto.Farmorethanyoucouldeverimagine,farmorethanyoueverthoughtpossible….
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CHAPTER62
ITWASmorelikeapitinthebrain,asopposedtothestomach.I’mgoingtomissClaire’sfuneral.Thethoughthadbeen
lodgedinthebackofmyhead,ifonlybecausetherestofmewasstillgrapplingwiththefactthattherewasgoing
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tobeafuneralinthefirstplace.Maybe,justmaybe,I’d
thought,thefactthatIcouldn’tbethere—oreven,forthetimebeing,explainwhytohersister—wouldgeteasiertobearasthedayspressedon.Instead,itwasonlygettingmoredifficult.EspeciallyafterOwenandIleftthecity.Everymanhashisprice.
Forthedriverofthelivery
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cabwhotookOwenandmeallthewayfromManhattantoWashington,DC,itwasninehundreddollars.Theguymadeabigstinkabouthavingtogetitallincash.Littledidheknowthatwastheonlywaywecouldpayhim.Ourcreditcards,eachand
everyone,hadbeencanceledbeforeweevencrossedtheGeorgeWashingtonBridgeintoJersey.Afewattemptsatsomeonlinepurchasesinan
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openWi-Fihotspotwereallittooktofindout.Presumably,ourATMcardswereshutdown,too.Sothatwasthegamenow.
They—whoever“they”were—knewtherewasnopointtryingtofinduscourtesyofAmex,Visa,orMasterCard,oranybankwithdrawal.Thatlefttheflipside,cuttingoffourfundingandhopingitwouldlimitouroptions
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travel-wise.It’salwayshardertohitamovingtarget.Allthemorereasonwhy
OwenandIwereonthemove.Ourfirststopafterthefive-
and-half-hourdrivewasthepartofDCyouneverseeinthebrochure.Itwasaused-cardealershipontheAnacostiasideofthecityintheSoutheastquadrant.Theowner,wholookedlikeawalkingmugshot,didn’t
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haveashowroom.Hedidn’tevenhaveanoffice.Itwasbasicallyadirtlotbehindanabandonedwarehousewithaboutadozenbeat-upcars,halfofwhichhadhadtheirVINnumbersalteredorfiledawayaltogether.“Howthehelldidyou
knowaboutthisplace?”IaskedOwen.“Ioverheardsome
GeorgetownfratboystalkingaboutitinaDean&Deluca,”
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hesaid.“Apparently,drivingDaddy’sMercedesaroundcampushasfallenoutofvogue.Junkisthenewblack.”Inthatcase,OwenandI
werenowthetrendiestguysaround.WedroveawayinanoldToyotaCorollathatwasdingedupsomuchyouwould’vethoughtithadbeenparkedoutinthemiddleofagolfdrivingrange.Butitran
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okayandcamewithplates,ourtworequirements.Asforthepaperwork,that
consistedonlyofthemoneythatchangedhands.Sevenhundreddollars,cash.Needlesstosay,wedidn’tasktoseetheCARFAX.“Whatasteal,”saidOwen.“Yeah,that’sbecauseit
probablywas,”Isaid.“Stolen.”FromAnacostiawedrove
intoGeorgetown,heading
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straighttoBiltmoreStreetandthetownhouseofDr.DouglasWittmer,lastseen—oncamera,atleast—deepinsidetheCIAblacksiteatStareKiejkutyoutsideWarsaw.Thatwasonehellofahousecall,Doc.Caretotelluswhohiredyou?Yes?No?AccordingtoGoogle,
WittmerhadbeenathoracicsurgeonatLenoxHillHospitalinManhattanforelevenyears,followedbya
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four-yearstintatCedars-SinaiMedicalCenterinLosAngeles.Thenheapparentlyquittheoperatingroom,joiningamedicalresearchcompany,BioNextLaboratories,inBethesda,Maryland,asitsCEO.Thatwasfiveyearsago.ThewebsiteforBioNext
lookedlegit,althoughthatwasn’treallysayingmuch.Atenthgraderthesedayscanbuildabelievablewebsitein
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lesstimethanittakestowatcharerunofTheSimpsons.So,too,cantheCIA.“Doyouthinkit’safront?”
IaskedOwen.“Itdoesn’thavetobe,”he
said.“Theguymightsimplybepullingdoubleduty.It’smorecommonthanyou’dthinkamongcertaindoctors,whetheritbefortheFBIortheCIA.”
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Forafewmoments,IthoughtaboutmyprimarycarephysicianbackinNewYork,whooncedroppedmyurinesamplealloverhissuedeshoes.Greatguyandagooddoctor,butsomehowIjustcouldn’tpicturehimdoingasecretgigforthegovernment.Dr.DouglasWittmerwasa
differentstory,andasOwenandIwalkedupthestepsof
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hisfadedbricktownhouse,wecouldn’twaittohearit.Butthatwasexactlywhat
wehadtodo.Wait.Werangthebell,knocked
onthedoor,andevenpeekedthroughthewindows.Noonewashome.Wittmer’sphonenumberwasunlisted,andforallweknew,hecould’vebeenbackinPolandoratanyoneofanumberofotherblacksites.Seeingtheday’smailwaitingforhiminhis
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mailbox,however,gaveussomehope.Nowallwecoulddowas
parkourshinynewCorollaalittlewaydownthestreetandkeepwatch.Ifonlywe’dknown.Wewerebeingwatchedas
well.
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CHAPTER63
“GOAHEADandask,”saidOwen.“Askwhat?”Helookedatmeacrossthe
frontseatlikeIwasanidiotfortryingtoplaydumb.“YouwanttoknowwhyIkeepdoingthisthingwithmyhands,right?”
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We’dbeenwaitingforWittmerforclosetoanhour,andhalfthetimethekidwasdoinghisdrywashroutine.“Sortofhardnotto
notice,”Isaid.“Youcanblamemyaunt
Eleanor.”Herestedbothpalmsonhiskneesandexplained.“Myparents,bothprofessors,weren’tterriblyreligious,buttheythoughtitwasimportantformeatayoungagetoexperience
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church.SomyauntEleanorwasenlistedoneSundaytobringmetoaservice.Iwasfiveanddoingcomplexalgebra,butIalsostillbelievedinSantaClausandthetoothfairy.Sotheministerisgivingthissermonabouttemptationandsinandhe’sallfiredup,andI’msittingthereinthepewlisteningandhangingonhiseveryword.Andthat’swhenhequotesanoldproverb,
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onlyIdon’tknowit’saproverb;Itakeitliterally.Idlehandsarethedevil’sworkshop.”“You’rekiddingme.”“Nope.That’showit
started,”hesaid.“Problemis,Ihaven’tbeenabletostopeversince.”Helaughed.“Youknow,I’venevertoldanyonethatbefore.”“Trustme,”Isaid.
“You’vegotfarbiggersecretsthesedays.”
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Asifoncue,ablackJaguarXKCoupepulledintotheshortdrivewayatthebaseofWittmer’stownhouse.Ithadtobehim.Thewaitwasover.Quickly,OwenandI
steppedoutofourslightlylessexpensiveCorollaandapproachedhimashewasgettinghismail.Bythetimehelookedupandsawus,wewerepracticallyinhisface.Noexaggeration,hemusthavejumpedbackatleast
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threefeet.We’dscaredtheshitoutofhim.Good.Nextup,withanyluck,
wasgettingthetruthoutofhim.“Dr.Wittmer?”Iasked.Hewasstillcatchinghis
breath.Whothehellwantstoknow?saidhislook.ButnonormalpersonoutsidetheBronxactuallysaysthatinreallife,andDouglasWittmerappearedasnormalastheycome.Withhis
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glassesandneatlytrimmeddarkhairthatwasgrayaroundthetemples,hewasadoctorwholookedlikethestockphotoofadoctor.“Yes,that’sme,”hesaid
finally.Iintroducedmyselfand
wasabouttointroduceOwenwhenIsawWittmer’seyesbeatmetoitwithasquintofrecognition.Hisjawthenliterallydropped.
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“Jesus…you’rethekid,aren’tyou?”heasked.“Aliveandintheflesh,”
saidOwen.“Ofcourse,youprobablythoughtI’dbedeadbynow.”Wittmernoddedalmost
sheepishly.“Restassured,ithasn’t
beenforlackoftrying.”Owenturnedtomeandmybeat-upface,thebruisesjustbeginningtosettleintoanice
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shadeofeggplant.“Andthat’stoputitmildly.”“Wait,what’sgoingon?”I
asked.“Howdoesheknowwhoyouare?”Tosaythekidwasquick
ontheuptakedidn’tdohimjustice.“Becausehe’sbeenshownapictureofme,”saidOwen.“AndifIwereevertopayhimavisit,hewassupposedtoletthemknow.”“Iwouldn’t,though,”said
Wittmer.“Imean,Iwon’t.”
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“Ofcourseyouwon’t,”saidOwenfacetiously.“Whatpossiblemotivationcouldyouhave?”NowIwasallcaughtup.If
theseweren’ttheirexactwords,theyhadtobedamnclose.Helpusfindthekidbeforehebringsusalldown,Dr.Wittmer…includingyou.“Idon’tcarethatI’minthe
recordings,”saidWittmer.“Itwasamistake,andIcanlivewiththeconsequences.”
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“Actually,Idon’tcarethatyou’reintherecordings,either,”saidOwen.“AllIcareaboutiswhoputyouthere.That’swhatweneedtoknow.”Wittmer’seyesshifted
betweenOwenandmeforafewmoments,thelatestissueofCarandDriverandtherestofhismailpressedhardagainsthischest.Itwasonethingforhim
nottoratusout.Itwas
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anotherforhimtoratoutwhomeverhewasworkingfor.Therewouldneedtobeareason.Adamngoodone.Wittmerlookedupatthe
sky.Wealldid.Thesunwasbeginningtosetbehindamassofcharcoal-coloredcloudsthatseemedtohavearrivedoutofnowhere.MuchlikeOwenandme.“Ithinkweshouldgo
inside,”saidthedoctor.“Itlookslikerain.”
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CHAPTER64
ITWASahomeforaguywhobasicallywasn’thomeallthatmuch.That,orhejustdidn’tcare.Nottosayitwasmessy.
Rather,itwassparse.Inthefewroomswewalkedpastbeforesettlinginthekitchen,thefurnishingsconsistedof
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thebareminimum,orinthecaseoftheemptydiningroom,evenless.Iwasn’tmuchfor
metaphors,butClairealwayswas.Forher,thiswould’vebeenalay-up.Dr.DouglasWittmerclearlyhadmoney,buttoseewherehelived—howhelived—wastoseeamandefinedbywhathedidn’thave.Therewerethingsmissinginhislife.
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“Youwantcoffee?”heasked,pointingtotheKeurigmachineonthecounternearthestove.OwenandIbothdeclined.
Wewereanxiousenoughasitwas.Thethreeofusheaded
overtoasmallcherrywoodtableinthecornerunderneathasmallclock,thekindyou’dmorelikelyseehanginginanofficeorwaitingroom.Afterweallsatdown,Wittmer
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immediatelystooduptoremovehisblueblazer,hangingitonthebackofhischair.Hewasn’tstalling,buthewasn’texactlyrushing,either.Finally,aftersittingdown
again,hetookadeepbreathandbegan.“Iwastargeted,”hesaid,
histonestraightasaruler.Tohiscredit,therewasn’tahintofhistryingtomakeanexcuseforhimself.Hewas
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statingthefacts,orreallyjustonefact.“TheyknewmywifewasonFlightNinety-Three.”OwenandIbothdropped
ourheadsabit.Itspokevolumesabouttheeventsof9/11thataparticularflightnumbercouldbesoingrainedinthecollectivememoryofanation.“I’msorry,”saidOwen.“Yes,”Isaid.“I’msorry.”
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“Thethingis,”Wittmercontinued,“griefandangercanhelpyourationalizealmostanybehaviorinthenameofrevenge.Iknowthat’swhathewasbankingonwithme.”Itwassoclearwhatwe
werewitnessing.Thiswasamanwhoneededtoexplainhimself.Barehissoulalittle,ifnotalot.IwassurethatOwen,evenathisrelatively
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youngage,wasthinkingthesamething.Perhapsitwasthatsame
youth,though,thathadOwenwishingthedoctorwouldexplainthingsjustatadbitfaster.Fittingly,theonlysoundinthekitchenotherthanuswasthemeasuredtick…tick…tickofthewallclockaboveus.“He?”Owenasked
impatiently.Inotherwords,
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Please,fortheloveofPete,startnamingnames.…“Idon’tknowifhe’sthe
onlyringmaster,butit’scertainlyhiscircus,”saidWittmer.Hedrewanotherdeepbreath.“FrankKarcheristheonewhofirstapproachedme.”Ididn’trecognizethe
name,nor,apparently,wasIsupposedto,giventhewayWittmerwaslookingdirectlyatOwen.Andgiventheway
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Owenwasnoddingbackathim,Iguessitmadesense.“Thekid”absolutelyrecognizedthename.“FrankKarcheristhe
NationalClandestineServicechiefoftheCIA,”saidOwen,turningtome.“Basically,we’retalkingthekindofguywholikestokickpuppies.”“Sohumantorturewasn’t
muchofaleap,”Isaid.Itwasaquip,completely
offthecuff.Still,thesecond
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thewordsleftmymouth,Iregrettedthem.Ididn’tknowKarcher,butIdidknowthatWittmerwassittingrightinfrontofme.Hewasalsoontherecordings.Atbest,thedoctorwasanaccomplice.Atworst?ThatwasbetweenhimandhisGod.Andthatwasthepoint.
OwenandIwerethereinhiskitchentogetinformation,nottopassjudgmentonhim.AndIjusthad.Abitunfairly,
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noless.Iwasn’ttheonewho’dlosthiswifeon9/11.“Iapologize,”Isaidto
Wittmer.“Ididn’tmeanto—”“That’sallright,”hesaid.
Hedrewanotherdeepbreath.“Atthebeginning,IknewexactlywhatIwasdoingandwhy.Thoserecordingsyouhave?Asbadastheymaylooktoawholelotofpeople,therearejustasmanypeoplethesedays—the
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Machiavelliansinourso-calledwaronterror—whowouldbelievetheendjustifiesthemeans.”“I’mconfused,then,”I
said.“Whatchanged?Whywouldyoubetalkingtous?”Wittmerleanedin,pressing
hispalmsdownonthatcherrywoodtablewithwhatmightaswellhavebeentheweightoftheworld.“Becausethoserecordingsyouhavedon’ttellthewhole
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story,”hesaid.“Butminedo.”
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CHAPTER65
WITTMERPUSHEDbackhischairanddisappearedfromthekitchen,returningaboutahalfminutelaterwithanoldDelllaptop.Whilehewasgone,OwenandIdidn’tutterasinglewordtoeachother.Really,whatwastheretosay?Thedoctorhad
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basicallyjustpromisedtoblowourminds.Theonlythingtodowasshutupandwaitforit.Anotherhalfminutepassed
whileWittmer’slaptopbootedup.Giventheanticipation,itfeltlikeaneternity.Finally,heclickedonafileandpressedPlay,anglingthescreeninfrontofussoweallhadagoodview.Itwasshowtime.
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“ThisisfromthesameblacksiteoutsideofWarsawduringthesametimeperiod,”heexplained.Indeed,fromtheget-go
everythingabouttherecordinglookedfamiliar.Thewindowlessroomshotinblack-and-white.ThelonemetalchairwithaMiddleEasternmanshackledtoit,followedbythetwomeninsuitswhorestrainedhim
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whilehereceivedtheshottohiscarotidartery.Ofcourse,thedoctor
wieldingthesyringelookedfamiliaraswell.Wewereinhiskitchen.“Whatisyourname?”
askedthevoiceoffcamera.Immediately,asecond
voicetranslatedthequestionintoArabic,andaswithOwen’srecordings,theArabicwastranslatedback
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intoEnglishviasubtitles.Everythingwasthesame.Except,inthiscase,the
prisoner’sresponse.“IspeakEnglish,”hesaid
softly.Thetwovoicesfrom
behindthecameracouldbeheardconversing,butevenwiththevolumemaxedoutonWittmer’slaptop,wecouldn’tunderstandwhattheyweresaying.Iassumeditwasaboutthewaythey
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wantedtoproceed,althoughyouwouldn’tknowitgivenhowthefirstvoicerepeatedthequestion—“Whatisyourname?”—asifheweresomeautomatedprompt.“MynameisMakin
Pabalan,”answeredtheprisoner.Hearinghimspeakagain,it
wasclearthathewasfluentinEnglish.Hisaccentnotwithstanding,therewasnohitchfromhishavingto
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translateinhisheadfromArabic.IfIhadtoguess,I’dsayhe’dbeeneducatedatsomepointintheUS.Again,therewasmore
talkingbehindthecamera.Westillcouldn’tmakeitout.Whateverwassaid,though,itresultedinadeviationfromthescript.“We’llproceedinEnglish
only,”camethevoice.“Doyouunderstand?The
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questionsnowwillonlybeinEnglish.”“Yes,”saidtheprisoner.“I
understand.”“Andyouwillonlyanswer
inEnglish.Isthatunderstoodaswell?”“Yes.”“Pleasestateyourname
again.”“MynameisMakin
Pabalan.”“AreyouamemberofAl
Qaeda?”
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“No,”saidtheprisoner.“Areyouawareofany
plansbyAlQaedatokillAmericancitizens?”“No.”“Areyouamemberofany
organizationthatconsiderstheUnitedStatesofAmericaanenemy?”“No.”“Areyouawareofany
organizationthatisplanningtobringharmtoany
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Americancitizensanywhereintheworld?”“No.”Therewasn’ttheslightest
hesitationfromthemaninthechairasheansweredeachquestion.Helookednervous,butnottothepointoffear.Norwasthereanyangerinhiseyes.IfIhadbeencross-examininghiminacourtroom,hewould’vequalifiedasacooperatingwitness.
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Moreimportantly,therewasn’ttheslightestphysicalchangeinhim.Hisjawdidn’tclench,thechairdidn’tbegintorattle.Therewasnodownwardspiralofpainfollowedbyevenmorepain.Nosignoflieandyoudie.Hewastellingthetruth.OwenandIexchanged
glances,thethoughtbeingthatthedoctorhaditwrong.Thiswasn’tthewholestory,itwasthesamestory.
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Inunison,weturnedtoWittmer.Whatgives?Buthewasstillstaringat
thescreen,asubtlebutunmistakablecuethatweshouldbedoingthesame.Thedoctorknewexactly
whathewastalkingabout.
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CHAPTER66
ITHAPPENEDsodamnandscaryfast.Onesecond,theprisoner
wasfine.Thenext,hewasn’t.OnlythiswasdifferentfromOwen’srecordings.Sovery,verydifferent.Thisbeganinaninstantandbarelylasted
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muchlonger.Itwasaflash.No,itwasadetonation.Itwasasiftheman’sbrain
hadactuallyexplodedinsidehishead.Iwatchedashiseyesrolled
back,hisfaceconvulsinglikeitwaslodgedinapaintmixeratHomeDepot.Theforcewassostrongitliterallyliftedthemanofftheground,chairincluded.Bythetimegravityfoughtback,heandthechair
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weretippedoveronthefloor,motionless.“Christ…”Owen
muttered,hisvoicetrailingoff.Wittmerreachedoutand
hitthespacebaronthekeyboard,pausingtherecording.Itwasrightthenthatthethoughtoccurredtome.Asquicklyasallhellbrokelooseinthatinterrogationroom,itwasn’t
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asifthedoctorcouldn’thavetriedtointervene.Buthewasnowhereinthe
frame.Whynot?“Thatmighthavebeenthe
sickestpartofall,”Wittmersaidasifreadingmymind.“ThesecondItriedtohelp,Iwasliterallyheldback.Theydidn’twanttheguysaved.Theywantedhimdocumented.Likealabrat.”Hehitthespacebaragain
toresumetherecording.True
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tohisword,Wittmerfinallysprangintotheframeasifhe’djustbrokenfreefromthetwootherguysbehindthecamera.Withinsecondsofhiskneelingdownandplacingtwofingersontheprisoner’sneck,heshookhisheadslowly.Themanwasdead.“Wasthereanautopsy
performed?”askedOwen.“Yes.Itwasananeurysmal
subarachnoidhemorrhage,”
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saidWittmer.“Eachandeverytime.”Boom.“Wait…what?”Iasked.
ButI’dheardhimperfectly.SohadOwen.“Ithappenedsevenother
timesoutoftwentytrials,”saidWittmer.“Atleast,thetwentytrialsIwasoverseeing.”Owenshookhisheadin
disbelief.“Afortypercentfailrate,”hesaid.“Wasthe
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prisonercooperatingeachtime?”Thedoctornodded,his
gazeretreating.Itwasasifhehadnowheretolook.“Karcherjustcallsitcollateraldamage,”hesaid,disgusted.“Icallitmurder.”Therewasnopushingthat
lastlineaside,noignoringitsimplications.Thewordssimplyhungthereatthetable,fillingthesilence.IfIhadn’tknownbetter,I
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would’vesworntheclockaboveushadstoppedaswell.Icouldn’thearittick.Eventually,Owenspoke
up.“DoesKarcherknowyouhavethisrecording?”heasked.“Ifhedid,I’dprobablybe
deadrightnow,”saidWittmer.Itwashardtoarguewith
that.OwenandIwerelivingproof.
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Immediately,allIcouldpictureinmyheadwasthisguy,Karcher,arrangingforClaire’sdeath.ThenOwen’s.Thenmine.Sometimestheonlything
moredangerousthanamanwithnothingtoloseisamanwitheverythingtolose.FrankKarcherwasevery
bitthatman.“Whatweneednowisthe
link,”saidOwen.“Proofthattheserumexists,thatitwas
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used,andthatKarcher’sfingerprintsarealloverit.”AmImissingsomething?
“Don’twealreadyhaveanentirefilmfestivalthatprovesthefirsttwo?”Iasked.“Therecordingsprovealot
ofthings,”saidOwen.“Withoutthepersonresponsible,though,it’sjustanembarrassinghomemoviefortheentirecountry.”“Fine.Socommencewith
thecongressionalhearings,”I
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said.OwenturnedtoWittmer
withanairofcertitudethatpeopleonlygrantyouwhenyoucanbackitup.“Excusetheassumption,”hesaid,“butyoudidn’tactuallydeveloptheserum,didyou?Nordoyouknowthenameofthepersonwhodid,usingmyresearch,right?”“Iwasnevertold,”saidthe
doctor.
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Owenturnedbacktome,continuing.“Andthetwohenchmenintherecording,theonesrestrainingtheprisonerandultimatelyrestrainingDr.Wittmer?They’reundercoveragents.Somakingtherecording,anyoftherecordings,publicwouldexposetheiridentities.That’snevergoingtohappen.”“Inotherwords,”Isaid,
“whatweneedisproofthat
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cangopublic.”“Exactly,”saidOwen.Withoutaword,Wittmer
pushedbackhischaironcemoreandleftthekitchen.ToquoteYogiBerra,itwasdéjàvualloveragain.OwenandIsimplylookedateachotherwithnothingtosay.Untilthedoctorreturned.Heplacedwhatwasinhis
handonthetable.“Thismightbeyouranswer,”hesaid.
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“IsthatwhatIthinkitis?”askedOwen.“Yes,”saidWittmer.He
foldedhisarms.“Butlet’sbeveryclearaboutonething.Youdidn’tgetitfromme.”
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CHAPTER67
THESMALLwhitestuccobuildingwithonlyanumbernexttothedoorandnoothersignagewasn’tquitehidinginplainsightintheheartofGeorgetown.Butitwasn’texactlyoffthebeatenpath,either.FromwhereOwenandIparked,wecouldlookover
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ourshouldersandseethebackentrancetoaStarbucksoutonMStreet.Thatjustmadethiswhole
thingfeelevenweirder.Isthateventherightword?Bizarre…surreal…unnerving?Breakoutthethesaurus….Behinduswere
cappuccinos,Frappuccinos,andchaimochalatteswithpumpsofgooey,sweetsyrup.Infrontofus?Atopsecret
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CIAlabproducingalethaltruthserumthatskirtstheUSConstitutionandtherightofdueprocesstotheextentthatthestateofKansasskirtstheAtlanticandPacificOceans.“Whataretheodds
someone’sinside?”Iasked,turningofftheengine.Wewereanhourpastsunset,alonefloodlightoverheadprovidingwhatlittleviewwehadoftheone-storybuilding.
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Therewerenowindowsinfront.Owenshruggedhisbroad
shoulders.Wittmerhadn’tbeenabletoguaranteetheplacewouldbeempty.“Noclue,”hesaid.Itwasthewayhesaidit,
though,asifthosewordswereabitnewtohim.Icouldn’thelpaslightsmile.“Thatdoesn’thappentoyoualot,doesit?”“What’sthat?”
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“Beingcluelessaboutsomething.”Hereturnedthesmile,all
modestyaside.“Nope.”Ireachedintothebackseat,
grabbingmyduffel,whichwassittingnexttohisbackpack.Thekidhadhisbagoftricks;Ihadmine.“Whataboutguns?”Iasked.“Everfireone?”Thelookhegavemewas
thepolaroppositeofclueless.
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“IgrewupinNewHampshire,”heanswered.Enoughsaid.Ipulledoutthe
semiautomaticSIGSauerP210,checkedthemagazine,andhandeditover.Livefreeordie….“Youready?”Iasked.Owenunbuckledhisseat
belt,flippedthesafetyalongsidethetrigger,andwithablindhandhookedan
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armthroughoneofthestrapsofhisbackpack.“Ready.”Thewalkfromthecarto
thebuilding’sentrancewasnomorethantenyards,albeitazigzaggivenallthepotholesfilledwithwaterfromtheearlierdownpour.Iledthewaywithmy
Glock,nevermorethankfulforitsxenonlightandredlasersight.WitheverymeasuredstepItooktowardtheentrance,thatformer
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weaponsinstructorofminebackatValleyForge,theonewiththesandpapervoice,wasallbutechoingbetweenmyears.Aprickandaprophetallatonce.Sometimesshithappensin
thedark….
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CHAPTER68
“ONEMOREforluck,”IwhisperedtoOwen,reachingoutwithmyarm.Iwasmakingafistsotighteveryfingernailwasdiggingdeepintomypalm.We’dstationedourselves
oneithersideofthewindowlessdoor,bagsatour
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feetandourbackspressedhardagainstthestucco.I’dalreadyknockedonce.Thesecondknockgotthesameresult.Eithertheplacewasemptyorwhoeverwasinsidewasn’tanswering.“Myturn,”Owen
whisperedback.Intheageofretinal
scanners,digitalthumbprintreaders,andwhateverotherparanoid-inspiredgizmosexistthatmakesureonly
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certainpeoplegetintocertainplaces,Wittmerhadgivenusalittlepieceofirony.Asimplekey.Actually,itmadecomplete
sense.Banksneedvaultsandguardsandsecuritycamerasbecausepeopleknowthat’swheretheykeepthemoney.This,ontheotherhand,wasfourwallsandaroofbarelybiggerthanashacktuckedbehindanalleywithallthefoottrafficofaVineyard
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VinesstoreinNewark.Inotherwords…Justmakesureyoulockthe
doorbehindyou,Doc.Still,OwenandIcouldn’t
helpwonderingthesamething.Hoping,really.ThatwecouldtrustWittmer.Inaway,hewasmerelya
middleman.Thecrucialpartofhisjobwaspickinguptheserumandtransportingitoverseas,anMDashumanmule.Possessingallthe
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requisitepaperworkforaninternationalhumanitarianmission,hewasabovesuspicion.Barelyaneyebrowraisedthroughinternationalcustoms.Somuchbetterthan
swallowingtwodozenlittleballoonsandapostflightmealofEx-Lax.“Okay,”Iwhisperedto
Owen.Hewasholdingupthekey,
hisanswertothequestion
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thatitwould’vebeenredundantofmetoaskaloud.Whatnow?Slowly,Owenreachedout,
slidinthekey,andgaveitatwist.Webracedforeverything.
Analarm.Anattackdog.Thenightcleaningcrew.Everything.Instead,pushingthedoor
open,wegotexactlywhatwedesperatelywanted.Nothing.Justsilence.Anddarkness.
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ImotionedforOwentostayput,peeringaroundthehingeslikesomeguywho’dseentoomanycopshows.Beforeturningonanylights,Iwantedtoshinemygunaroundabit,asitwere.Thegoodnewsaboutthatxenonlightattachmentwasthatbeingontheothersideofitwaslikelookingintothehighbeamsofanoncomingcar.TheflashlightapponOwen’sphonetimesten.
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Basically,Iwasawalkingone-waymirror.Thefirstsurprisewasthat
therewasnoreceptionarea,justashorthallway.Afterasmallkitchentotheleftandanevensmallerbathroomdirectlyoppositeontheright,everythingwasrightthereinfrontofme,anditwasprettymuchasadvertisedbyWittmer.“Thefacility,”hecalledit.
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IstaredthroughtheblastofwhitelightfunnelingoutfrommyGlock,theredstreakfromthelasersightmovingwithmyhandsfromonecorneroftheroomtothenext.Onlythefarwallhadwindows,threeacrosswithhorizontalslatblindsthatweredrawnandclosedtight.WhatIwaslookingatwas
somewherebetweenahighschoolchemistryclassroomandamethlab,notthatI’d
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personallyseenalotofmethlabs.Truthbetold,everythingIknewaboutthem—aswellaspedophiles,runawaybrides,highschoolteacherswhosleepwiththeirstudents,andpeoplewhotrytohirehitmentokilltheirspouses—Iowedtoaguilty-pleasurehabitofwatchingDatelineNBC.Eveninthemoment,the
thoughtwasallbut
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inescapable.Thiswouldmakeonehellofanepisode….Theroomwasmessy.
Almostchaotic,eveninitsstillness.Therewerethingseverywhereonthelargeislandinthecenter.Vialsandbeakers.AcoupleofBunsenburners.Acentrifuge,aswellasafewotherbulkymachinesthatwereacombinationofglassandstainlesssteel,includingonethatwasconnectedtoalarge
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ventilatingairductthatshotupstraightthroughtheceiling.Therewasalsoaredbinderstuffedthickwithpapers.Whattherewasn’t,though,
wasanothersurprise.Wewerealone.Ilookedbackovermy
shoulder,Owen’ssilhouettepeekingoutfrombehindthedoorway.“Noonehome,”Isaid.
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Andtechnically,thatwasthetruth.
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CHAPTER69
THESMARTESTthingIcoulddowasgetoutofhisway.Owensteppedintothe
room,flippedonthelights,andclosedthedoorbehindhimsofastIwasoutofbreathjustwatchinghim.Thekidwasonamission.
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Atfirst,Ididn’tquiteunderstandtherush.Sure,wedidn’twanttoloiter,butitwasn’tliketherewasashotclocktickingawayinthecorner.Wehadtime.ThenIsawhimreachfor
it.Thewayhereachedforit.Sidlinguptotheislandin
themiddleoftheroom,hehadoveradozenthingstochoosefrom,includingwhatappearedtobetheserumitself,containedinarackof
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vials.Hebarelyevennoticedthem,though.Itwasasiftherewasonlyoneitemhecaredabout,andthatwaswhenIunderstood.Withbothhands,hepulled
theredbindertowardhim.Ofallthebaseemotions
thatmusthavebeenkickingaroundinhisheadoverthepastfewdays—anger,fear,guilt,tonameafew—theywerestillnomatchforwhat
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makesageniusagenius.Curiosity.Someonehadpiggybacked
onhisbrainandtakenhisworkintounchartedterritory.Itmighthavebeenseriouslymisguidedandultimatelydoomed,butitwasalsosomethingelse,theonethingincommonwithanythingthatpushestheboundariesofinnovation.Itwasbold.AnddamnifOwendidn’t
wanttoseetheblueprint.
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Silently,Iwatchedhimmakehiswaythroughthepagesinthebinder,oneafteranotherafteranother,hisindexfingertracingthewordsandformulaslikehewasinoneofthoseoldEvelynWoodspeed-readingcommercials.Ikeptwaitingforhimto
takesomesortofmentalbreather,attheveryleastasimplepause.Scratchhischin.Shifthisweightfrom
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onelegtotheother.Instead,hekeptplowinghiswaythrough,barelyeventakingthetimetoblink.Then,suddenly,hefroze.I
tookthatasmycue,iftherewasevergoingtobeone.“Whatisit?”Iasked.Sillyme,thinkingIwas
abouttogetananswer.IwasprettysureOwendidn’tevenhearme.Hewastoobusynowlookingaroundtherestoftheroom,hiseyes
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pinballingfromoneitemtothenext.Whateverhewassearchingfor,though,hecouldn’tfindit.Thatwaswhenhishead
snappedbackwithanidea.Hespunonhisheels,
disappearingintothesmallkitchenbythedoor.Icouldheartherefrigeratoropen,followedbytheshiftingandrattlingofmetalandglassware.Again,itwaslike
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someonehadastopwatchonhim.“Youokay?”Icalledout.Owenreappeared,
clutchingalargeStyrofoamcup.Hewasstaringdownintoit.Icouldn’tseefromwhereIwasstanding,butIwasguessingitwasn’tcoffee.“N-stoff,”hesaid,finally.N-stoff?Ilookedathim
blankly.Itcertainlywasn’tmyfirstblanklooksince
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we’dbeentogether.“Excuseme?”“Thatwasthecodename
ofchlorinetrifluorideattheKaiserWilhelmInstituteinNaziGermany.”Great.MoreJeopardy!I’ll
takeRandomTriviaWhenYouLeastExpectItforsixhundred,Alex….Atmycontinuedblank
stare,Owenwenton.“TheNazisexperimentedwithchlorinetrifluorideasa
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combinedincendiaryweaponandpoisongas.Whatabigsurprise,right?Thingis,though,itwastoovolatile.Itwouldliterallyexplodeintheirfaces.”“Andthat’swhatyou’re
holdinginyourhand?”Iasked.“Threefeetawayfromme?”OwentiltedthecupsoI
couldseetheslightlygreen-and-yellowishliquidinsideit.“Itdoesn’treactwithclosed-
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cellextrudedpolystyrenefoam,”hesaid.Ishothimadeadpanlook.
“YoumeanStyrofoam?”“Yeah,sorry,”hesaid.“Of
course,ifthisweremostanymetal,likeanaluminumcan,forinstance…thenboom.”Iswallowedhard.“Then
thankGodforStyrofoam,”Isaid.“Butwhatdoeschlorinated—”“Chlorinetrifluoride,”he
said.“CTF.”
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“Yeah,whatdoesCTFhavetodowiththeserum?”Iasked.“I’mnotsureithas
anythingtodowiththeserum.”“Whyareyouholdingit,
then?”Itseemedliketheobviousquestion,asdidmyfollow-up.“Howdidyouevenknowitwashere?”“It’slistedinthebinder,”
hesaid.“Underwhat?”
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“Inventory.”Howneatandorganizedof
them.“Sotheyneededitforsomething,right?Ifnottheserum,thenwhat?”IwatchedOwen.Hewas
thinking.Atleast,thatwaswhatIthought.Hisheadwascockedtotheside,hiseyesnarrowedtoasquint.Ofallthings,hebegan
removinghissneakers.Huh?Ithenwatchedashetiptoedpastmeoh-so-quietlyinhis
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barefeet—hewasn’twearingsocks—andcarefullyplacedtheStyrofoamcuponthecenterislandintheroombeforepickingupmySIG,whichhe’dsetdown.What’sgoingon?Iwasabouttoaskthatvery
questionwhenhisindexfingershotupintheair,stoppingme.RightthenIknew.Hewasn’tthinking;hewaslistening.He’dheardsomething.
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Andthenextsecond,Iheardit,too.
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CHAPTER70
ITWASthesoundofsomeonetryingnottomakeasound,anotherwisequietsetoffootstepsbetrayedbythewetpavementoutsidethebuilding.Myguesswasrunning
shoes,maybecross-trainers.Somethingwithasoftand
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forgivingsole,perfectforsneakingaround.Unless,ofcourse,it
happenedtobeafterarainstorm.Rubberandwaterdon’tplayquietlytogether.IlookedatOwen.He
lookedatme.Webothlookedatthelightswitchbythedoor.Ifthosefootstepswerecomingforus,theyalreadyknewwewereinside.Nopointmakingitanyeasiertobeseen.
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Owengrabbedthebinder,stuffingitinhisbackpackbeforekillingthelights.HesettledinthedoorwayofthekitchenareabytheentrancewhileIslippedoffmyPumasandquietlyliftedmyduffelovertothedoorwayofthebathroomoppositehim.Withourshoesoffand
bagsintow,welookedlikewewereabouttogothroughairportsecurity.Ofcourse,whatwewouldn’thavegiven
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foranX-raymachinetoseethroughthedooroutside.Noonecouldblameusfor
beingparanoid,andhopefullythatwasallwewerebeing.Butbettertobesafethandead.Wehadthedoorcovered.
Ourshoeswerebackonourfeet.IwasononekneewithmyGlockraised,thexenonlightturnedoffandthelasersightaimedwaisthigh.
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Nexttome,Owenwasstandingwithhisstrong-sidelegslightlybacklikeaboxerandhiselbowsbentjustalittle.TheWeaverposition,asit’scommonlycalledamongpoliceandmilitary.Smallerprofile,greaterstability.Somewhereinhisnineteen
years,someonehadclearlytaughthimthat.Notsurprisingly,thekidhadpaidattention.
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AminutepassedwithOwenandmehavinganentireconversationwithoutwords.Justnods,shrugs,andprolongedstares.Neitherofuscouldhear
whatwe’dfirstheard.Inaglass-half-fullworld,thatmeantitwasjustsomepasserby.Arandom.MaybesomeStarbucksemployee—excuseme,barista—takingthebackwayintowork.
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Ofcourse,intheglass-half-emptyworld…Wekeptlistening,oureyes
nowtrainedonthedoor.Icouldfeelthesweatforminginmypalms,myrightcalfcramping,thestrainbuildinginmyleftshoulderfromtryingtoholdmygunsteady.Itwaslikeathousandneedlejabs.Butallinall,thefeeling
wasrelief.Thelongerwewentwithouthearing
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anything,thebetter.Waybetter.Isn’tthatright,Owen?Iglancedoverathim,just
aquicksnapshotasI’ddonebefore.ItwassofastmyeyeswerealreadyturningbacktothedoorwithoutreallyfocusingonwhatIwasseeing.Afterall,Ialreadyknew
whatIwasseeing.ItwasOweninthesamestancehe’dhadfromtheget-go.
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Weweremaybefourfeetfromeachother,giveortakeaninchortwo.Ofcourse,sometimesthat’sthedifferencebetweenlifeanddeath,isn’tit?Aninchortwo.
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CHAPTER71
MYHEADswiveledbacktoOwensofastIcouldliterallyfeelabreezeinmyleftear.Hehadmovedeverso
slightlytohisright,justenoughthathishead—barelyhalfofit,really—wasnowpeekingoutfromthe
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doorwayofthekitchenarea.Exposed.Andjustlikethat,thered
dotattheendofthelasersightfrommyGlockwastrainedonthebackofhisskull.Onlyitwasn’tmygun.It
wassomeoneelse’s.“Down!”Iyelled,diving
acrossthehallway.Thesoundsoftheshot
fired,thebrokenglass,andmyshoulderbarrelinginto
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Owen’sribcageallrolledintoonepiercingcrack!asasecondbreezehitmyleftear,thisonecourtesyofthebulletthathadjustbarelymissedme.Byaninchortwo.OwenandIcrash-landed
onthelinoleumfloorofthekitchen.Immediately,hehaditfiguredout—themistakewe’dmadeignoringthewindows.Justbecausethe
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blindswerecloseddidn’tmeantheshooterwasblind.Twowords.“Thermal
imaging,”hesaid.Thenextsoundwasthe
blindsbeingviolentlyyankeddown,followedbymoreglassbreaking.Wescrambledtoourfeet.“He’scomingin,”Isaid.“No,butsomethingelseis.
Infiveseconds,it’sgoingtogetrealsmokyinhere.”
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Actually,itwasmoreliketwoseconds.Thecanisterlandedwitha
thud,thesoundofitrollingtoastopquicklyovertakenbythehissingoftheteargas.Icouldn’thelpstatingtheobvious.“We’vegottogetoutof
here,”Isaid.“Notquiteyet,”said
Owen.Notquiteyet?
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Thegaswaspushingtowardus,fillingthehallway.Oureyesandthroatswereabouttogetscorched.AllIknewwasthatstayingputgaveusnochance.Thefactthatwewerearmedgaveusatleastafightingchance.ButOwendidn’tevenlook
attheSIGI’dgivenhim,stillgrippedinhisrighthand.Infact,heputitdown.“Whatareyoudoing?”I
asked.
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Buthewastoobusydoingittoanswer.Hewassearchingthecabinetsabovethecounter,openingonedoorafteranother.Untilhefoundit.Owenturnedbacktome,
holdinganotherlargeStyrofoamcup,thisoneempty.Ihadnoideawhathewasthinking.“Pleasetellmethatcuphas
somethingtodowithourgettingoutofhere,”Isaid.
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Owennodded.“Itdoes,”heanswered.“Nowtakeoffyoursocks.”Mysocks?
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CHAPTER72
THEREWASnotimetoaskwhy,notwithmyeyesfeelingthefirststingfromtheteargasfilteringintothekitchen.Thefirstcoughcouldn’tbetoofarbehind.Iquicklytookoffmysocks
andgavethemtohim.Hell,ifhehadaskedmetostandon
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onelegandclaplikeaseal,Iprobablywould’vedonethat,too.Anythingtospeedthingsalong.“NowIneedsomecover,”
hesaid.ButOwendidn’tpickup
hisbackpackasifwewereleaving.Andwhenhestoppedjustshyofthedoorway,waitingformetolineupbehindhimwithmyGlock,hewasn’tlookinglefttowardthedoor.Hewas
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lookingright.Asin,rightintothelineoffire.ThatwaswhenIknew.He
wasgettingthatchlorinestuff,theCTF.Notthateitherofuscould
actuallyseeitbythispoint.He’dleftitontheislandinthemiddleoftheroom,butthecupholdingit—alongwiththeislanditself—haddisappearedinthecloudabovethecanister.
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OwenliftedtheneckofhisT-shirtoverhisnoseforamakeshiftmask.Clearly,I’dpickedthewrongdaytowearabutton-down.“Go!”Isaid.Isqueezedoffafewrounds
throughtheshatteredwindowsasOwenflunghimselftowardtheisland.Forbetterorworse,whoeverwasoutthere,singularorplural,knewwewerearmed.
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Buttherewasnoredstreamoflightaimedourway,noreturnfire.Meanwhile,thecoughing
officiallykickedin.Owenwasdoingthesame.Ontheplusside,itwastheonlywayIcouldgetareadonwherehewas.Iwaswaitingforhissignal
soIcouldsprayafewmorebulletsashecameback.Hedidn’tbother,though.NextthingIknew,hewascrawling
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intothekitchenonhishandsandknees.Or,atleast,onehand.In
hisotherweremytwosocks.Ididn’tneedtoaskwhatwasinsidethem;OwenhadputacupcontainingsomeoftheCTFineachone.Infact,IwasprettysureI
haditnailed,especiallywhenthefirstthinghedidwasgrabalighterfromhisbackpack.Whathe’dcreatedwasakintoacoupleofMolotov
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cocktailsstraightoutoftheMacGyverschoolofimpromptuweaponry.Lightthefuse,akamydirtysocks,andletherrip.Turnsout,Ijustgotthe
chemistrybackward.IkneltdownwithOwen,
theonlybreathingroomleftbeingafootoffthefloor.Wewerecoughingupourlungsnow,ourthroatsburning.Tearswerestreamingdownourcheeks.
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Whichmadethequestionhemanagedtogetoutallthemorebizarre.“Youeverplaycornhole?”
heasked.Once,atatailgateparty
beforeaYankeesgame.ThoughInevercouldbringmyselftocallitthat.Itwasbeanbagtoss,asfarasIwasconcerned.Inodded.“Yes.”“Good.Becauseit’snotthe
fire,it’sthewater,”hesaid.
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“Fire’sjusttheaccelerator.”“Whatdoyoumean?”“Imeanyou’vegottohita
puddleandyou’veonlygotoneshot.”Cornhole.“Okay,”Isaid.WhatthehellelsecouldI
say?Itwasn’texactlythebesttimetoraisemyhandandquestionhowwatercouldturnthisliquidintoasmallbomb.Sometimesyou’vejustgottogowiththeflow.
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Wegrabbedourbags.“Maybethere’sonlyone
guyoutthere,butI’mguessingmore.Wedrawtheirfire,andwefireback,”hesaid.“Youthrowleft,Ithrowright,andthenwebothrunstraightasfastaswepossiblycan.”“Whataboutthecar?”I
asked.Owenlookedatme,andof
allthingscrackedasmile.Wewereatdeath’sdoor—quite
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literally—andyetsomehowhemanagedtoseemmoreexcitedthanscared,likeamadscientistabouttofliptheswitch.“Dude,”hesaid.“Ifthis
works…therewon’tbeacar.”
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CHAPTER73
HEREGOESeverything…Iyankedopenthedoor,
barelyjumpingbackintothebathroomintimetoevadethebarrageofbulletslitteringthehallway.Owenhaditpegged;there
wasdefinitelymorethanoneshooter.Thecrisscrossingof
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alltheredlasersightslookedlikeaPinkFloydconcert,completewiththeteargasassmoke.ItwasUsandThem,all
right.Theyhadasmallarmyandautomaticweapons.Wehadpistols.Oh,yeah.Andsocks.Thesplitsecondthefirst
waveended,Icrouchedlowandpeekedoutsidewiththexenonlight,squeezingoffshotswhilelookingforthe
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nearestpotholesfilledwithwater.Nottoonear,though.
Collateraldamageisnowaytodie.Ijumpedbackasthe
secondwavecame;thisonewasevenmorefuriousthanthefirst.Thedrywallwasliterallydisintegratingallaroundus,everybulletlaunchingabitofwhitechalkthroughtheair.Mixedwiththeteargas,itwaslikewe
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wereinasnowglobefromHell.“Where?”yelledOwen.“Fifteenfeetatten
o’clock,”Iyelledback.“Andyours?”“Twentyfeetattwo.”Helitthebottomofhis
sockandtossedmethelighter.“I’llthrowfirst,thenyou,”hesaid.“Fine.Agebeforebeauty,
dude.”
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Iflickedmythumb.Thesockcaughtfireimmediately.I’dsaythefeelingwaslikeholdingalivegrenade,butitwasn’tlikethat.Itwasthat.Spinningaroundagain,I
sprayedbulletsbackandforthlikeawindshieldwiperbeforesteppingasidesoOwencouldthrow.IwasgivinghimlightfrommyGlockthebestIcould.Assoonashereleasedhissock,heunloadedtherestofhis
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magazineandpeeledtotheside.Myturn.Therewasnotimetoaim,
buttherewasalsonotimetothinkaboutitandchoke.Ijustletitfly.Itwasthesecondlittle
fireballtossedthroughtheair.Whoknowswhattheymusthavethought?Maybenothingatall.Theyweretoobusytryingtogunusdownaswe
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dovebackoutofthedoorway.Itossedanothermagazine
toOwen,whoquicklyreloaded.Therewasonethinghe’dforgottentomention.WhenthisCTFstuffmixeswithwater,howlongdoesittakebefore—BOOM!Theexplosionshookand
shatteredeverythingaroundus.Everywall,everynearbywindow.Sufficeittosay,
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anyonestandingoutsidewasnolongerontheirfeet.Theproverbialrugnotjustyankedoutfrombeneaththem,butincinerated.Buthowlonguntiloneof
themgotbackup?Goodquestion.Run!Rightnow!OwenandIdidourbest
ButchandSundance,launchingoutofthebuildingwithgunsblaring.Weweresprintingasfastaswecould,
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hopingagainsthopethatwe’dboughtourselvesenoughtime.Thatmadeforanevenbetterquestion.Wasthatboomtheresultof
onesockortwo?ThatwaswhenIsawhim.
Lookingovermyshoulder—itwasoneoftheshooters.AcloneofthetwoguysupinNewYork.Wasthereafactorysomewhere?Dazedbutclearly
determined,hewas
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staggeringtohisfeetwithhisarmraised,anditwasn’ttowavehello.ThankGoditwasonlyone
sock.BOOM!OwenandIcaughtthe
edgeofthesecondblast;itsearedourbacksandsentushurtlingforwardacrossthepavementfortheEvelKnievelofroadrashes.Ithurtlikeasonofabitch,likeIwasbeingskinnedalive.
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AndI’dneverfeltluckierinmylife.Aswehelpedeachother
up,welookedbacktoseeweweretheonlyonesstillstanding.Notthatwewereabouttolinger.“I’dhigh-fiveyou,butI
havenoskinleftonmypalms,”saidOwen.“Me,neither,”Isaid.
“C’mon,Iknowadoctorweshouldsee.”
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CHAPTER74
THERE’SANGRY.Thenthere’ssmoldering.Andthenthere’sliterallysmoldering.“What’sthatsmell?”asked
thecabdriver.“It’slikesomething’sburning.”“It’sjustourclothes,”I
saidmatter-of-factly.Thesmellwasalsooursinged
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flesh,butIdidn’tfeeltheneedtomentionthat.Eitherway,thatlittletree-
shapedairfreshenerhangingfromtheguy’srearviewmirrordidn’tstandachance.We’dbeenburned,all
right.Setupbig-time.Andnowitwastimefora
littlefollow-upvisitwithDr.DouglasWittmer.Noappointmentnecessary.Hewassoconvincingin
hiskitchen.Ofcoursehewas.
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Hewastellingusthetruth.Theonlyliewashisallegiance.Whothehelldidhecallafterwelefthim?Wehadthetaxidropusoff
oneblockdownfromhistownhouse.TherewasnotellingifWittmerwasstillalone,butfirstwehadtoseeifhewasthereatall.Maybehe’dgonetochurch
forconfession.Ifhehad,he’dwalked.His
blackJaguarwasstillthere,
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parkedinthedrivewayaswhenwe’dfirstapproachedhim.Toobadhehadn’tgivenus
asecondkey,theonetohisfrontdoor.“Howsoonbeforea
neighborcallsnine-one-one?”IwhisperedtoOwen,onlyhalfjokingasIpeeredinsideoneofthewindows.Withourtattered,
bloodstainedclothesandshreddedhands,knees,and
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elbows,thetwoofuslookedlikewe’djustwanderedoffthesetofTheWalkingDead.Atbest,wewereacoupleofburglars.Atworst,itwasthezombieapocalypse.IturnedbacktoOwen
whenhedidn’trespond.He’dbeenrightbehindme.Nowhewasn’tanywhere.Finally,Ifoundhimback
downbythestreet.Hewasstaringupatatelephonepole.
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“Whatareyoudoing?”Iasked.“Lookingforthecamera.”“Whatcamera?”“Theywerewatchingfrom
eitherinsideoroutside.Actually,probablyboth,”hesaid.“Inside,though,gavethemaudio.”Istoodtheretryingto
reverseengineerwhathewassaying.Ifwewerebeingwatchedwhenwefirst
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showeduptoseeWittmer,thenthatmeant…“Jesus,whydidn’tyousay
anything?”Iasked.“Wewerecomingheretoconfronthim;herattedusout.”“Ineversaidthat.”“Youdidn’thaveto.Itwas
agiven,”Isaid.Atleast,Ithoughtitwas.“Youmean,hedidn’ttipthemoff?”“Highlyunlikely.”“Thenwhyareweeven
here?”
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Owenwasstillstaringupatthepole.“Tosearchformoreevidence,”hesaid.“Stuffhedidn’tsharewithus.”“What,youthinkhe’s
goingtoletusjustwaltzrightinandtakewhatwewant?”Finally,Owenturnedto
me.“We’rehardlygoingtoneedhispermission,”hesaid.BeforeIcouldaskwhy
not,hewasalreadyhalfway
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backtoWittmer’stownhouse,headingupthesteps.Onceagain,thebestI
coulddowastrytokeepupwithhim.
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CHAPTER75
THEREWASzerohesitation,nonewhatsoever.Infact,Owenhadalready
takenoffhisT-shirt—whatwasleftofit—andwrappeditaroundhishandbythetimehereachedthetopstep.Iwasonlyafewfeetbehindhim,
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butIcouldseewhatwascomingnextamileaway.What’salittlebreaking
andenteringamongfriends?Withaquickrightjab,the
windowtotheleftofWittmer’sfrontdoorallbutdisappeared.Workingclockwise,Owenknockedawaythefewholdoutshardsuntilwecouldbothclimbthroughwithoutdonatinganymorebloodfortheevening.
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Justaguess,butbeingtwopintsdownonacavernouslyemptystomachisprobablynotrecommendedbytheAmericanMedicalAssociation.OwenputhisT-shirtback
on,enteringfirst.Ifollowed.AndatnotimedidIbotheraskinghimwhathewasn’ttellingme.IfiguredI’dknowsoonenough.Evensooner,asitturned
out,whenourarrivalin
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Wittmer’sfoyerwasgreetedwithnothingandnoone.Justadeadsilence.Theproverbial“badfeeling
aboutthis”wassuddenlyspreadingfastfrommygut.“Upstairs,”saidOwen.Hemighthavejustbeen
talkingtohimself.Icouldn’ttell.Eitherway,therewasnosignofthedoctoronthefirstfloor.If“sparselyfurnished”was
thepolitewayofdescribing
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thedownstairsofWittmer’shome,theupstairsmadethefirstfloorlooklikeanepisodeofHoarders.Ofthefirstthreebedroomswelookedinto,onlyoneactuallyhadabed.Andbybed,Imeanaqueen-sizedmattressontopofaboxspringontopofaHarvardframe.Nosheets.Nopillows.AndstillnoWittmer.Whichonlymadeitworse,
thatfeelingofdread.Thetighteningofthechest
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muscles.Theextrapullonthelungswitheachbreath.Theinescapabletruthof
somethinginevitable.Becauseatnotime—not
foronefractionofasecond—didIthinktherewasachancethatWittmerwasn’tthereinhishome.Theonlyquestionwaswhere.“Here,”saidOwen.Thistime,hewas
definitelytalkingtome.Pointing,too.He’dturnedthe
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cornerintothemasterbedroom.Twostepspastthe
doorway,Isawhim.Wittmer,wearingthesameclothesaswhenwe’dlefthim,waslyinginthebedonhisback.IfIhadn’tknownbetter,I’dhavesaidhewassimplyasleep.ButIdidknowbetter,if
onlybecauseOwenknewbetter.
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Wittmerwasneverwakingup.
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CHAPTER76
MEANSANDmotivation.Thewholestorywasrightthereinfrontofus,exactlyasintended.Althoughitwasn’tintendedforus.Onthebednextto
Wittmer,wheretheghostofhiswifesurelyslept,wasalargephotoalbumopenedto
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aspreadfilledwithhappy,lovingpicturesofthetwooftheminParis.TheywerekissinginfrontoftheEiffelTower,arminarmbeneaththeexternalHabitrail-likepipingoftheCentrePompidouinBeaubourg,andplayfullyleaningagainstLouisDerbré’sLeProphèteintheJardinduLuxembourg,thegoldenheadofthestatue—andtheirfaces—beaminginthesunshine.
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ClaireandIusedtotalkaboutgoingtoParistogether.Butlifeisninetypercenttalk,isn’tit?Asifconnectingthedots,
myeyesmovedfromthephotoalbumovertotheemptypillbottle,theorange-brownishvarietyyougetfromyourlocalpharmacy.Only,therewasnolabelonit,noindicationofaprescription.
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Ironically,thatmadethestoryevenmoreconvincing.Wittmerwasadoctor,afterall.Whatpillswouldn’thehaveaccessto?Itallmadesomuchsense.
Ofcourse,thatwaswhyitwasallbullshit.Iwascatchingonquick,all
right.Certainlyfasterthanthepolicewould,ifatall.Oddsweretheyneverwould.Thiswasnosuicide.
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“Temazepam,ifIhadtoguess,”saidOwenwithanodtotheemptypillbottle.“Veryeffectiveforinsomnia,MichaelJacksonnotwithstanding.Oneinjection,probablytothecarotidartery,andthecoronerwouldneverknowthedrugwasn’tswallowed.”TheimageofWittmer
givinginjectionstotheprisonersinStareKiejkuty
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flashedthroughmymind.Oh,theirony…Withouteventhinking,I
leanedin,lookingatWittmer’sneckforaneedlemark.Ididn’tknowwhy,Ijustdid.Ifeltsorryforhim.He’dmadehischoices,buthedidn’tdeservethis.“Christ,wecan’tevencall
thepolice,”Isaid.Wittmerlivedalone.There
wasnotellinghowlongitwouldbebeforehisbodywas
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discovered.ThesamecouldbesaidfortheguyinmybathtubbackinManhattan,butIcouldn’tgivearat’sassabouthim.Thiswasdifferent.“Maybewecould
somehowleaveananonymoustip,”Isaid.“Whatdoyouthink?”Iwasstillstaringat
Wittmer’sneck,waitingforOwentoanswer.Whenhedidn’t,Iturnedaround.
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Again,hewasgone.Icalledouttohim.“Inhere,”heresponded.Ifollowedhisvoicetothe
onlyroomleftonthesecondfloorwehadn’tsearched.Wittmer’soffice.Unlikeeveryotherroom,
though,thisonelookedthepart.Alarge,messydesk,stackedbookcases,andawell-wornleatherarmchairwithanottoman.Therewasevenarug—afadedcrimson
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andgoldPersianwithtassels,someofthemfrayed,someofthemmissingaltogether.Tocallitalived-inlook
wouldbeanunderstatement.Infact,whatitreallywas,wasdepressing.Thiswasn’tWittmer’s
office.ThiswasWittmer.Period.Inthewakeofhiswife’sdeath,hislifehadbecomedefinedbyhiswork.Thiswasallhe’dhad.
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“Whatareyoulookingat?”Iasked.“SomethingIshouldn’t
be,”saidOwen.“Notifthey’retryingtocovertheirtracks.”
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CHAPTER77
HEWASstandingbyoneofthebookcases,staringlongandhardatapictureinadust-coveredsilverframe.ItwasanoldphotographofWittmerfromhisundergraddaysatPrinceton,agroupshotofsomemembersoftheCapandGowneatingclub.
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Ofcourse,ifithadn’tbeenfortheengravingatthebottomoftheframesayingasmuch,Ineverwould’veknownthat.SowhyisOwenstaringat
itsointently?Ileanedinclose,focusing
onWittmer.Helookedsoyoung.Happy.Alive.“WhatamInotseeing?”Iasked.“Thewholepicture,”Owen
said.
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IfI’dsomehowlosttheforestforthetrees,therewasstillnofindingitasIcanvassedtheotherhalfdozenfacesstaringbackatmeinthephoto.Owenallbutexpectedasmuch,givingmeahint.“Hehadalotmorehair
backthen,”hesaid.Withthat,hereachedout
withhisindexfinger,tracingalinefromWittmertotheguyontheend,whowas
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lankyand,yes,hadonlyahintofarecedinghairline.ButnowIcouldpicture
himbald,andindoingso,allIcouldsee—andrecognize—wasthesamesmirkmasqueradingasasmilethathealwaysflashedininterviewsasifthereweren’taquestionintheworldthatcouldevertriphimup.Ofcourse,thatwas
accordingtoClaire,whohad,infact,interviewedhimfor
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theTimes.Shesaidhereekedofcoffeeandcockiness.“ClayDobson?”“Exactly,”saidOwen.“Okay,soWittmerwentto
schoolwiththepresident’schiefofstaff,”Isaid.“Whatareyousuggesting?”“Aconnection.”“Ormaybeit’sjusta
coincidence.”“Yeah,exceptforone
thing,”hesaid.“Therearenocoincidencesinpolitics.”
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ThatsoundedalotlikeanAaronSorkinline,butIwasn’tabouttodebateit.“Whatkindofconnection?”Iasked.“Doyoumean,like,orchestrated?”“Ofcoursenot,”said
Owen,asfacetiousasIwasincredulous.“NothingillegaleverhappensintheWhiteHouse.”Pointtaken.Multiple
points,actually.Armsforhostages…sexwithanintern
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andthenlyingaboutitunderoath…acertainbotchedburglaryatahotelonlyahandfulofmilesfromwhereOwenandIwerestanding?Suddenly,theonlythingI
couldhearinmyheadwasthevoiceofthen-senatorHowardBakerduringtheWatergatehearings,askingoneofthemostfamous—ifnotthemostfamous—politicalquestionsofalltime.
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Whatdidthepresidentknowandwhendidheknowit?Thenagain,maybewe
weregettingaweebitaheadofourselves.Ileanedinagain,staringat
theimagesofWittmerandDobson.“It’sstillonlyapicture,”Isaid.“You’reright,”Owen
replied.“It’spossiblethatit’snothing.Ofcourse,it’salsopossiblethatLawrenceBass
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reallydidwanttospendmoretimewithhisfamilyinsteadofrunningtheCIA.”I’dforgottenaboutthat.
Owenhadn’t.We’dwatchedtheannouncementBasshadmadewithhiswifeandtwoyoungdaughtersintheEastRoomoftheWhiteHouse.Theguyhadbeenthepresident’spicktobecomethenextdirectoroftheCIA.Notonlywashepassingthat
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up,hewasresigningfromtheNationalSecurityCouncil.Still.ForgetAaronSorkin.
ThiswasstartingtofeelmorelikeanOliverStonefeverdream.“So,now…what?Bassis
somehowconnected,too?”Iasked.Only,thistime,Icould
hearitinmyownvoice.Thatincreduloustonewasmissing.Owencouldhearit,too.
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“Justforthesakeofargument,”hesaid,“whatiftherereallywasapathtotheWhiteHouse?Howwouldwefollowit?”Betweenthetwoofus,I
wastheonlyonewithalawdegree,butyoucould’vefooledme,thewayheaskedthatquestion.Becauselawyers—thegoodones,atleast—neveraskaquestiontheydon’talreadyknowtheanswerto.
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Iwasn’ttheonlyonewithWatergateonthebrain.“Fortherecord,youdon’t
lookanythinglikeDustinHoffman,”Isaid.Owengavemeaquick
head-to-toe.Hesmiled.“Yeah,andyouwishyoulookedlikeRobertRedford.”
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BOOKFOUR
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PANTSONFIRE,
EVERYTHINGONFIRE
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CHAPTER78
CLAYDOBSONgazedacrosstheclutterofhislargeoakdesk,lockingeyeswithhis9a.m.appointmentwhiledoingeverythinghecouldnottobreakintoashit-eatinggrin.Itwasn’teasy.
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ThemorninghadalreadybroughtthegoodnewsfromFrankKarcherthattheirlittleprobleminNewYorkhadbeentakencareof—righthereintheirownbackyard,noless.Thekidandthereporter’sboyfriendwerebothdead.Ofcourse,sowashisold
collegechum,Wittmer,buttherewasareasonDobsonhadhadcamerasplacedinsideandoutsideWittmer’s
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home.He’dneverfullytrustedtheguy.Wittmerwasweak.So,too,wasLawrence
Bass.Thatwaswhatmadethis
meetingwithhimsuchalay-up,thoughtDobson,theformersmallforwardforthePrincetonTigersbasketballteam.Darehethinkit,aslamdunk.Afterall,Basshadn’tbum-
rushedhimouton
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PennsylvaniaAvenueorcorneredhimwithaclenchedfistinthemen’sroomattheBlueDuckTavern,whereallthepoliticalheavyweightsfedboththeirstomachsandtheiregos.Instead,he’dmadean
appointment.Anappointment?Thatwaslikeknockingonadoorinsteadofkickingitdown.Totalmilquetoast.Noballs.
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“I’dlikeanexplanation,Clay,”saidBass,sittingwithlegscrossedontheothersideofthedesk.Eventhatwasweak,
thoughtDobson.He’dlikeanexplanation?No,youdolt,youdemandanexplanation!Yeah,thedecisionto
sandbagBass,theformerdirectorofintelligenceprogramswiththeNSC,waslookingbetterbythesecond.Hewould’vemadealousy
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headoftheCIA,notthatheeverreallyhadashotatthegig.Basswassimplyadecoy,thefallguywhowouldpavethewayforFrankKarcher.“Trustme,”saidDobson,
foldinghisarms.“Karchisnottheloosecannonyouthinkheis.”“Soit’sreallygoingtobe
him?”askedBass.“Therumor’strue?”“ThisisWashington,
Larry.Whatrumorisn’t?”
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Bassletgowithadefeatedsigh,slouchingabit.Dobsonwashappytohavehimventalittle,buttheybothknewBasshadnorecourse.Hewasagoodsoldier,andgoodsoldiersfallinline.Asifhavingjustreminded
himselfofthat,Bassstraightenedupinhischair.Theairreturnedtohislungs,hischestexpanding.“Iserveordon’tserveat
thepleasureofthepresident,”
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hesaid.“Iunderstandthepoliticsinplay,andIappreciateyourwantingtolookoutformeandmyfamily.”“Youhavemyword,”said
Dobson.“Inafewmonths,you’llhaveyourpickofjobsandcompletefinancialsecurity.”Bassnodded.“Iknow,and
likeIsaid,Iappreciatethat.It’sjustthat…Karcher?Really?”
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“Listen,Iunderstandyourfrustration,Ireallydo,”saidDobson,risingfromhischair.Hewalkedovertothecredenzaandpouredhimselfmorecoffee.Itwashisthirdrefillofthemorning.“Oh,I’msorry,”hesaid,turningbacktoBass.“Doyouwantacup?”“Actually,Ido,”Basssaid.
“Thankyou.”Dobsoncockedan
eyebrow,surprised.The
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coffeeofferwasmerelyoutofpoliteness.Aperfunctorygesture.EveryoneandtheirmotherknewthatBassabstainednotonlyfromalcohol,butalsofromcaffeine.ItwastheoneandonlythingheandKarcherhadincommon.ForadevoutCatholic,Bass
wasmoreMormonthanmostMormons.Wasthisthefirstloose
thread,wonderedDobson?
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ThebeginningofthecompleteunravelingofLarry“HaloHead”Bass?Coffee…thenalittle
whiskeyinthecoffee…thenholdthecoffee,justgivemethewhiskey?Inthemeantime,“Howdo
youtakeit?”askedDobson.“Cream?”“No,butthreesugars,”
Basssaid.Dobsonturnedhisback,
reachingforthesugarbowl
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andspoononthecredenza.Hebeganscooping.“Youlikeitsweet,huh?”“Yes,”saidBass.“Sweet.”Likerevenge.
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CHAPTER79
THEREWEREtwothingsonFrankKarcher’sto-dolistthatmorning.Bothborderedonadeathwish.ThefirstwaslyingtoClay
Dobson.Brightandearly,atoh-seven-hundredhours,hetoldthepresident’schiefofstaffthatthekidandthe
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formerlawyerwereeliminated,theirbodiesdisposedofsothoroughlythatevenGodhimselfdidn’tknowwheretheywere.Howmuchtimethiswould
buyKarcher,hedidn’tknow.ButtherewasonlysomuchbadnewsandperceivedincompetencehecoulddumpinDobson’slap,andthatquotahadalreadybeenmetinspades.
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SoitwastimeforplanB.Asin,bullshit.He’dplayedthegameinsidetheBeltwaylongenoughtoknowhowthingsreallyworked.Whenthetruthdoesn’tcooperate,stoptellingit.Sureenough,Dobsonwas
sorelievedtothinkthekidwasnolongerathreatthatthecollateraldamage—thestuffthatactuallywastrue—wastakeninstride.WhenhewastoldaboutWittmer,aswellas
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abouthavingtoshutdownthenowbullet-riddenlabbehindMStreet,Dobson’sonlyresponse,afterapregnantpause,was“Sothekidisdefinitelygone,right?”Ofcourse,thefactthatthe
kidactuallywasn’tgonewasmerelysemantics,aminordetail,asfarasKarcherwasconcerned.Sometimesalieisjustthetruththathasn’thappenedyet.
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Orsohe’dconvincedhimselfashemadehiswaytotheoutskirtsofMcLeanandtheoff-sitetraininggymoftheCIA’sSpecialActivitiesDivision,thesamedivisionhe’dheadedupyearsagobeforemovinguptheladdertobecometheNationalClandestineServicechief.Thereasonthegymwas
off-sitewasbecauseit“officially”didn’texist.Norwasitopentoalltheagents-
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in-trainingoftheSpecialActivitiesDivision.Onlyaselectgroupwasinvitedtojoin,theCIA’sequivalentofGreenBerets.Accordingly,hanginga
signoutfrontthatreadMENONLYwould’vebeenredundant.Payingavisittothegym
wastheseconditemonKarcher’sto-dolist.Itpromisedtobeonetheyoungagentswouldneverforget,
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althoughthatwaspreciselywhattheywererequiredtodo.Nothing“officially”
happensinaplacethatdoesn’tofficiallyexist.Bargingthroughthedoor,
hisheelsstompingthecementfloorwitheachandeverystep,Karchermarchedstraightacrossthemiddleofthewindowlessgymtowardanold-schoolboomboxonamilkcratethatwaspumping
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outMetallica’s“ForWhomtheBellTolls.”Withoutbreakingstride,he
grabbedatwenty-five-poundbarbelloffarackandheaveditdeadcenterintotheboombox,aperfectstrikethatshatteredthecheapmoldedplasticintoahundredpieces.Thegymimmediatelyfellsilent,saveforthelingeringechoofLarsUlrich’sdrumbeats.
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Then,aspatientlyaspossibleforamandesperatetosavehiscareer,Karcherwaiteduntileverysetofeyeswaslookingdirectlyathim.Hescratchedthechinunderneathhisoversizedheadbeforefoldinghisarms,hisdeepvoicefillingtheroomuntiltherewasnoescape,notforanyone.“Okay,hebarked.“Who’s
thetoughestmotherfuckerhere?”
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CHAPTER80
THEREWEREnotakers,novolunteers.This,despitethefactthat
membershipinthisparticulargymwaspredicatedonbeingabadass,andbeingproudofit.Asmartbadass,though.
Someonenotproneto
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unnecessaryriskorexposure,or,attheveryleast,someonewhoknewatrickquestionwhenheheardone.Karcherglancedaround
amidthedeafeningsilence,makingsuretolockeyeswiththedozenorsomenintheroom.Hewasgivingeachandeveryoneofthemhislive-grenadelook,thefull-oncrazy,thekindofbatshitstarethatcouldmakeCharlesMansonhimselfstepback
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andsay,“Hey,man,whoa…chillout.”ButKarcherwasonly
gettingstarted.Slowlynow,hemadehis
wayovertothelargestagentintheroom,abrickwallwithabuzzcutwhowassittingonthebenchpressbetweensets.TheveinsripplingupanddowneacharmlookedlikemapsoftheDCMetrorail.“DoyouknowwhoIam?”
Karcherasked,almost
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politely.Theyoungagentnodded.“Yes.”Karcher’sfaceimmediately
soured.Somuchforpolite.“ThenstandthefuckupwhenI’mtalkingtoyou.”Theagentstood.Hehad
fourinchesonKarcher,easy.Butrightthen,rightthere,hehardlyseemedtaller.“What’syourname?”
askedKarcher.“Evans,sir.”
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“WasIeverheretoday,Evans?”“No,sir.”“Wereanyofushere
today?”“No,sir.”“Sononeofitever
happened,right?”Theagent,Evans,blinked
afewtimes.Confusioninhiseyes.Noneofwhat?What’sabouttohappen?Regardless,hisanswer
wasn’tabouttochange.“No,
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sir,”hesaid.“Itneverhappened.”Karcherleanedin,hisbig
headgettingrightinEvans’sgrill.“I’lltellyouwhatdefinitelydidhappen,”hesaid.“Thethree-someIhadwithyourmotherandanotherwhorelastnight.”Evanscrackedaslight
smile.He’dhardlybeintheCIA,letalonetheSpecialActivitiesDivision,ifhe’dtakenthebait.
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Butthisheapofchumwaspushingthings.“Yourmom’squitethe
moaner,”Karchercontinued.“Youwanttohearwhatshesoundslike?Doyou?Doyou?”Evansdroppedthesmile,
hisjawtightening,hisfistsballing.Heshiftedhisfeet,ifonlytogivehimselfsomethingelsetodobesidesdeckingKarcher,whowasfarfromfinished.
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“You’rejustgoingtostandthereandtakeit,Evans?Huh?Likeyourmotherdidonherhandsandknees?Whatkindofapussyareyou,Evans?Youdon’twanttotakeaswingatme?C’mon,boy,takeaswingatme!”Asifthatinvitation
weren’topenenough,Karcherstuckouthischin.Hewaited…waited…waited…beforefinallyshakinghisheadindisgust.
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“Yeah,Ididn’tthinkso,”hesaid.Neitherdidanyoneelsein
thegym.AcoupleoftheotherguysevenletoutaudiblesighsofreliefasKarcherturnedtowalkaway.Only,hewasn’twalkingaway.Hewaswindingup.Karcherspunaroundand
threwhisfirstpunchlikehewasthrowingajavelin,thrustingtheflatofhis
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knucklessquareintoEvans’ssolarplexus.Thebiggertheyare…Theyoungagentfelltohis
knees,immediatelygaspingforairthathenolongerhad.HewasdefenselessandteeduplikeaTitleistasKarcherbeganswinging,hittinghimoverandoverandoverintheface,thebloodrupturingfromhisnoseandmouth.C’mon,youidiots,what
areyouwaitingfor?Stop
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watchingmeanddosomething.Getinhere!Thegroupinertiafromthe
initialshockworeoff,theotheragentscollapsingonKarchertopullhimawayfromEvans.Karcherfeignedastruggle,tryingtobreakfreefromallthesetsofhandsholdinghimback.Buthewasn’tlookingfor
peacemakers.“That’sright,protectyour
boy,Evans!”Karcher
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shouted.“Youprobablyallwipeeachother’sasses,too.Infact,Iwouldn’tbesurprisedif—”Pow!Thepunchcameoutof
nowhere,asdidtheguywhothrewit—aHispanicagentwithashavedheadwhocouldn’thavebeenmorethanfive-eightwhilestandingonhistoes.“Martinez,no!”someone
shouted.
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AcoupleoftheotheragentsletgoofKarchersotheycouldholdbackMartinez,ortryto.Martinezpushedthemaway,oneaftertheother,andresumedgoingafterKarcher,unleashingabarrageofrightjabsuntiltheskull-and-bonestattooontheinsideofhiswristbecameablur.Everyonebackedaway
now.TherewasnostoppingMartinez.Karcherfelltoone
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kneeandthenboth,hisheadwhippingbackandforthwitheachpunchuntilfinallyhecollapsed,hisblood-soakedfacehittingthegroundwithanauseatingsquish.Martinezloomedoverhim,
likeAlioverListon,daringhimtogetupformore.ButKarcherhadnosuchplans.He’dgottenwhathe’dcomefor.Martinezhadjustowned
himinafight.Butnowhe
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ownedMartinezforever.Winner,winner,chicken
dinner…
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CHAPTER81
“MYNAME’STrevorMann,”Itoldtheguyintheblacksuitwhoopenedthefrontdoor.Helookedfarmorebodyguardthanbutler.“IbelieveMr.Brennanisexpectingme.”“Heis,”Iwastoldwitha
nodthatsomehowmanaged
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tobebothdeferentialanddisinterestedatthesametime.“He’soutback.I’lltakeyou.”Great,youdothat.Justso
longasyoudon’tfriskmefirst.AsmuchasIdidn’treally
thinkthatwasapossibility,Iwasn’tahundredpercentsureofanything.Theguy’sboss,JosiahBrennan,didn’theaduponeofthemostpowerful—andprofitable—lawfirmsinDCbasedonhisgood
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looksandSoutherncharmalone,althoughthosecertainlydidn’thurthiscause.Toreadanythingaboutthis
self-described“goodol’boyfromTennessee”wastoknowthatwhenhewasdoneslappingyourback,hewasjustascapableofputtingaknifeinit.Andnotjustfigurativelyspeaking.Whichprettymuch
explainedtheGlockinmy
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shinholster.HadBrennanalreadybeen
tippedoff?Didheknowthetruthaboutme?Ordidhebuythelie?Iwalkedbehindhis
henchman—allsixfootsixofhim,ifIhadtoguess—throughthefront-to-backfoyerthesizeofacathedral.Alongtheway,Ididmybesttogetthelayofthelandwithoutbeingtooobvious.Aquickpeekdownahallway
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here,aslightcraneoftheneckthere.Whenthemomentwasright,Icouldillaffordtobewastingtimeinthewrongrooms.“Verycozy,”Ijoked,my
voicepracticallyechoing.Mr.Henchmansmirked,
openingapairofoversizedFrenchdoorstothebackyard.“Thisway,”hesaid.“Followme.”Trustme,Lurch,Iwas
followingyoubeforeIeven
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knewwhoyouwere….Forthepastseventy-two
hours,tuckedawayintheComforterMotelnearArcolawith$9.95-a-dayWi-Fi,OwenandIhaddoneourbestWoodwardandBernstein,takingDeepThroat’sadvicefromthemomentwe’dleftthelateDr.Wittmer’shouse.Followthemoney.Notthatthetrailwaseasy.
TracingthetitleofthelabwhereWittmerpickedupthe
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serumrequiredalittlemorethanafieldtriptopublicrecordsatcityhall.Whoeverowneditdidn’t
wantanyonetoknow.Checkthat…theyreallydidn’twantanyonetoknow.ThetangledweboftrustsandLLCswaschock-fullofmisdirectionandredherrings,nottomentionthekindoffirewallsdesignedtokeepthemostserioushackersonthesidelines.
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Ofcourse,there’sserious…andthenthere’sOwen.Afterawhile,Isimplystoppedasking“Howdidyoudothat?”FromGeorgetownto
DelawaretotheChannelIslandstoadifferentbankintheChannelIslandsandthenbacktoDelaware,themoneymovedlikeacarousel,aroundandaround.Butonethingstayedthe
same.Brennan’slawfirm.
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Whatwasmore,BrennanhadpersonallydraftedalltheLLCagreements,includingallfilingswiththestate,themostboilerplateoflegaldocuments.ThatwaslikehiringMarioBatalitoheatupsomeChefBoyardeespaghettiandmeatballsforyou.Inaword,overkill.OrmaybeforaWhite
Housechiefofstafftakingnochances,justtherightamountofkill.
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Problemwas,wewerestillmissingthatproverbialsmokinggun:somethingthatdirectlylinkedBrennantoClayDobsonorwhoeverelseownedthatlabbehindMStreet.Owenhadhacked
Brennan’slawfirm’snetworktonoavail.NowthequestionwaswhetherBrennanhadapersonalcomputerathome.Goodthingmyfacehad
healed,becauseitwastime
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formyclose-up.Iwason.
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CHAPTER82
HEY,ROOKIE,lookoutforthelefthook!Duringmyfirstyearwith
theManhattanDA’soffice,whenIwasasgreenasaplateofpeas,thechiefassistantdistrictattorney—aformerGoldenGloveswelterweightchampionfromJerseyCity—
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usedtoputuphisfistsandbarkthatatmebeforethestartofeverytrial.Inotherwords…expecttheunexpected.“Watchyourstep,”warned
Mr.Henchman.“I’msorry,what?”Theguypointedtothe
groundaswewalkedthroughtheFrenchdoors.“Thedrop-off,”heexplained.“Oh,”Isaid.That’swhat
youmeant.
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Andwiththat,Isteppeddownontoamassivepatioofblueslatewithgrassedgings,immediatelywonderingifI’dperhapsstumbleduponthesetofaRalphLaurenad.Therewereaboutfifty
people,evenlysplitbetweengenders.ThemenwereallinblueblazerswithPopsicle-coloredslacks—cherry,orange,andlemon.Onthewomenweresleeveless
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sundressesexposingtannedandtonedarms.Suddenly,Iwaskeenly
awareofthefactthatI’dbeenwearingthesamepairofbrownchinosforthepastthreedays.Atleastthesportcoatandwhitebutton-downwerenew,purchasedjustforthisoccasion.“He’soverhere,”saidMr.
Henchmanwithaglancebackoverhisshoulderatme.
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Afteranothertwentyfeet,hepeeledoffattheexactmomentthatBrennanturnedaroundtofacemeasifhehadeyesinthebackofhishead.“Iknoweveryoneelse
here,soyoumustbeTrevorMann,”hesaid,flashinganear-blindinggrin.Hepromptlyextendedhishand.Itwashardnottonoticethatinhisotherhandwasadouble-barreledshotgun.
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Atleastitwasn’tpointedatme.Notyet.NosoonerdidBrennan
shakemyhandthanhepracticallyspunmearoundsohecouldintroducemenotjusttothetwocoupleshewastalkingtobuttotheentireguestlist.“Ladiesandgentlemen,”
hebegan,playingupwhatremainedofhisSoutherndrawlafterdecadesinDC,aswellasafewyearsin
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Manhattan.“IthinkitwasWillRogerswhofamouslysaidthatyounevergetasecondchancetomakeagoodfirstimpression.Withthatinmind,Ihaveafavortoaskyouall.”Hepromptlyputhisarm
aroundmeasifhe’dknownmeforyears.“ThishereisMr.Trevor
Mann,”hecontinued.“He’sanesteemedprofessorupnorthwiththeColumbiaLaw
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School,which,muchtothechagrinofmyConfederateflag–wavingfather,happenstobemyalmamater.Mr.Manncalledmetwonightsagobecausehe’salsoafreelancewriterfortheNewYorkTimesandthey’relookingtodoaprofileonmefortheirSundaymagazine.Sothefavoristhis:ShouldMr.Manncorneroneofyouatanypointthisafternoonandaskforyouropinion
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aboutme,here’swhatIneedyoutodo.Liewithimpunity.”Everyonelaughed,except
fortheJessicaLangelook-alikewhoweavedherwaytowardme,rollinghereyes.“You’llhavetoforgivemy
husband,there’snothinghelikesmorethanthesoundofhisownvoice,”shesaid.“Mr.Mann,mayIpresent
mybeautifulandbrutallyhonestwife,Abigail,”saidBrennan.
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Thepolitesmileshegavemesouredquicklyasshecaughtsightoftheshotguninherhusband’shand.“Josiah,youpromised,”shesaid.Heturnedtomewithno
admissionofguilt.“Haveyoueverdoneanyskeetshooting,Mr.Mann?”“No,Ineverhave,”Isaid.“Terrificsport,butthewife
hatesit,I’mafraid.”“Whatthewifehatesis
havingpiecesofclaybirds
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scatteredalloverherlawn,”saidAbigail.“They’recalledpigeons,
darling.ThoughwouldyouratherIshootatrealbirdsinstead?”Abigaillinkedherarmin
mine.Itwasflirtatious,butitwasalsoanact.IfIhadtobet,I’dwagershewasevensmarterthanherhusband.“Haveyouevernoticedthat,Mr.Mann?”sheaskedme.
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“Thewaylawyershaveacomebackforeverything?”“Ithinkthat’swhatmakes
themlawyers,”Isaid.Brennanlikedthatanswer.
“DidyouknowthatMr.Mannhereusedtobequitethepracticingattorneyhimself?”“Usedtobe?”asked
Abigail.“Mr.Mannmadea
principledstandinarather
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noteworthytrialupinNewYork,”saidBrennan.“Somesayprincipled,
otherssayboneheaded,”Ipointedout.“Indeed,”hesaid.“That’s
thedilemmaofaman’sintegrity,isn’tit?Onewayortheother,therealwaysseemstobeapricetopay.”Brennanheldmystareforafewmomentsbeforeflashingthatblindinggrinagain.“Now,
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c’mon,let’sgodirtyupmywife’slawn.”
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CHAPTER83
SOCIALETIQUETTEmayvaryfromcountrytocountry,butinthegoodoldUSA,whenthehostofapartyaskshisguestsifthey’dliketowatchhimshowoff,there’sreallyonlyoneanswer.Lookinglikeapreppy
parade,everyonefollowed
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Brennanoffthepatiotoalongstretchofgrassthatwassomewherebetweenasixandaseveniron.Offtoeithersidewerethesmallhouses—ortraps,asthey’realsocalled—forlaunchingtheclaypigeons.Onetrapreleaseshigh,theotherlow.Okay,soIliedtoBrennan.
Itwasmorelikeafib,really.I’dbeenskeetshootingbefore.Twice,actually.Speakingofmyprincipled
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stand,theheadofthehedgefundwhereI’dbeengeneralcounselwasahugefanofthesport.I’msurehemusthavemisseditterriblyduringhistwo-yearstintbehindbars.Thenagain,inthesewhite-
collar-crimeprisonsthatdoubleascountryclubs,maybetheskeetcoursewasnexttothetenniscourts.“Who’sfirst?”asked
Brennanaswegatheredinasemicirclearoundhim.
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Translation?WhowantstosuckatthisfirstsoI’lllookthatmuchbetterwhenit’smyturn?Therewerenotakers,
whichhardlyseemedtodisappointBrennan.Ifanything,herelishedtheapprehensionamonghisinvitedmaleguests.Finally,hegothis
volunteer.Bychoosinghim.“Harper,”hesaid,pointing.
“Ibelieveyou’rethe
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youngestofthefirm’spartners,isn’tthatright?”PoorHarper,whoeverhe
was.Theguysteppedforwardwithaforcedsmile,takingtheshotgunfromhisbosslikeavegetarianpickingupadoublecheeseburger.Clearly,hewasacityboy.Probablytheonlyhuntinghe’deverdoneinhislifewasforanapartment.Brennanprovidedhimwith
aquicktutorialbeforegiving
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nodsinthedirectionofbothtraps,eachbeingmannedbyaguysportingtheuniversalhired-handpose:feetslightlyspread,armsbehindtheback,fingersclasped.Pull!Harpermissedterriblywith
bothshots.Onthebrightside,hedidn’tkillhimselforanyoftherestofus.Samefortheother“volunteers”Brennansummonedafterhim.Noonecouldshootalick.
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“Yourturn,Mr.Mann,”Ikeptwaitingtohear,andtobehonest,thethoughtofshatteringatleastoneofthoselittleclaysuckers,ifnotboth,wasfeelingprettydamngood.Brennan,however,never
lookedmyway.“Perhapsit’stimeIgiveitawhirl,”heannouncedinstead.Butbeforehecouldeven
reachdownintotheboxofshellsbyhisfeet,hiswife,
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Abigail,chimedinwithanodtoTitleIXandherfellowwomen.“Whataboutoneofthegirls?”sheasked.Brennandidn’tmissabeat.
“Honey,webothknowhowmuchlifeinsuranceIhave.ThelastthingI’mabouttodoishandyoualoadedgun.”“Iwasn’ttalkingabout
me,”shesaidoncethelaughtersubsided.“Perhapsoneofourfemaleguestswouldliketotry.”
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“You’reright,”saidBrennan.Whatelsecouldhesay?“Howaboutit,ladies?Ididn’tmeantoexcludeyou.”Butofcoursehedid.HadI
trulybeenwritingaTimesprofileonhim,Iprobablywould’venotedthatlessthantenpercentofhisfirm’spartnerswerewomen.Still,aswiththemen,there
werenotakers.Justsilence.“C’mon,now,”he
prodded.“Ipromiseyou
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won’tbreakanail.”Wow,hereallyjustsaid
that,didn’the?Noonewasgroaning,
though.Instead,theguestsweretoobusyturninginsearchofthevoicethathadsuddenlycalledoutfromthepatio.“I’llgiveitashot,”she
said.
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CHAPTER84
ONAscaleofonetotenforentrances,itwaseasilyaneleven.Steppingoffthepatioand
joiningtheRalphLaurenadonthelawnwasthequintessentialBenettoncouple—astunningall-Americanblondeonthearm
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ofahandsomeMiddleEasternman.Thatsaid,alleyeswereon
theblonde.She,too,waswearinga
sleevelesssundress,entirelywhitewithaplungingneckline,butamidallthetanandtonedarmsoftheotherfemaleguests,hersappearedalittletanner,alittlemoretoned.“Shahid,youmadeit!”
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OursemicirclearoundBrennandidaRedSeapartsothecoupleofthemomentcouldgreetthehostandhostess.Allanyoneelsecoulddowaswatchandlistenastheman,Shahid,introducedhisplus-one,BeverlySands.“BeverlyandIonlyjust
met,soyouneedtomakemelookgood,”saidShahidwithatugonhisroyal-blueblazer.“Ithinkyoulookpretty
goodalready,”saidAbigail,
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linkingherarmwithShahid’s.Thiswasclearlyhersignaturemove.“Actually,Iwasgoingto
askthesameofyou,Shahid,”saidBrennanbeforeturningtofindmeamonghisguests.Isteppedforward.“TrevorMann,I’dlikeyoutomeetaclientofmine,ShahidAlDossari,andhisfriend,BeverlySands.”“Verynicetomeetyou
both,”Isaid,shakingtheir
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hands.“Soyouknow,Trevor’s
writingaprofileofmefortheNewYorkTimes,”Brennanexplained.Shahidnodded,impressed.
SodidBeverly.Butforasplitsecond,beforehernod,Icould’vesworntherewassomethingelse.Asortoflookshegaveme.Asquint.Inaword…doubt.Or,hell,maybeitwasjust
thesuninmyeyes.
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Whateveritwas,itcameandwent,herattentionreturningquicklytoBrennan.Specifically,theopenshotgunnestledoverhisforearm.Playfullybutwithanedge,
sheasked,“SoamIgoingtoshootthatdamnthingornot?”“Hell,yes,”saidBrennan,
snappingto.AsAbigailsteppedback
withShahidstillloopedon
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herarm,BrennanproceededtogiveBeverlythesametutorialhe’dgiventhemen,albeitwithconsiderablymorecareandattention.Themorehetalked,themoreshehungonhiseverywordlikearaptpupil.“Likethis?”sheasked,
unsure,proppingthebuttofthegunhighagainsthershoulder.“Actually,youwantto
bringitalittlelower,
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sweetheart,”saidBrennan,guidingthestockdownafewinches.“AndIaimbylooking
through…?”“Youwanttolineupthe
frontandrearsights,”hesaid,pointingthemout.“Sonowwhathappens?”
sheasked,closingoneeyetoaim.“Nowyoutrytoshootone
oftheclaydisksthatwillbecomingoutofthoselittle
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housestoyourleftandright,”saidBrennan.“Justone?”Hechuckled.Sodidmore
thanhalfoftheothermeninthecrowd.“Ortwo,ifyou’dlike,”saidBrennan.“Feelfreetoshootthemboth.Ain’tnothin’wrongwithalittleoptimism.”Withthat,helookedback
atShahidandgavehimawink.
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“Okay,I’mready,”saidBeverly.“Great,”saidBrennan.“All
that’slefttodoissay—”ButBeverlySandsknew
exactlywhattosay.Amongotherthings.“Pull!”sheyelled.Asfastasthepigeonswere
releasedfromthetraps,theyshatteredevenfaster.Firstthelowone,thenthehighone.Twoquickblastsandthey
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wereblowntopieces…alloverAbigailBrennan’slawn.Casually,Beverlyhanded
theshotgunbacktoastunnedBrennanandimmediatelylookeddownatherhand.“Whatdoyouknow?”she
saidwithaperfectshrug.“IthinkIbrokeanail.”
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CHAPTER85
I’DBEENaroundalotofgooddefenseattorneys,andthebestofthemwerealwayslightningquickontheirfeetwhileoozinggraceunderpressureatalltimes.Theyalsoknewano-winsituationwhentheysawone.
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Inotherwords,therewasnowayJosiahBrennanwastakinghisturnwiththatshotgun.“Allright,then,”hesaid,
turningtohisguestswiththebestself-deprecatinglaughhecouldmuster.“Ithinkit’slunchtime.”Themenubackonthe
patiowasaneclecticmixofupscaleanddown-home.NexttothegrilledNewZealandbabylambchops
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werebakedbeansandcornbread.Thenapkinswerelinen,theutensilsplastic.Iftheredvelvetcakeandthetrifleweretoorichforyou,therewasatrayofRiceKrispietreatsmadebytheBrennans’nine-year-olddaughter,Rebecca,wholookedlikeamini-meofhermother.Ifiguredahalfhourtoeat
andmingleandblendinwiththecrowd.Thenitwastime
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togetlost.Asformypermissiontowanderaimlesslyinsomeoneelse’shome,thatwasaseasyasthreewords.“Where’sthebathroom?”Imadesuretoposethe
questiontoMr.Henchman,sincehewastheonlyguywhosejobitwastomakesureIdidn’tdowhatIwasabouttodo.Inhismind,atleastforafewminutes,Iwas
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accountedforinsidethehouse.“Downthehall,second
left,”hetoldme.Closingthedoorbehind
meinthebathroom,Icountedtothirtywhilestaringatanequestrian-patternedwallpaperthatevenAnnRomneywould’vepassedon.IncaseMr.Henchmanwasstandingwatch,Ithenflushedthetoiletandranthesinkforafewseconds.
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Buthewasn’tstandingwatch.Iwasaguest,afterall.Thatwould’vebeenweird.Walkingoutofthe
bathroomfreeandclear,IimmediatelyturnedintoMontyHallonspeed.What’sbehinddoornumberone?Andtwo?Andthree?Paydirtcamewithdoor
numberfour.Themahoganybookshelves,thestuddedleathercouchandmatchingarmchairs,thepaintingover
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themarblefireplacedepictingamuteofhoundsinpursuitofafox—basically,justtheoverwhelmingstenchoftestosterone—leftnodoubtthatIwasinBrennan’shomeoffice.Andsittingatopahuge
partnersdeskthesizeofapooltablewasthewholereasonformybeingthere.Quickly,Ireachedformynewprepaidcellphoneand
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dialedOwen,whowaswaitingbackatthehotel.“Okay,I’mstandingin
frontofhiscomputer,”Isaid.“It’salaptop,aToshiba.”“That’llwork,”Owensaid.
“Yourememberwhattodo?”Idid.First,Ihadtoinstall
theflashdrivehe’dgivenme,onlyitwasn’taflashdrive.Itjustlookedlikeone.Owencalledita“phantom”becauseitoverrodeanyandallpasswordrequirements—
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fromaccessinginternaldocumentstoe-mailaccounts—andleftnotraceoftheuser.ItwouldbeasifIhadneverevenbeenthere.Aphantom.“Okay,we’reup,”Isaid,
staringatthedesktoppage.Thankfully,itbootedupquickly.“We’reonhiswirelessnetwork.Readyonyourend?”“Ready.”
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IbroughtupInternetExplorer,typingintheWebaddressOwenhadgivenme,whichwasaseriesofnumbersthatmeantnothingtomeuntilheexplainedthatitwaspimultipliedbypitothetenthdecimal.Yeah,thatfigured,too…“Doyouseeit?”heasked.“Yep.”The“it”wasasitehe’d
namedMoonshine,because,accordingtoOwen,itwas
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homemadeandalwaysdidthetrick.ThekidwaslikeaVegasmagician,thewayhehadanameforeverything.Thedifferencebeing,histricksweren’tillusions.Theywerereal.“Okay,givemeabout
thirtyseconds,”hesaid.Inlayman’sterms,Owen
wasnowhijackingBrennan’sharddrive,gainingaccesstoeverydocumenthehad.Intheschemeofthings,needing
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onlyahalfminutetodothatwaslikebuildingRomeinaday.ButfromwhereIwasstanding,itwasfeelinglikeforever.Ikeptlookingatthedoor,
fearingtheworst.Itwouldbethenextsecondorthenextsecondafterthatwhensomeonewouldturnthathandleandwalkinonme.Mr.Henchman,orevenworse,Brennanhimself.
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Somethingsyousimplycan’ttalkyourwayoutof.“C’mon,Owen,”Isaidto
thebeatofthetick-tick-tickinmyhead.“Tellmewe’redone.”“Justalittlelonger,”he
said.“I’mstartingtogetabad
feeling.”“That’scalledparanoia.”“No,it’scalledempirical
evidence,”Isaid.“Haveyou
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beenkeepingadiarythisweek,byanychance?”“Goodone,”hesaid.“Now
domeafavor,willyou?”“What’sthat?”“Gobacktotheparty.”Click.Hewasdone.Ipocketedmyphone,
exitingthebrowserandpoweringdownthelaptopasquicklyasIcould.Allthewhile,Ikeptglancingatthedoor,willingittoremainclosed.
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Butitwasn’tthedoorIshould’vebeenworriedabout.Itwasthedesk.Thedesk?
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CHAPTER86
ITOPPLEDtothefloorsofasttherewasn’teventimetobreakmyfall.Insteadofthrowingoutmyhands,thebestIcoulddowasleadwithmyshoulder.Betteracrackedcollarbonethanacrackedskull.
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Whatthehelljusthappened?DidIreallyjustgetdeckedbythedesk?Sortof.Rightthereunderit,and
stillgrippingmyankles,wastheAnnieOakleyofskeetshootingherself,BeverlySands.WhatonearthshewasdoingthereIwascertainwe’dgettoinamoment.Butfirst,itwaspureinstinctasItriedtokickmyselffree.I
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almostdid,too,untilshegrabbedbothmyshins.Uh-oh.Myshins.Thesecondshefeltthe
holsterbeneathmypantleg,outcameasnub-nosed.38thatwasstrappedtoherinnerthighcourtesyofatricked-outleathergarterbelt.VeryLaFemmeNikita.“Whoareyou?”she
demanded.“Whydoyouhaveagun?”
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“Rightbackatcha,”Iwould’vesaidifithadn’tbeenforthefactthathergunwasaimedrightatmyhead.Instead,“I’mTrevor
Mann,”Ianswered,tryingtocatchmybreath.“Wemetwhenyouarrived,remember?”“Yeah,butyoudon’twrite
fortheTimes.”“Whatmakesyouso
sure?”
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“Youdon’tlooksmugenough,”shesaid.“You’realsotoonervoustobelawenforcement.”“Yeah,well,sorryIcan’t
bemorecoolforyouwithaguninmyface.”Shewaslosingher
patience.“Whatthehellareyoudoinginhere?Whowasthatonthephone?AndwhatdoyouwantwithBrennan’scomputer?”
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“Jesus,oneatatime,willyou?Slowdown.”Shemotionedoverher
shouldertowardthedoor.“Wedon’thavethatluxury.”“WhateverItellyou,you
won’tbelieveme,”Isaid.Shewasabouttorespond,
hermouthopentoformthefirstword.Butshesuddenlystopped,pointingatme.“TrevorMann,”shesaid,
repeatingmynameasifrunningitthroughher
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memory.“Whydoesthatringabell?”“TheNYPDpension
fund?”Shenodded.Bingo.
“You’rethatlawyer.”“Yes,I’mthatlawyer.”Herfingerwasstill
pointingatme,butfortunatelythegunwasn’t.Sheloweredit.“Honesttoafault,”shesaid.“Thankyou.”
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“Thatwasn’tacompliment,”sheinformedme.“Butgoahead,Imightjustbelieveyounow.”Therearetimestotalkand
therearetimestoshutup.Thentherearetimeswhenyou’reonthefloorwithawomanwearingaleathergarter-beltholsterintheprivateofficeofarichandpowerfulmanwho’dbelessthanunderstanding,toputit
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mildly,shouldhewalkinonyou.Whateveryoutellher,
Mann,makeitfast….Withthat,Igavethe
quickestpossiblesummationofwhatIwasdoingandwhy.“WethinkBrennanisinvolvedwithsomethingheshouldn’tbe.”“Jointheclub,”shesaid.
“Butwho’swe?”“Meandtheguyonthe
phone.”
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“WereyouhackingBrennan’se-mail?”“Somethinglikethat.”“Wasitsomethingmore
thanthat?”Thewaysheaskedthe
question,shesounded—ofallthings—hopeful.Thatwaswhenitclicked,
whatshewasdoingunderneaththegiantdesk.Icouldseethewiresrunningstraightdownfromthetop
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throughagrommet-coveredhole.“Youwerebugginghis
phone,weren’tyou?AndIwalkedinonyou,”Isaid.“Somethinglikethat,”she
replied,mimickingme.“Whoareyou,then?”I
asked.Shethoughtforasecond,
weighingthetruthversusapossiblelie.Thetruthwonout.“Myname’snotBeverlySands,it’sAgentValerie
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Jensen,”shesaid.“I’mwiththeNSA.”“Sincewhendoyouguys
havefieldagents?”“Wedon’t.Justlikewe
alsodon’tbugphones,”shesaid,standing.Withouttheslightesthintofmodesty,shehikedupherwhitesundress,reholsteringher.38alongherinnerthigh.“C’mon,we’vegottogetbacktotheparty.”Istoodup,fallinginline
behindher.Weweretenfeet
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fromthedoorwhenshesuddenlymotionedformetostop.ThenextthingIknew,she
waskissingme.
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CHAPTER87
BEFOREIcouldfigureoutwhatthehellwasgoingon,thedoorofBrennan’sofficeopened.Thehingeshadthedistinctsoundofatrainflyingoffthetracks.Immediately,Valeriebroke
awayfromme.We’dbeencaughtintheact:ourmouths
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agape,eyeswidewithsurprise.Butbetweenthetwoofus,Iwastheonlyonenotacting.Valeriehadheardthe
footstepsandhadseentheturnofthedoorhandle.Talkaboutthinkingfastonyourfeet.AgentJensenwasevenfasterwithherlips.“Areyoutwocheating?”
theyounggirlasked.Staringatuswithherarms
crossed,waitingforan
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answer,wastheBrennans’nine-year-olddaughter,Rebecca.“Cheating?”asked
Valerie.“Youknow,like,havingan
affair?Youcametothepartywithadifferentman,”Rebeccasaid.“Isawyou,don’tlie.”“No…no,honey,”Isaid,
shiftingquicklyintodenialmode.Itwaspurereflex.“Wewerejust—”
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ValeriecutmeofffasterthanaNewYorkCitycabdriver.“Yes,youcaughtus,”shesaid.“We’rehavinganaffair.”Ilookedather,stunned.
Didyoureallyjustsaythat?Shereallydid.LittleRebeccanoddedwith
thekindofself-satisfiedgrinkidsgetwhenagrown-uptreatsthemlikeagrown-up.Shepointedatme.
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“Youbetterbecareful,then,”shesaid.“IsawthismovieonTV,andwhenthehusbandfoundout,hekilledtheotherguywithasnowglobe.”“Ooh,I’veseenthatmovie,
too,”saidValerie.Sheturnedtome,raisingherhandstoactitout.“Yougethitrightintheheadwiththesnowglobe—bam!—andbloodstartsgushingdownyourforeheadand—”
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“Iknow,Iknow!”saidRebeccaexcitedly.Shewasrockingfromherheelstohertiptoes.“Wasn’titgross?”“Totallygross,”said
Valerie.“Like,gagmewithagiantspoon.”Rebeccagiggled.“You’re
funny,”shesaid.“You’realsoreallypretty.”“Thankyou,”saidValerie.
“Ithinkyou’rereallypretty,too.”“Youthinkso?”
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“Yes,andyourmothertellsmethatyougototheSidwellFriendsSchool,soIbetyou’rereallysmart,too.”Rebeccalikedeveryword
shewashearing.“DidyouknowthatSashaandMaliaObamagothere?”“Ididknowthat,”said
Valerie.“Haveyoumetthem?”“Yeah,they’renice,which
iscoolbecausetheyreallydon’thavetobe,Iguess.”
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IkeptdoingthesmartestthingIcoulddoatthatpoint,andthatwaskeepmybigmouthshut.Brilliantly,effortlessly,ValeriewasbondingwiththisgirlquickerthanKrazyGlue.Soonerratherthanlater,though,she’dhavetoaskthesixty-four-thousand-dollarquestion.Canyoukeepasecret?Butoutofnowhere,
anotherquestionbeatustoit.
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Oh,no…“Rebecca,whatareyou
doing?”heasked.
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CHAPTER88
WEALLfrozeasMr.Henchmanappearedinthedoorway.AsheglaredatValerieandme,itwastheclosestI’devercometobeingabletoreadanotherman’smind.Tworandomguestswhere
theyabsolutelyshouldn’tbe.
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Whatever’sgoingon,itisn’tright.“Youknowyou’renot
supposedtobeinhere,”hesaidtoRebecca.Therewaslittledoubt,though,thathewastalkingtoallthreeofus.“Youcouldreallygetintrouble.”ValerieandIlookedat
Rebecca,ourcollectivefatenowinthehandsofanine-year-oldginneduponthemovieUnfaithful.
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Iwasstartingtothinkwedidn’thaveasnowglobe’schanceinHell.EspeciallywhenMr.
Henchmanappliedthefull-courtpress.“Well,Rebecca?WhatamIsupposedtotellyourfather?”Thenagain,somekidsyou
canonlypresssofar.“Geez,Walt,don’thavea
cow!”shebellowed.“Iwasjustgivingthematourofthehouse.”Bothherhandsthen
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landedsquarelyonherhips.“Butifyou’resodesperatetotellmyfathersomething,maybeitshouldbehowyouliketodrinkallhisliquorwhenhe’snothome.”Oh,snap.Outofthe
mouthsofbabes…NeverhadIseenaguyso
bigbackdownsofast.Theupperhandnowworepinknailpolishwithglitter.Andonthatnote…
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“Thankyouagainforthetour,Rebecca.IthinkI’llbegettingbacktothepartynow,”saidValerie.“Yes,Ireallyshouldbe
gettingback,too,”Iadded.“Butthiscertainlyhasbeenfun.”IfollowedValerieoutof
Brennan’sofficewhile“Walt”remainedbehindtochatalittlemorewithRebecca.IfIhadtoguess,I’dsayhewasnegotiatinga
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keep-silentagreementwithherinordertokeephisjob.Forafewseconds,atleast,
ValerieandIwerealoneagain.“Comehere,”shesaid,
quicklypullingmeovertothewallinthehallway.NextthingIknew,shewasmovingtowardmymouthagain.“Whatareyoudoing?”“Don’tflatteryourself,
Counselor,”shesaid,herthumbremovingasmudgeof
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herlipstickfrommylowerlip.Shewascleaningmeup,thatwasall.“Sometimesakissisjustakiss.”Shetookastepback,
makingsureshe’dgottenitall.Asatisfiednodtoldmeshehad.“Sonowwhat?”Iasked.“Thatdepends.”“Onwhat?”“Onwhetherwhatyou
suspectaboutBrennanistrue,”shesaid.
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“Andifitis?”Shesmiled.“Thenyouand
me?Thisisthebeginningofabeautifulfriendship.”
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CHAPTER89
ONEHOURlater,andfromonehotseatintoanother.Ikeptshiftingaroundin
mychair,tryingtogetcomfortable,butIknewitwasn’tthechair.Itwasme.Ihadthatuneasyfeeling,thekindyougetwhenyouthinkyou’rebeingwatched.Only,
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inthiscase,IknewforsureIwasbeingwatched.Intheparkinglot.Inthe
lobby.Intheelevator.Inthehallway.Andultimately,intheconferenceroom.Therewerecameraseverywhere.Everythingwasbeingrecorded.WelcometotheNSA’s
headquartersatFortMeade,Maryland.“Whatfunhaveyou
broughtusnow,Valerie?”
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askedJeffreyCrespin.Basedonhistonealone,I
wasfairlycertainthewordfuninthatquestionborelittleresemblancetotheactualdefinitionoftheword.Sufficeittosay,ValerieJensenhadneverbeenawardedEmployeeoftheMonth.Nowonder,really.When
I’daskedherbeforethemeetingwhyanagentworkingundercoverwould
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riskdrawingsomuchattentiontoherselfwithherskeetshootingexhibitiononBrennan’slawn,shetoldmeshesimplycouldn’thelpit.Quote,“Ijusthatethosepenis-measuringconteststhatmenalwayshave.”Crespin,whowas
introducedtomeasadeputydirectorofsomecounterterrorismdivisionI’dneverheardof,listenedpatientlyinhissuitandtieas
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Valerie—nowinsweatpants,aNorthwesternT-shirt,andaponytail—finishedbriefinghimaboutherSaturdayafternoonatBrennan’shouse,whichhadnecessitatedherdraggingCrespinawayfromacharitydinnerandintotheofficeonaSaturdaynight.Thelongandshortofit?
TheirongoinginvestigationtoproveShahidAlDossariwashelpingtolaunderSaudimoneythatwasendingupin
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thehandsofAlQaedaoperativeshadsuddenlycollidedwithsomeColumbiaLawSchoolprofessorposingasawriterwiththeTimesandhisunseenpartner,whowereconductingtheirownlittleinvestigation.“Onlyit’snotsolittle,”
saidValerie.Thatwaswhensheturnedtomeandnodded.Itwasmyturntotalk.ButbeforeIcouldgettwo
wordsoutofmymouth,
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Crespininterruptedme.“Where’sthispartner,theoneyouwereonthephonewithatBrennan’shouse?”heasked.“That’spartofthe
agreement,”Ianswered.Crespincockedhisheadat
Valerie.Hedefinitelydidn’tlikethesoundofthat.“Whatagreement?”“Let’sjustsaythepartner
hastrustissues,”Valerieexplained.“TheagreementI
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madewithMr.Mannisthathewouldcomeherevoluntarilyinexchangeforbeingabletocomealone.”“Doyouatleastknow
wherethispersonis?”askedCrespin.“Idon’t,”sheanswered.
“ButMr.Manndoes.”Hewasstaringatmeagain.
“AndIsupposethat’sgoingtoremainyoursecret,right?Whoheis…whoheworksfor?”
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“Yes,butIknowofawayyoucouldprobablygetitoutofme,”Isaid,grabbingthesegue.“Thatis,ifitdidn’tkillmefirst.”Withthat,Itookoutaflash
drivecontainingtherecordingsOwenhadfirstshownme,alongwiththeonesfromDr.Wittmer.Thestagewasmineagain.Or,atleast,Iwasmakingitmine.Valeriehadalaptopbooted
upandreadytogo.Thiswas
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hersecondviewingwithinthehour.IdispensedwithanyprefaceandsimplyclickedPlay.I’donlyjustmetCrespin,
butIwashardlysurprisedtoseehimstareatthescreenstone-facedashewatched.Theguywasstoic.Likeadoctor.Ihardlyexpectedhimtorecoilatthesightoftorture.Buttherewassomething.
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IthappenedatthebeginningofoneofWittmer’srecordings—thedetaineewhowascooperatingundertheinfluenceoftheserumbutwasstillkilledbyit.Theverymomenttheguy’sfacewasvisibleon-screen,CrespinglancedatValerie.AndValerieglancedback.“What?”Iasked.“Whatis
it?”“Nothing,”saidValerie.
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ButIknewthesoundofthatnothing.ItwasthesamenothingI’dtoldDetectiveLamontandhispartner,McGeary,whentheywereshowingmetherecordingofClaire’smurderontheCrackerJack:themomentwhenshestuffedherphonebehindtheseat.Yeah,thatnothingfrom
Valerie?Itwasdefinitely
something.
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CHAPTER90
“HOWDIDyougetthese?”Crespinaskedcalmlyafterthelastrecordingwasfinished.Itwastemptingtojoke
abouttheirony.HerewastheNSAaskingmehowI’dgotteninformationIwasn’t
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supposedtohave.Yeah,that’srich.HowdidIgetthese?“The
howisn’timportant,”Isaid.“It’sthewho.”Andnotjustwhowas
responsible,butalsowhohadbeenkilledalongtheway.Crespinneededtounderstandthestakes,thepriceothershadpaid.Iexplainedeverything
OwenandIknewforsure,aswellaswhatwesuspected.
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We’dbeenfollowingthemoney,butwestilldidn’tknowwhoseitwas.Brennan,throughhislawfirm,hadbeenmovingthatmoneybutnotsupplyingit.Ithadtocomefromsomewhere,though.Asfortheserumitself,Dr.
WittmerhadimplicatedFrankKarcher,theNationalClandestineServicechiefoftheCIA,asthemanwho’dfirstapproachedhimabout
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transporting—andadministering—itoverseas.Finally,therewasthe
photoinWittmer’shousesuggestingthatClayDobsoncouldbeinvolved.“Couldbe,”Istressed.Iwasn’tabouttotrytosell
CrespinontheideaoftheWhiteHousebeinginvolved,asIwashardlysoldontheideamyself.Forstarters,wehadnothingthatlinkedKarchertoDobson.
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Funny,though,howtheworldworkssometimes.WhenIwasdone,Crespin
flippedopenamanilafolderinfrontofhimandremovedalarge,folded-uppieceofpaper.Hesliditinfrontofme.“What’sthis?”Iasked.Goahead,saidhisnod,
openit.Iunfoldedthepaper.Itwas
acopyofthefrontpageoftheNewYorkTimes.Nottoday’s,
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though.Noteventomorrow’s,whichwould’vebeentheSundayedition.No,thiswasMonday’s
paper—aneditor’smock-up,completewithmarginnotesanddummytextforacoupleofarticlesstilltobeinserted.Instinctively,Ilookedat
mywatch.IknewfromClairethatweekdayeditionsoftheTimeswenttoprintaroundteno’clockthenightbefore,withthe“firsteditionA
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book,”akathefrontsection,alwaysclosinglast.Wewereafulltwenty-fourhoursbeforethat.ItfeltabitlikeaTwilight
Zoneepisode.Crespinwasshowingmethefuture.Istareddownatthepaper
again.Ididn’task,butallIcouldthinkwasHowdidhegetthis?Ifhewasn’treadingmy
face,hewasdefinitelyreadingmymind.
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“Thehowisn’timportant,”hesaid.Hethenpointedtothefirst-columnstoryabovethefold,thetipofhisindexfingerlandingdirectlynexttothenameintheheadline.“It’sthewho.”
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CHAPTER91
THEREITwasinboldfacetype.
PresidentSettoNominateKarcher
AsNextCIADirector
Quickly,Iscannedthefirstparagraph.Myguttoldme
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there’dbenoneedtoreadthesecond.FrankKarcherwasbeing
dubbedthe“unexpectedchoice,”butan“unnamedsourcewithintheWhiteHouse”wascertainlybendingoverbackwardtodescribehimasanimpeccablecandidate.“Ithadalwaysbeenacoin
flipbetweenFrankKarcherandLawrenceBass.Headsor
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tails,though,it’sournationalsecuritythatwins.”Thoseunnamedsources
surecanspin.Crespinstoodupfromthe
tableandwalkedovertothewindow.Hestaredoutside,sayingnothing.Meanwhile,Valeriehadgrabbedthelaptop,herfingersfuriouslytappingawayonthekeypad.Ididn’tknowwhatshewas
doing,butIfiguredCrespinmustbedeepinthought,
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tryingtofigureoutthishugeminefieldhewassuddenlystandingin.Onapogostick,noless.Therewasnoscenariothat
didn’tentailcollateraldamage,fromthepresidencyondown.AndthatwasiftheWhiteHousewasn’tinvolved.Andifitwas?Ifthelinkto
ClayDobsonviaFrankKarcherprovedreal?
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ThenCrespinwouldn’tneedthefrontpageoftheNewYorkTimesinadvancetoknowwhattheheadlineswouldbe.Independentcounsels,congressionalhearings,theentireadministrationupended,ifnottoppled.TheFourthEstatewouldhavetheultimatefieldday.Afeastfortheages.Nowkickintheforeign
policyandnationalsecurityramifications.
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Thiswasn’tdronesorwaterboardingorevensomeextremelyill-advisedphotostakenbyafewguardsatGuantánamoBay.No,thiswasthecoupdegrâce,themotherlode.Thesinglegreatestterrorist
recruitingtoolofalltime.Oratleast,untilthenextonecamealong.IfI’dbeenCrespin,I
would’vebeenstaringoutthewindow,too.Hehadtobe
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wonderingwhathisnextmovewas.HewastheNSA,nottheFBI.Atsomepoint,thiswasajobforlawenforcement,andIwasassumingthatpointwasnow.Onsecondthought…HewastheNSA,notthe
FBI.Crespinturnedawayfrom
thewindow.“Howmuchdoyouknowaboutthisbuilding,Mr.Mann?”
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“Youmean,theactualbuilding?”Iasked.“Yes.”IlookedoveratValeriefor
somehelp.Isthisatrickquestion?Butherheadwasstillburiedinthelaptop.“Iknownothingaboutit,”
Isaid.Crespinnodded.“You’re
notalone.Andwhatlittlethepublicdoesknowaboutthisbuildingisbecausewewantthemtoknowit.Butdoesthat
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makeittrue?OnWikipedia,forinstance,itsaysthateverywallinthisplaceiswrappedwithanultrathincoppershieldingthatpreventsallelectromagneticsignalsfromgettingout.”Okay,I’lltakethebait.“Is
thattrue?”Iasked.“Itmustbe,”hesaid.“I
readitontheInternet.”Valerie,stillfixatedonher
laptop,smiled.Shewaslisteningthewholetime.Note
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toself:TheNSAisalwayslistening.Crespintookhisseatback
atthetable.Iwasn’tsurewhatexactlyhewastalkingabout,althoughIgotthefeelingthatwasbydesign.Hecontinued:“Yousee,
peopleliketosaythatinformationispower.Butinsidethesewalls—coppershieldedornot—weliketosaysomethingelse.Thereal
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power?It’snotinformation.It’smisinformation.”Asifoncue,Valerie
leanedbackinherchair.Whatevershe’dbeendoing,shewasdone.“Unbelievable,”she
muttered.“What?”Iimmediately
asked.Itwassimplereflex.Butshewasn’ttalkingto
me.JustCrespin.Andashestaredbackather,hedid
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somethingI’dyettoseehimdo.Hesmiled.“KarchertoBrennanor
BrennantoKarcher?”heasked.“Both,”saidValerie.I’dhadenoughoffeeling
liketheoddmanout.“Maybeoneofyoucantellmewhat’sgoingon?”“Sure,”saidCrespin.“But
firstIhavetoaskyousomething.Howgoodareyouatpretendingyou’redrunk?”
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CHAPTER92
“WHATAREyouhaving?”askedthebartender.“Secondthoughts,”Iwas
temptedtosay.Instead,“DoubleJohnnieBlackontherocks,”Itoldhim.Thisonedrinkwouldbe
myprop,abigol’glassofwhiskeyinanunsteadyhand
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tosuggestthatI’dhadplentymorewherethatcamefrom.ThefactthatIwasalreadylookingprettyraggedfromrawnervesandlackofsleepwouldonlyaddtotheeffect.WhathadBrennansaidto
hisguestsonthepatio,hisquotefromWillRogers?Younevergetasecondchancetomakeagoodfirstimpression.Itwasn’tquiteascatchy,
butJeffreyCrespinhadhisownsayingforwhatIwas
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abouttodo.“Youonlygetoneshotatthis,Mann,soI’llaskyouasecondtime.Areyousureyou’reupforit?”“Absolutely,”Ilied.Frommyendseatatthe
barinaplacecalledShadowsinGeorgetown,itwasn’tBrennanIwaswaitingfor.Ashangoutsgo,thiswashardlyhisscene.Hipandchic,allright,butnotenoughpowerbrokers.Lawstudentsinsteadoflawyers,congressional
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staffersinsteadofcongressmen.Plus,waytoomanyEurotrashguyswithonetoomanyshirtbuttonsundone.Maybethatwaswhy
ShahidAlDossarihadchosentheplace:theinternationalflavor.That,andthederigueur“darkandsexy”loungelighting.Shadowswasclearlysavingtheownersatonofmoneyontheirelectricbill.
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Allthatmattered,though,wasthatthechoicewasAlDossari’s.He’dpickedthelocation.HemighthavegottensuspicioushadValerieledhimthere.Excuseme,had“Beverly
Sands”ledhimthere.Atthetwenty-minute
mark,IcheckedthesameprepaidcellI’dusedatBrennan’shousetoseeiftherewasanyfollow-upfrom
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Valerie.Wordofadelayorevenachangeofvenue.Neither,though.Nonew
texts.Finally,aboutahalfhour
afterValeriehadfirstsentmetheaddress,Ilookeduptoseeherwalkinginwithhim.Rightaway,Icouldtellhewasreallygettingoffonwatchingtheothermenjealouslycheckingouthisdate.Yeah,that’sright,boys,she’swithme….
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Tick-tock.Valerie’dhadonlyanhourafterleavingNSAheadquarterstogetdolledupagainasBeverly.This,afterinitiallytellingAlDossarithatshehadapreviousengagementafterBrennan’sparty.Nowondertheguywassmilinglikethedevil.Thissurprisenightcapwasthenext-bestthingtoabootycall.Andundoubtedly,inhiseyes,thenightwasstillyoung.
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HowwasValeriehandlingthat,Iwondered?Afterall,AlDossarihadtohavecertainexpectationsbythispoint.Wouldsheevertakeonefortheteam,sotospeak,likeJoandidonMadMen?No,she’dnever.Shecouldn’t,right?ForChrist’ssake,Mann,
let’skeepthefocus….Astheypassedthebar,I
bentdowntopickupsomethingI’dpretendedto
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drop.WhenIstraightenedup,Iglancedovermyshouldertoseethemgrabbingaboothintheback.Allaccordingtoplan.Givethemalittletimetosettleinwiththeirbottleofchampagne—niceandrelaxed—andthen…“Hey!”Iblurtedout,
stoppinginfrontoftheirboothwithadoubletake.“It’sAnnieOakley!”Forgoodmeasure,Iraisedmyarmsasifshootingashotgun,
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spillingsomeofmydrinkintheprocess.IwatchedasValerie
pretendednottorecognizemeatfirst.AlDossari,ontheotherhand,wasn’tpretending.Allthebetter.“Remember?”Isaid.“We
metearliertodayatJosiahBrennan’slittlesoiree.TrevorMann?TheTimes?”“Oh,ofcourse,”saidAl
Dossari,slidingoutofthe
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boothtoshakemyhand.“Nicetoseeyouagain.”Ifthatwereonlytrue.His
painedexpressionwaspracticallyscreaming,Ofallthedamnbarsinthistown,youhadtobeinthisone?Drunk,noless?Makethatverydrunk.IturnedbacktoValerie.
“Hey,really,niceshootingtoday.Justexcellent!”Isaid.“Wait,what’syournameagain?”
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“Beverly,”shesaid.“BeverlySands.”“That’sright,ofcourse!
AndI’mTrevorMann.”“Yes,Ibelieveyousaid
thatalready.”Beverlynoddedtowardmydrinkwithapatientsmile.“Arewecelebratingsomething,Mr.Mann?”“Ha!Morelike
commiserating,I’mafraid.Problemis,I’mdownherein
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DCbymyself,soIhavenoonetocommiseratewith.”“Well,I’mtoldI’magood
listener,”shesaid.God,she’sgoodatthis.
Shemakesitlooksoeffortless.“Oh,it’snothing,”Isaid
withasloppywaveofmyhand.“Imean,it’ssomething,butIreallyshouldn’tsayanything.”“Yes,that’sprobablybest,”
saidBeverly.
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Withthat,Itossedbacktherestofmywhiskeyasifitwereliquidcourage.No,betteryet,atruthserum.“Onsecondthought,what
thehell.It’sgoingtobeinalltheheadlinessoonenough,”Isaid,beforeleaningintowhisper,“Canyoutwokeepasecret?”
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CHAPTER93
ITWASalmosttooeasy.Likepushingabigbutton.Suddenly,ShahidAl
Dossariwasn’tsoeagerformetogetlost.“CanIbuyyouanotherround,Mr.Mann?”Andtheysaywomenare
gossips.
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IhappilyslidintotheirboothwhileAlDossariflaggedthecocktailwaitress.AsIexchangedglanceswithValerie,shebrokecharacterforasplitsecondtogivemeanod.Sofar,sogood.Nowbringithome.Or,atleast,that’showItookit.“Whatwereyoudrinking?”
AlDossariaskedmeasthewaitressarrivedwithpepinherstep.Sheknewagoodtipwhenshesawone.
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“DoubleJohnnieBlackontherocks,”Isaid.“Notanymore.Makeita
doubleJohnnieBlue,neat,”hesaid.Iwasfairlyconvincedthat
hiscocksuremoney-is-no-objectupgradewasmoreforBeverlySands’sbenefitthanmine,butIwasn’tabouttoobject.Allthingsconsidered,ifIwaspretendingtobeloaded,itmightaswellbe
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withtop-of-the-linerealwhiskey.“Sowherewerewe?”
askedValerie.“Mr.Mannwasaboutto
takeusintohisconfidence,”saidAlDossari.“Firstofall,Mr.Mannwas
myfather.CallmeTrevor,”Isaid.“Second…”Ipausedforamomentàlaanalcohol-inducedmemorylapse.“Actually,Ican’trememberwhatnumbertwowas,butin
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anyevent,here’swhyI’mstuckhereinDC.Ofcourse,itinvolvespolitics.Doyouguysfollowpolitics?”“Sure,alittle,”saidAl
Dossari.Andby“alittle”itwasclearhemeant“alot.”Iletoutadeepsigh.“Stop
meifthisboresyou,butapparentlytheCIAhasinventedsomenewinterrogationmethodthatmakeswaterboardinglooklikeadayatthebeach.
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Problemis,it’skilledabunchofprisoners,hordesofthem.Evenbiggerproblem,atleastforthepresident,isthathisnewCIAdirectorisinvolved.”“Wait,”saidValerieasif
confused.“Didn’tIseeonthenewsthatthenewCIAdirectorwasn’tgoingtotakethejob?Irememberbecausehewasstandingwithhistwindaughtersandtheywereadorable.”
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“That’sright,butthisisthenewnewCIAdirector,theonethepresidentisabouttoannounce,”Isaid.“That’sonthehush-hush,too.IthinkhisnameisArcher.”Itwasprobablymorefrom
wishfulthinkingthananythingelsethatIpausedforAlDossaritojumpinandsay“Karcher”tocorrectme.Thatwouldbetooeasy,though.Heremainedsilentasthe
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waitressreturnedwithmytwenty-five-yearwhiskey.“Anyway,”Icontinued,
“theTimeshasthestoryandI’vebeenaskedtostaydownheretodosomeinterviewsontheHillonceitbreaksonMonday.”IgrabbedthelowballofJohnnieBlue,raisingithigh.“So,astheysayinsynchronizedswimming…bottomsup!”BeverlySandsliftedher
drinktominewithalaugh.
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TrevorMann,thereporterfromtheTimeswhoverypossiblyhadadrinkingproblem,wasnonethelessentertaining.Right,Shahid?Sheturnedtohim,herlook
wonderingwhyhewasn’tjoininginthecheers.Andforthefirsttime,wegotahintofsomething.Helookeddistracted.Downrightuncomfortable.“Areyouokay?”askeda
concernedBeverlySands.
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“Shahid?”“Huh?”Hesnappedoutof
it,raisinghischampagne.“Oh,I’msorry…cheers.”Weclinkedglasses,andI
waitedforsomekindoffollow-upquestionfromAlDossari.Valeriewaswaiting,too.Maybeheneededacommandperformancefrommetobesureofwhathe’dheard.Ormaybethiswasallfor
naught.Thelinkwasonly
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betweenKarcherandBrennan,andasforAlDossari,hewassimplytheCIA’spatsy.Asortofpost-9/11LeeHarveyOswald.Only,inthiscase,forreal.Suddenly,AlDossari
beganslidingoutofthebooth.“Willyoutwoexcusemeforamoment?”
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CHAPTER94
VALERIEANDIbothwatchedashewalkedtowardthemen’sroominthebackofthebar.Wewereseeingthesamething.Iassumedwewerethinkingit,too.“He’snotgoingtothe
bathroom,ishe?He’scallingBrennan,”Isaid.“Ormaybe
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evenKarcher.Oneofthem,right?”Valeriegrimaced,atwinge
ofguilt.“No,hereallyisgoingtothebathroom,”shesaid.“Infact,he’sgoingtobeinthereforawhile.”“Howwouldyouknow?”Shenoddedfirstathis
champagneglassandthenatherpurse.“Whenhestoodtoshakeyourhand,”shesaid.“It’slikeliquidEx-Lax,only
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ahellofalotstrongerandquicker.”“Why?”Iasked.Why
wouldshespikehisdrink?“Technically,it’sourthird
date,”shesaid.“InShahid’smind,itdoesn’tendwithusplayingBoggle.Thisway,hewon’tevenwantapeckonthecheek.”“Iwaswonderingabout
that,”Isaid.“Youknow…”Upshotoneofher
eyebrows.“WhetherI’dever
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havesexwithamark?”“Doyouguysreallycall
themmarks?”“Yeah,strange,right?
Targetsofanundercoverstingoperationnevercaughton.”“Soyoureallyhaven’t—”“Isthatreallyonlyyour
secondwhiskey?”“Sorry,Iwasjustcurious.”“Fortherecord,the
answer’sno,”shesaid.“Nottosayhedidn’ttryondates
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oneandtwo.Butloveofmycountryonlygoessofar.”Thecocktailwaitress
returnedtopoursomemorechampagne.ValeriequicklyplacedherhandoverAlDossari’sglass.“Ithinkhe’sdoneforthenight,”shesaidpolitely.Iglancedtowardtheback
ofthebarasthewaitresswalkedaway.“Whathappensnow?”Iasked.Theplanshe
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andCrespinhadconcoctedonlygotmetothetable.“Whathappensnowisthat
youtellmewhoyoursilentpartneris,”shesaid.“Imeant—”“Iknowwhatyoumeant.I
alsoknowthatwhoeverthisguyis,he’sCIA,orperhapsex-CIAatthispoint.There’snootherwayyoucouldhavethoserecordings.”“Nootherway?”“Provemewrong.”
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“Ifyouknowhe’sCIA,whatdifferencedoeshisnamemakerightnow?”Valerieeyedmefora
moment.We’dknowneachotherforlessthanaday,butitwashardtoignoreacertainfoxholementality.Likeitornot,wewereinthistogether.“Youwanttrust?I’llgive
youtrust,”shesaid.“RememberwhenCrespinandIlookedateachother
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duringoneofyourrecordings?”“Yes.Youtriedtopretend
itwasnothing—”“Butitwasobviously
something,you’reright,”shesaid.“Thingis,itwasKarcherwhoinitiallytippedusoffaboutourmanonthetoiletrightnow,thathewasfundingaknownterrorist.SoIbecameBeverlySandstocozyuptoShahidAlDossari,and—loandbehold—wejust
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confirmedit.Shahid’smoneyhasbeenmovinginandoutofanAlQaedaoperative’saccountasrecentlyaslastweek.Bingo,right?Exceptforoneproblem.Accordingtooneofyourvideosandthedatestampedonthebottomofthescreen,thatoperativehasbeendeadforoverayear.”Sometimesyoujustsaythe
firstwordsthatcometoyour
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mindnomatterhowtrite.“Holyshit.”“That’sright,holyshit,”
shesaid.“Prettygoddamnbrilliant,too.Developingthattruthserumtakesbigbucks,andit’snotliketheCIAcangotoCongressforit.SowhatdoesKarcherdo?Heusesthehotshotlawyer,Brennan,tomakeitlooklikeoneofhisclientsisfundingaterroristwithSaudimoney.Instead,
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whatKarcher’sreallydoingisfundinghimself.”“ButAlDossariwould
havetoknow,right?”“Itwouldseemthatway.”“That’sthepartIdon’tget,
then,”Isaid.“Wouldn’tKarcherbethrowingAlDossariunderthebus?Withouttherecordingsfromtheblacksite,youguyswouldstillhaveAlDossarionfundingterrorism.”
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“Yeah,that’sthebrilliantpart.AlltheNSAdoesisprovidetheproof.Thenwehandeverything—includingAlDossari—backovertoKarcher,”shesaid.“TheCIAwilltakeitfromhere,he’lltellus,andthenit’soutofourhands.”“Thenwhat,though?”I
asked.“It’snotlikeKarchercan’tdroptheball.”“No,ofcoursenot.Afew
monthsfromnowwe’d
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probablyhearthatAlDossarihasflippedandisnowKarcher’snewestmoleintheMiddleEast,orsomethinglikethat.Andwe’dbelieveit,too,becausewe’dhavenoreasonnotto.”“Butnowyoudo.”“Whichbringsmebackto
yourfriend,”shesaid.“Asmuchasyouneedtotrustme,Ineedtotrusthim.AndIcan’tdothatifIdon’tmeethim.Sotonight,literally…I
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needyoutobringmebacktoyourfriend.”“Whataboutyourdate?”I
asked.“Wejustcan’tleavehim.”“Oh,no?”Alreadyshewas
halfwayoutthebooth.“Whenhe’sfinallyabletoleavethebathroom,thelastthinghe’llwanttodoisexplainwhattookhimsolong.Trustme,”shesaid.“We’redoinghimafavor.”
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CHAPTER95
INTWOminutesflat,wewereinthebackseatofaDCcabheadingofftheBeltwaypastDullesAirportandouttoArcola.Ireallyshould’vegottenato-gocupforthatJohnnieWalkerBlue.Thedriver,whose
dispositionmostclosely
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resembledaningrowntoenail,initiallytoldusthatArcolawasoutofhisterritory,especiallyaftermidnight.AcrispBenFranklinlater,hesuddenlyhadabrand-newterritory.Moneyisthebiggestbuttonofthemall.“Insideoroutsidedoors?”
askedValerie.Iturnedtoher.“Insideor
outside?”
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“MymotherwasafraidtoflywhenIwasakid,sowedroveeverywhereforvacation.Shehadthisthing,though.Wecouldneverstayinahotelwithdoorsthatfacedoutside,”shesaid.“Toodangerous.”“Byanychance,doesyour
motherknowwhatyoucurrentlydoforaliving?”Iasked.“Ifshewerestillalive,she
wouldn’tlikeit.”
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“I’msorry,Ididn’trealize.”“Cervicalcancer.WhenI
wasinhighschool,”sheexplained.“Andsincewe’reinthesympathycardaisle,myfatherthendiedoflungcancerduringmysenioryearincollege.”“Jesus.”“Tellmeaboutit.Of
course,iftheywerebothstillalive,it’snotlikeIcouldactuallytellthemwhatIdo.”
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“Andwhatisthat,exactly?Imean,ofalltheNSAsecretsthatEdwardSnowdenleaked,Ididn’thearanythingaboutagentslikeyou.”“Yeah,littleEddiereally
complicatedthings,didn’the?”IwaitedforValerietokeep
talkingandperhapsanswermyquestion.Shedidneither.“You’renotgoingtotell
me,areyou?”
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Shesmiled.“Wehavetokeepsomemysterybetweenus,don’twe?”Ipracticallyfroze.That
wasexactlywhatClairehadsaidtomethenightshewaskilled.“What?”askedValerie.
“WhatdidIsay?”“Nothing,”Ifinally
answered.Butshe,too,knewthe
soundofthatnothing.Thelookshegaveme.Still,she
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letitgo.Atouchofwoman’sintuition,perhaps.Regardless,thenextfew
minutesformewereinevitable.MemoriesofClairecamelikeclicksonthemeterinthetaxi,oneafteranother,especiallyfromourlastmomentstogether.It’softenasked,ifyou
knewthiswasyourlastnightonearth,whatwouldyoudo?HadthatnightwithClairebeenmylastnight,though,
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therewasnothingIwould’vechanged.Well,almostnothing.Iwould’veneverletClairego.“Frontorback?”askedthe
driver.Thequestionsnappedme
outofitasIlookeduptoseehimpullingintotheComforterMotel.Staringatthenearlyemptyparkinglot,itwaseasytowonderiftheNOintheNOVACANCYsignhadeverbeenilluminated.
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“Theback,”Isaid.Ashepulledaround,I
wentoverthegroundruleswithValerieagainregardingOwen.We’dgottenprettygoodatcuttingdealsonthefly.“Igoupandexplainthe
situation,tellhimyou’reherewaitinginthetaxi,”Isaid.“ThenIwaveyouup,okay?”“Whoa,excuseme?”
blurtedoutthedriver.
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I’dforgottenabouttheotherdealmakeramongus.Hewasn’tlikingthewayhisendwasshakingout.“Isthereaproblem?”Iasked.“You’reonlypayingmeto
driveyouhere,”hesaid.“That’stheproblem.”Ireachedintomypocket
againformorecash,butValeriestoppedme,reachingintoherownpocket.She’dhadenoughofthisguy.
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Moneymaytalk,butabadgeshutsthemupeverytime.“Let’strythisagain,”she
said.“Isthereaproblem?”Shewasholdingherbadge
soclosetohiseyesshewaspracticallyslappinghisfacewithit.Withaslowshakeofhis
head,hegotwiththeprogram.Noproblem.“Youcanparkoveratthe
endthere,”Isaid,pointingtoanareanearasetofstairs.
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TherewasnoothersoundbeyondtheengineidlingasIsteppedouttothebacklotandmademywayuptothesecondfloor,orthepenthouse,asOwenjokinglycalledit.Wehadthefirstroomoffthestairs,aswellastheonenexttoitwithaconnectingdoor.Onceagain,thetworoomstrategy.Ifitain’tbroke,don’tfixit.Keycardinhand,Ieyed
thelipstickcameraOwenhad
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tapedabovethesignforthevendingmachinesabouttwentyfeetaway.Thencamethelast
safeguard—theknockingsequencetoensureweweretrulyalone.IsupposeIwasfudgingthatoneabit.Twoknocksfollowedby
onefollowedbytwo.TheareacodeofManhattan.There’snoplacelikehome.Lessthanaminutelater,
though,Iwasbackdownat
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thetaxi.Fromthelookonmyfacealone,Valerieknewwehadproblem.Itwasthekindnobadgecouldsolve.“Whatisit?”sheasked.Thatwaspartofthe
problem.Iwasn’tsure.
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CHAPTER96
OWENWASGONE.ThatwastheonlythingI
knewforsure.Bothourroomswereempty.Emptyofhim,atleast.Gone,too,washisbackpack,hisbagoftricks.Butmyduffelwasright
whereI’dleftitinoneofthe
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closets,everythingstillinside.Myguns,theextracash.Infact,everythingelseintheroomlookednormal.“Didtheykidnapthemaid,
too?”askedValerie,standinginthedoorway.Okay,Isaidnormal,not
clean.Youputtwoguysinahotelonthelamforafewdaysanditisn’tgoingtobepretty.Butthatwasthequestion,
wasn’tit?HadOwenbeen
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takenorhadheleftonhisown?TherewasaMobilstationwithaconveniencemartahalfmiledowntheroadwherewe’dbeenpickingupsomesnacks,butthechancesofhistakingthewalkatoneo’clockinthemorningseemedremote.“Whereareyougoing?”I
askedValerie.Shewasheadedbackoutthedoor,hergundrawn.
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“Westartwiththeperimeter,”shesaid.Iunderstood.Standard
policeprocedure.Startfromtheoutside—inthiscase,literally—andworkyourwayin.“Hisname’sOwen,”Isaid.“Whataboutalastname?”Imusthavelookedlikea
stumpedcontestantonagameshow.AllthistimetogetherandI’dneverfoundouthis
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lastname.“Huh”wasallImanaged.“Don’tworryaboutit,”she
said,turningagaintoleave.“Wait,don’tyouwantto
knowwhathelookslike?”Shestoppedjustlong
enoughtomakemerealizethatwhiletrustwasonething,thewholetruthwasanother.“He’stall,slender,with
brownhair,shaggy.Doesthiswithhishandsfromtimetotime,”shesaid,doinga
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perfectimitationofhisdrywashroutine.“Oh,andfortherecord,hislastnameisLewis.”Shewalkedout.Istoodthereinshock,
wonderinghowValerieknewallthat,andequallyconfounding,whyshehadn’tjusttoldmeinthefirstplace.Therewerenoquickanswers.Whattherewas,though,wassomethinginmyeyeline.Owen’slaptop.
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Hehaditlinkedtothelipstickcameraoutside,ourmakeshiftsurveillancesystem.Sincethemomenthe’dfirsthookeditup,ithadbeensittingatopthecrappy-lookingcredenzafeaturingtheTV,plasticicebucket,andtheYellowPages.Nowthelaptopwasinthe
middleofthequeenbedclosertothebathroom.Imean,rightinthemiddle.Asifthebedwereitspedestal.
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Theonlythingmissingwastheneonsignoveritthatwasblinking,Lookatme,Trevor!Iwalkedoverandtapped
thespacebar,wakingupthescreen.Iexpectedtoseethesamerunningimagethathadbeentherefordays,thewalkwayoutsidebothourrooms.Only,nowtherewassomethinginfrontofit.Apicture.No,makethatamessage.
Butonlyforme.
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Inapop-upwindowwasanillustrationoffGoogleImages,oneofthosegoofyclip-artsignsthatreadGONEFISHING.NowIjusthadtofigure
outwhatitwassupposedtomean.Fishingforwhat?“Whatareyoulookingat?”
cameValerie’svoicebythedoor.Shewasback.Ihadasplitsecondto
makeadecision.Givenourtrackrecord,tellingheritwas
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nothingwasoffthetable.Ithadtobesomething.Butdidithavetobethewholetruth?Thistrustthingwasgetting
abittricky.“Behindyou,”Isaid.
“That’swhatI’mlookingat.”Ispunthelaptoparound,
butnotbeforeclickingtheillustrationclosed.Whatremainedwasthefeedfromtheoutsidecamera.“Clever,”shesaid,tracing
theangletothesignforthe
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vendingmachines.“Owen’sdoing,Iassume?”“Itseemsyou’dknowthat
evenbetterthanme,”Isaid.Thatgotmeasmirkbut
nothingmore.Shewasfarmoreconcernedwithtakingonemorelaparoundbothroomstoseeiftherewassomethingshe’dmissedthefirsttime.Therewasn’t.“Allright,grabyourstuff,”
shesaid.“Let’sgetgoing.”“Going?”
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“Youdidn’tstillthinkyou’dbestayinghere,didyou?”Actually,Ihadn’tthought
anything.ButValerieobviouslyhad.“Wherearewegoing?”I
asked.“Someplacewithinside
doors,”shesaid.
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CHAPTER97
“GOODMORNING,Mr.Mann,howdidyousleep?”askedJeffreyCrespin,myhumanalarmclock.He’dtakenituponhimselftoshakemeawakeatsixa.m.HowdidIsleep?It’sthe
crackofdawn.
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“Sparingly,”Iwastemptedtoanswer.ButitwastooearlyandIwastootiredforglibness.“Fine,”Isaidinstead.Hewassittingonafolding
metalchairattheendofmycot,wearingablueblazerandjeans.IguessthejeanswerehowheunwoundonaSunday.“Wouldyoulikesomecoffee?”heasked.Ilookedoverhisshoulder
toseeValerieinthedoorway,
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takingasipfromamug,thestringfromateabaghangingovertheedge.ShewaswearingthesameBeverlySandsoutfitshe’dhadonfourhoursago,whichansweredthequestionofwhereshe’dspentthenight.Itwashere.Whereverthehellthat
mightbe.Notonlydidn’tIknow,I
wasneversupposedtoknow.HencetheBruceWayneandBatcaveroutineafterleaving
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themotelinArcola.Valerie’dhadthetaxitakeustoanundergroundparkinggarageinFortMeade,wherewegotintoanunmarkedvan,butonlyaftersheputasackovermyhead.Forreal.Thenagain,Iguessthat’s
whytheycallitasafehouse.“Yeah,somecoffeewould
begood,”Isaid.“Cream,ifyouhaveit.Nosugar.”“I’llseewhattheyhave,”
saidValeriebefore
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disappearingintothehallway.Crespinleanedbackinhis
chair,crossinghislegs.“Isupposethere’salsotea,butIfiguredyoumoreforcoffee,”hesaid.“Youfiguredright.”“Funnything,though.Do
youknowwhoneverdrinkscoffee?”“Igiveup.”“FrankKarcher.”Iimmediatelylikedwhere
thiswasgoing,andCrespin
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couldtell.Foronlythesecondtime,Isawhimsmile.“AlDossaricalledhim?”“Latelastnight,”hesaid.
“Whenhewasfinallyfeelingbetter,Ipresume.”“Whatdidhesay?”“Everythingyoutoldhim
atthebar.”“Butassoonasheheard
myname…”“Thatwasthebestpart.
You’dthinkKarcherwould’vetoldAlDossari
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he’dbeenplayedbyyou,buthedidn’t.Hejustthankedhimfortheheads-up.”“Itactuallymakessense,”I
said.“KarcherknowsIdon’tworkfortheTimes.Thepaperdoesn’thavethestory.”“Andspeakingofstories
thataren’treal…”Ofcourse.“AlDossari
musthavetoldKarcherhowhefirstmetme.”“Exactly,”hesaid.“After
KarcherhungupfromAl
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Dossari,heimmediatelywokeupBrennan.Naturally,Brennanmadesuretocallhimrightbackfromthesecurelineinhisstudy.”Only,thankstoValerie’s
handiwork,theNSAcouldlisteninonthatconversation,too.“Icanonlyimagine
Brennan’sreaction,”Isaid.“Totellyouthetruth,I
thinkhewasmoreupsetaboutnotactuallybeing
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interviewedfortheTimesthanhewasattheprospectofspendingthenexttentofifteenyearsfoldinglaundry.”“That’salawyerforyou,”
Isaid.“Prisoniswhathappenstootherpeople.”“We’llsee.Inthe
meantime,niceworklastnight.Valerietellsmeyouplayanexcellentdrunk.”“I’vehadsomepractice.”
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“ShealsotoldmeaboutOwen,thathe’ssuddenlygonemissing.”“Firstthingsfirst,ifyou
don’tmind.Whydidn’tyouguysjusttellmeyouknewwhohewas?”Crespindidn’thesitate.
“Whengauginganasset,it’salwaysgoodtoknowupfrontifwhathe’stellingyouistrue.”“ItakeitI’mtheso-called
assetinthatsentence?”
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“It’sjustthewaywedothings.”“Soyoucanprobably
guessmynextquestion.”“Yes,”hesaid.“Butthe
answertothatonemakesthingsalittletrickier.”
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CHAPTER98
ALITTLEtrickier?Didhereallyjustsaythat?I’dspentthenight,what
wasleftofit,sleepingintheNSA’sversionofinsidedoors.IwasinasafehousesomewhereinDContheheelsofaroadtriptakenwithaboygeniusfromtheCIA
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whothoughthewascuringAlzheimer’s,onlytodiscoverhewasreallyhelpingtocreatewhatwould’vebeentheultimateinterrogationtoolifitweren’tforthefactthatithappenedtohaveafailrateoffortypercent.Andbyfail,Imeanfatally.Whichwouldexplainwhy
themenresponsibleforallthisweregoingtosuchextremelengthstoensuretheywereneverfoundout.
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Andbyextreme,Ialsomeanfatally.Butnow,soIwasbeing
told,thingswereabouttoget…waitforit…alittletrickier.IstaredbackatCrespin.
“No,it’sactuallysimple,”Isaid.“Youeithercanorcan’ttellmehowyouknowaboutOwen.”“Iadmirethat,Ireallydo,”
hesaid,onceagainwithoutanyhesitation.“Despite
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everythingyou’vebeenthrough,you’restillcapableofseeingtheworldinblackandwhite.”“Noteverythingisgray.”Hecockedhishead.“Look
aroundyou,Mr.Mann.”Iwassurroundedby
cinder-blockwallsandconcretefloors.TherewasthemetalchairCrespinwassittingin,aswellasmymetalcot.EventheblanketI’dbeengiven.Allgray.
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AndCrespinwasn’tevenbeingliteral.“Areyoutryingtochange
thesubject?”Iasked.“No,I’monlygivingit
perspective,”hesaid.“IknowaboutOwenLewisbecauseofyourfriendClaireParker.”Helookedatmeasifhe’d
justthrownaverbalgrenadeintoourconversation.ButIwasn’tsurewhy.Afterall,“IalsoknowaboutOwenLewis
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becauseofClaireParker,”Isaid.“Yes,Irealizethat.Sonow
comesthattrickierpartIpromisedyou.”Heuncrossedhislegs,hisbackstraightening.“ClaireworkedfortheNSA.”Ka-boom.Itwasasifalltheblood
hadbeensuddenlyflushedfrommyhead.Ifeltdizzy,theroomspinning.Abig,grayblur.
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“Excuseme?”Isaid.“Idon’tthinkIneedtosay
itagain.”No,hedidn’t.“Tobeveryclear,Clairewaseverythingyouthoughtshewas,anationalaffairsreporterfortheNewYorkTimes.Shewasagiftedjournalistwhoonlywrotethetruth.ButasI’msureyou’reaware,doingthat—especiallydoingitatherlevel—takessources.”
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“Youwereoneofhersources?”“No,notmepersonally.
SomeoneelsewithintheNSA.ThedivisioniscalledTailoredAccessOperations,ifthatmeansanything.”“Andinreturn?”“Youmean,whatdidshe
doforthem?”“Givesomething,get
something…right?”“Notexactly,”hesaid.“At
least,notinthewayyou’re
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worriedabout.IthinkyouknowthatClairewouldneverburnanyofhersources.That’snotwhatshedidforus.”“Thenwhatexactlydidshe
do?”BeforeCrespincould
answer,though,wewerebothlookingatValerieleaningagainstthedoorwayagain.Shewasback.Inonehandwasapieceof
paper,intheotheralaptop.
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Somuchforacupofcoffee.“Youneedtosee
something,”shesaid.
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CHAPTER99
IASSUMEDshewastalkingonlytoCrespin,especiallywhenshewalkedrightpastmetohandhimthepieceofpaper.Hereadit,glancedupatValerie,andreaditagain.Insteadofhandingitback
toher,however,hehandedittome.
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Thereasonwasasclearasthee-mailaddressintheupperleft-handcorner.Itwasmine.Iwaslookingataprintoutofane-mailsenttomebyBrennan,exceptI’dneverseenitbefore.ThatwaswhenInoticed
thetimestamp:5:34a.m.Brennanhadonlysentitahalfhourearlier.
Trevor,changeofvenueforourinterviewtodayif
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that’sok.Toomanydistractionshereathouse.MallardCaféat33rdandProspectat11?TheydoameanSunbrunch.—JB
“There’syouranswer,bytheway,”saidCrespin.Answertowhat?“What
wasthequestion?”Iasked.“WhatClairedidforus,”
hesaid.“You’relookingatit.”
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Thathardlyclearedupanything,andheknewit.Theguyhadcoydowntoascience.Valerietotherescue.
“JosiahBrennandidn’tsendthee-mail,”sheexplained.Ilookeddownagainatthe
paper.TherewasBrennan’se-mailaddressunderneathmine,thesameaddresshe’dbeenusingsincefirstconfirmingoursupposedinterview.
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“Ifhedidn’tsendit,whodid?”Iasked.ButIalreadyknewtheanswerbeforethewordshadevenleftmymouth.“Karcher?”“Yes,”saidCrespin.“And
Brennanhasnoidea.”“Howdoyouknow?”“Karcherusedacertain
spywarevirus.Assoonasyoureadane-mailfromhim,hecanthenassumeyouridentity,basicallycontrollingyourentiree-mailaccount.
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Thereasonweknowthisisbecauseweusethesamevirus.”“Istilldon’tgetthe
connectiontoClaire,”Isaid.Valerielookedoverat
CrespinasiftosayGoahead,boss,you’retheonewhobroughtitup.Crespinthoughtfora
moment.Finally,“Imagineyou’reinLondontointerviewacertainclericbeforehe’sdeportedfromtheUKto
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Jordan,”hesaid.“TheclerichaslittletrustinanAmericanjournalist—oranyAmerican,forthatmatter—buthe’seagertospeakhismind.Theinternationalstagecanbeintoxicating,andnooneservesupthelimelightbetterthantheNewYorkTimes.Aneutrallocationisagreedupon,almostalwaysahotel,andtheclerichasoneofhisbodymensearchyoueventhoughthey’renotquitesure
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whatthey’relookingfor.Arecordingdevice?It’saninterview.Ofcourseyouhavearecorder.Andasfarastheycantell,itlooksexactlylikeanyotherrecorderthey’veeverseen.”“Butit’snot,”Isaid.“No,insteadithacksthe
hotel’sInternetserviceandthenhacksthecleric’scellphone.And,here’sthekey,itdoesallofitwirelessly.
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WhichmeansClairedidn’treallyhavetodoathing.”“Exceptgiveherconsent,”
Isaid,unabletoholdbackmysmirk.Crespinnodded.“Butthis
wasn’tjustanycleric,wasit?”No,itwasn’t.Thiswasa
guywho’dbeenjailedrepeatedlyinLondonwithouteverreceivingatrial.OverabottleofBrunelloonenight,Clairehadarguedwithme
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thathedeservedone,andI’darguedbackthataccordingtotheantiterrorismlawspassedinBritainafter9/11,hedidn’t.ThiswasthenightbeforesheflewtoLondontointerviewhim.“Here,”saidValerie,
givingmethelaptopinherotherhand.“Youneedtologontoyoure-mailandcancelonBrennan.”“Cancel?”
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“Unless,ofcourse,you’dpreferyourlastmealtobeeggsBenedict.ThisisKarchersettingyouup,”shesaid.“Yes,thesameKarcher
responsibleforClaire’sdeath,”Ishotback.Forgivemeforsoundingalittletesty.“Listen,Igetit,”said
Valerie.“Youwantrevenge,whowouldn’t?Butthisisn’tyoupretendingtobedrunkwithsomejet-set,skirt-
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chasinginternationalplayboy.Thisisaguywhowantstokillyou.”“WhichisexactlywhyI’ll
beattheMallardCaféateleveno’clock,”Isaid,assureasI’deverbeenaboutanythinginmylife.“Karcherwantstokillme,allright,buthecan’t.Hewon’t.Atleast,notrightaway.Andthat’sanopportunitywecan’tpassup.”
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Iwasreadytoexplain,toarguemycase.Yellandscream,ifIhadto.ButIdidn’thaveto.
ValerieandCrespinbothhadthatlookontheirfaces,thekindIusedtoseeonjuriesduringtheclosingargumentofeverycaseI’deverwon.ItwasasifIknewexactlywhattheywerethinking.Thisguymightactually
haveapoint.
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Nowallweneededwasaplan.
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CHAPTER100
“CANIgetyouanythingwhileyou’rewaiting?”askedthewaitress,aquicktiltofherheadacknowledgingtheemptychairacrossfromme.HernametagreadBETSY.Iftherehadbeenmore
time,moreoptions,moreeverything,thisyoung
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womanwithrolled-upsleeveswould’vebeenClaireundercover,andinadditiontohavingherhairtuckedintoaponytail,shewould’vehadaBerettatuckedbehindthewhiteapronwiththebiggreenMthatalltheserversattheMallardCaféwore.Butsometimesyoujust
havetomakedo.“I’mgoodfornow,”Isaid.
“Thanks,though.”
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ThiswasclearlymusictoBetsy’sears.Onelessthingshehadtodo.Myveryrealwaitresshadthatharriedlookofhavingafewtoomanytablesinhersection.AsfarasIcouldtell,shewastheonlyonetendingtoalltheoutdoorseatingthatlinedthefrontofthecafé.Betsyshuffledoff,whileI
keptwaiting,notthatI’dexpectedtobedoinganythingdifferent.Karcherwould
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absolutelymakesureIarrivedfirst.Afterthat,itwasanyone’sguess.IncludingwhetheritwouldevenbeKarcherwhoshowed.Theguyhadahistoryoflettingothersdohisdirtywork.“Stopfidgeting,”camea
voiceinmyear.Imean,literallyinmyear.
Crespinhadoutfittedmewithwhathadtobetheworld’stiniesttransmitter.Smallerthantheheadofatack,itwas
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fullyoutofsightinsidemyearcanal.“Sorry,”Isaid,onlyto
realizethatI’djustbrokenoneofhistworules.“WhatdidItellyouabout
talkingtome?”camehisvoiceagain.“Anddon’tanswerthat.”Rule#1?Don’ttalkinto
themike,otherwiseknownasthethirdbuttondownonmynewNSA-brandshirt.Fiftypercentcotton/polyblend
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withafive-hundred-footrange.IfKarcher—orwhoeverhemightsend—wasscoutingme,Icouldillaffordtobeseentalkingtomyself.ThewirewassoCrespincouldhearwhatIheard.“It’sgoingtobefine,
Mann,”hewasnowassuringme.“Everything’sgoingtobe—”Thewayhisvoice
suddenlycutout,myfirstthoughtwasthatthe
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transmitterinmyearhadfailed.ButCrespinwasjustseeingwhatIcouldn’t.“Don’tturnaround,don’t
evenflinch,”hesaid.“He’sapproachingyoufrombehindattwentyfeet…fifteen…ten…”Avoiceboomedovermy
shoulder.“Isthisseattaken?”Itwasnow.FrankKarchersatdown
beforeIcouldevenlookup.
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Jesus,hehadabighead.Itwasevenbiggerinperson.IfeignedsurpriseasbestI
could.IwassupposedtobewaitingforBrennan,afterall.“Excuseme,Ithinkyou
havethewrongtable,”Isaid.Karcherbrokeintoawide
grin.“No,thisisdefinitelytherighttable.Youjustpickedthewrongfight,”hesaid,glancingathiswatch.“Theonlyquestionnowishowlongyou’llpretendyou
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don’tknowwhatI’mtalkingabout.”Saidquestionhunginthe
airasIpretendedtobethinkingitover.ButIalreadyknewmyanswer.Sofar,wewererightonscript.“Iknowexactlywhat
you’retalkingabout,”Isaidfinally.“Iknowwhoyouareandwhatyou’vedone.Ialsoknowit’sallabouttoend.”Againwiththegrin.Those
hadtobeveneers.
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“Interestingchoiceofwords,”hesaid.“Domeafavor,though,willyou,Mr.Mann?Takeagoodlookunderthetable.”“Idon’tneedto,”Isaid.
“You’renotthefirstpersonthisweektopointagunatme.”“You’reright,”hesaid.
“ButIamthelast.”
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CHAPTER101
ITWASmyturntosmile,forcedandshort-livedasthesmilewas.Youcanonlypretendforsolongthatyoudon’thaveagunaimedatyourcrotch.“Iftheonlythingyou
wantedwasmedead,you
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would’vekilledmebynow,”Isaid.“Webothknowthat.”Andthereitwas,theonly
wayI’dbeenabletoconvinceValerieandCrespinthatIwouldn’tbeacompletesittingduck,ifyouwill,attheMallardCafé.KarcherdesperatelywantedOwen—“thekid”—andIpresumablyknewwherehewas.FittingironythatIactually
didn’t.
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NotthatKarcherwasabouttobetoldthat.AslongashethoughtIknewOwen’swhereabouts,hebelievedtherewasthechancehecouldgetitoutofme.That’sthefollyofarrogant
men,isn’tit?Theyalwaysoverestimatetheirtalents.“Areyoureallythatmuch
ofahero,Mr.Mann?”heasked.“Idon’tknowwhatthekidtoldyou,butit’snotwhatyouthink.”
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“No,it’sexactlywhatIthink,”Isaid.“Somewherealongtheline,youconvincedyourselfthatyou’reabovethelaw,thatyougettodecidewholivesandwhodies.Butthebiggestlieofthemall?It’swhenyouclaimyou’resimplyprotectingfreedom.”“Freedom?Justwherethe
hellhaveyoubeenthiscentury?Weshouldbesodamnlucky,”hesaid.“That’swhatyouself-righteous
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prickshaveneverunderstood,notever.”“Thenwhydon’tyou
enlightenme?”“Whydon’tyoushutthe
fuckup?”“Easynow…”came
Crespin’svoiceinmyear.Crespinwasright.Ona
riskscaleofonetoten,Iwasalreadypushingeleven.MylettingKarcherlosehistemperwasupwardofjustplaindumb.Sure,maybehe’d
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slipupandadmiteverything.Ormaybehe’djustgetpissedoffandkillmerightthereatthetable.Ileanedbackinmychair,
hopingtoletalittleairoutofthemoment.Diffusethetension.Butitwastoolate.Karcherwasrevvedup,andlikeapitbull,hewasn’tabouttoletthepointgo.“DoyouknowwhatI
remembermostaboutthatday?It’snottheimageofthe
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towerscomingdown.Notevenclose.What’ssearedintomybrain,whatwillstickforever,arethepeopleonthestreetwatchingithappen,”hesaid.“Anddoyouknowwhattheywerealldoingastheywerelookingupinhorror?Theywereallmouthingthesamethreewords.Oh,myGod.”“Iwasoneofthose
people,”Isaid.“Iwasthere.”
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Itwasasifhedidn’thearme.“Now,I’madevoutChristian,butIknowforafactthattheGodtheywereallinvokingthatdaywasn’tthere.Andforthosewhosayhewas,andthathisjobisnottointervene,Iask…whosejobisit?IfGodwon’tpreventthenexttime,whowill?Andtrustme,therewillbeanexttime.”“Sothat’sit,then?”Isaid.
“You’renowGod’s
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understudy?Itdoesn’tmatterwhoyoukill—areporterfortheTimes,adoctorwithaguiltyconscience,orevenotherpeoplefromyourcompanypicnic—becauseit’sallpartofabiggerplan,onethattherestofuscouldn’tpossiblyunderstand?”“Everywarhascasualties,
Mr.Mann.ButI’mguessingyou’veneverfoughtinone,haveyou?”
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“Thatmakesmelucky,notbrain-dead,”Isaid.“What’syourexcuse?”Damn.Wrongbutton.Karcher’sfaceflushedred
inaninstant,theveinsinhisstumplikeneckbulgingoutabovehiscollar.“Youknowwhat?Fuckthe
kid,”hesaid.“Idon’tcareifyouknowwhereheis,youcantakethattoyourgoddamngrave.”
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ButallIreallyheardwasCrespin’spanickedvoiceinmyear.“Quick,tellhimyouknowwhereOwenis!”Crespindidn’tneedtosee
thederangedlookinKarcher’seyes.Hecouldhearthecrazinessinhisvoice,thewayhereferredtomygraveasifitwereimminent.Ineededtostall.Butagain,itwastoolate.
Withtheslightestflinch—smallbuttelling—I’djust
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brokenCrespin’ssecondrule.Whateveryoudo,don’tlooklikeyou’vegotsomeonetalkinginyourear.“JesusChrist,”said
Karcher.“You’renotalone,areyou?”
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CHAPTER102
“NO,HE’Sdefinitelynotalone,”shesaid.IturnedtoseeValerie
pullingupachairtoourtable.Shecouldn’tplaythewaitress,butherbeingseatednearbywasthenextbestthing.Andwithhermirroredsunglassesandjet-blackwig,
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therewasnowayKarcherwould’verecognizedher.Hestilldidn’t.TheBerettainherlap,
however,hespottedinstantly,anditsureashellwasn’tpointedatme.Givethepricksomecredit,
though.Karcherbarelyblinked.“Friendofyours,Mr.Mann?”heaskedcoolly.“Oneofmany,”said
Valerie.“Whichiswhyyouneedtowrapyourweaponin
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thatnapkinandplaceitslowlyonthetable.”Karcherlookeddownat
thenapkininfrontofhimlikeitwasapieceofenrichedplutonium.Hehadnointentionoftouchingit.“Thankyouforthe
suggestion,younglady,butIthinkI’llpass,”hesaid.“Itmightbeagoodideaforyoutodoit,though.”Thoseshould’vebeenthe
wordsofamadman,alast-
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ditchefforttobuysometimeinthischessmatch,usinglittlemorethanmisdirectionandatouchofoutrightconfusion.CallitKarcher’sGambit.Butthetonewasmore
cockythanconfused.Hewastoosureofhimself.Heknewsomethingwedidn’t,andIcouldn’tstopthefeelingofpuredreadthatwassuddenlyspreadingfromthepitofmystomach.
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IlookedatValerie,andforthefirsttime,shetookhereyesoffKarchertolookbackatme,ifonlyforasplitsecond.Butthatwasallthetimeittook.“Shit,”shemuttered.Karchersmiled.“Looks
likeI’vegotsomefriends,too,”hesaid.“Showhim,”came
Crespin’svoiceinmyear,onlyhewasn’ttalkingtome.Valeriewaswearingthesame
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transmitter.WithhereyeslockedbackonKarcher,sheremovedhersunglassessoIcouldseewhatthehellwasgoingon.“Shit,”Imuttered.Staringbackatmeinthe
mirroredlenseswasanewadditiontomyforehead.Thesmallreddotofalasersight.Iwasonesqueezeofatriggerawayfromhavingmybrainsblownout,whichsomehowmanagedtotrumpgetting
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shotinthecrotch.Eitherway,itwassuddenlyalose-lose.Weweredefinitelyoff
scriptnow….“Iknowyou,don’tI?”
askedKarcher,staringstraightbackintoValerie’snakedeyes.“Maybe,”sheanswered.
“Ormaybenot.ButIdefinitelyknowyou.”“WhataboutMr.Mann
here?”hesaid.“Howmuch
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doyoureallyknowabouthim?”“Enoughtobesitting
here,”shesaid.“Keepstallinghim,”came
Crespin’svoiceinourears.“Isupposeyouknowmore,
though?”Valerietackedon.“Heshotafederalagentin
Manhattan,forstarters,andgotadetectiveuptherekilledaswell.”Karcherlookedatmeto
seeifI’dtakethebaitandtry
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toargueotherwise.Allalong,he’dbeendefendinghimselfwithoutadmittingtoanything.NowhewashopingI’dtripmyselfupintheheatofthemomentsohecouldbuildsomesemblanceofreasonabledoubt.ButIgavehimthebest
comebackIcould.Silence.NotValerie,though.“Whataboutoutstanding
parkingtickets?”she
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deadpanned.“Doeshehaveanyofthoseaswell?”“No,buthedoeshavea
deadguyinhisbathtub.Iforgottomentionthat,”Karchersaid,hisvoicetingedwithwhatcouldonlybedescribedasglee.Extracreepyonaguyhissize.“Thepolicesearchedhisapartmentyesterday.”“Youknow,iftherewas
onlysomewayIknewyouweretellingthetruth,some
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typeofmethod,”shesaid.“Wouldn’tthatbesomething?Imean,whatwouldn’tweallgiveforthat?”Karcherdeflectedherwith
achuckle,butitwasquicklydrownedoutbysomethingelseIwashearing.Myheadwassuddenly
filledwithfootsteps,onlytheyweremorethansteps.Theywerestrides.Crespinwasrunning,hisbreathingheavyasifhewereinafull
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sprint.IknewValeriecouldhearit,too,butshekeptrightontalkingtoKarcher.Stallinghim.Then,outofthecornerof
myeye,IsawsomethingthatIreally,trulywishedIhadn’t.
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CHAPTER103
NO!NO!NO!Iwantedsodesperatelyto
signalhersomehow,wavemyhandsandtellhershehadtostop.ButIwashelpless;IknewIcouldn’t.Itwouldbelikeyankingthepinonagrenade.
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Thewaitress.Betsy.Ponytailandrolled-upsleeves.Shewasheadingtoourtable.“Huh,lookslikewehavea
partyofthree,”shesaid,pullingupbetweenKarcherandValerie.Shewashalfdistracted,clutchingherorderpadwhilesearchingforapeninthedeeppocketofherapron.“Ifyou’dlike,Icanmoveyoualltoanothertable.”
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“No,that’sokay,Iwasjustsayinghellototheseguys,”saidValerie,flashingapolitesmile.“I’llbegettingupinfewseconds.”ButfromthemomentIfelt
thetaponmyfootunderneaththetable,Irealizedthiswasn’tjustafigureofspeech.Valeriewasgivingmeasignal.Inafewseconds,shereallywasgettingup,andthereasonwasrightinfrontofme.Literally.
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Ourwaitress,Betsy,wasdirectlyinthelineoffire.IstoleapeekatValerie’s
sunglassesnowfoldedonthetable,thelensesangleduptowardmyface.Theonlyquestionwas
whetherornotKarcherhadnoticed,too.Askedandanswered.Karcher’seyeslitupashe
glancedatme.Hesawit.Or,rather,hedidn’tseeit.Thereddotonmefromthelaser
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sightwasgone,blockedbythe—“Now!”yelledValerie.ShehadKarcherinno-
man’s-land,hishandswinging.Forafractionofasecond,hewasundecidedwheretoaimhisgun.Ahellofalotcanhappen
inafractionofasecond.ValerielungedforKarcher
asIsprangfrommychair,thesoundofCrespininmyear,
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stillsprinting,matchingthepoundingofmyheart.Betsyhadnoideawhat
washappening;sheimmediatelyjumpedbackbasedonnothingbutreflexandfearoftheunknown.Iwasheadingrightforher,nostopping,theMonherapronthetargetofmydive.Icouldfeelthewindbeing
knockedoutofherasItackledhertotheground,thecrackofarifleshotfrom
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only-God-knows-wheresplittingtheairaboveus.Butnothingmore.Smallcomfort.Oswald’s
firstshotinDealeyPlazamissed,too.Iturnedmyhead,looking
uptoseeValeriestillstrugglingwithKarcher,eachwithahandontheother’sgun.Heoutweighedherbynearlyahundredpounds,butshe’dgottentoherfeetfirst
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andhadtheleverage.Forhowlong,though?“Staydown!”Ibarkedat
Betsy,asiftherewereachanceintheworldshewasabouttogetup.No,thatwasmyjobnow.Palmsdown,Ibeganto
pushofftheground,myeyestrainedonKarcher.Hisfaceandneckwereamishmashofmuscleandtendonstrainingforallthestrengthhehad.Slowly,hisgunwasmoving
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backtowardValerie.Shehadaboutsixinchestolive.ThatwaswhenIsawit.
Theonlythingthatcouldmakethingsworse.Andonlyonewordcametomindtowarnher.“Red!”Iyelled.Idon’tknowwhatcame
next,whatIheardorwhatIsaw.ButValerieknewwhatImeantandknewhergeometry,andasthesecondshotechoedinmyearsIsaw
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herstepbackandtakeKarcherwithher,thedotjumpingfromherback…Tohis.Theonlyrednowwas
blood.Lotsandlotsofit.KarcherfelltothegroundfaceupandonlyinchesfromBetsy,whoshriekedinhorrorasshecaughtsightofthegapingholeinhisbarrelchestfromtheexitwound.“Dropit!Dropyour
weaponrightnow!”
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ValerieandIturnedtoeachotherandthenuptotherooftopdownthestreet.ItwasCrespininourears.Hewasdonerunning.Idon’tknowifGodactuallyknewwheretheshotswerecomingfrom.ButnowCrespindid.He’dreachedKarcher’ssniper.“Igothim…it’sover,”he
said,catchinghisbreath.“It’sover.”
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Ofcourse,ifthatwereonlytrue…
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BOOKFIVE
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TRUTHORDIE
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CHAPTER104
FRANKKARCHERhadbeenthemasterofmakingallsortsofthingsdisappear.People.Problems.Hismoralcompass.Buttheonethinghecouldn’tcoverupwashisowndeath.Instead,othersweregoing
todoitforhim.Atleast,that
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wasthewayitwasplayingout.Therewereadozen
witnessestowhathappenedoutsidetheMallardCafé,andtheyallknewwhatthey’dseen.Whenthepolicearrivedandacoupleofdetectivesfannedouttoaskwhathadhappened,eachandeveryonehadananswer.Butnoneofthemknew
whyithadhappened.Sameforeverynewsoutletthat
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rushedtothescene.Karcher’sdeathwasthestuffofheadlinesandleadstories,butthewholetruthhadn’tgonepublicyet.Thequestionnowwas
whetheriteverwould.“Ifeellikeakidwaiting
outsidetheprincipal’soffice,”Isaid.Valerieleanedforward,
glancingatthecloseddoortoourright.“Yeah,andyourparentsarealreadyinthere
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havingtheadults-onlytalk,right?”“Exactly.”Shenodded.“Parforthe
course,I’mafraid.Theonlywaytoknowyourworthinthistownisthelevelofclassifiedinfoyou’reallowedtohear.Thewholeloaforjustaslice.”“Orinmycase,onlyafew
crumbs,”Isaid.“Hey,I’mnotinthere,
either.Thatmakesusbotha
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coupleofmuzjiks,”shesaid.“Muz-whats?”“Peasants.Thewordfor
Russianpeasants,actually.”“Ofcourse.”“Also,oneofthehighest-
scoringwordsinScrabble.”“Nowyou’rejustshowing
off,”Isaid.“Scrabblewasbiginour
housegrowingup.MyfatherplayediteverySundaywithmysisterandmetobuildourvocabularies,”shesaid.
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“That’sonereasonwhyIknowtheword.”“Muzjiks,huh?”“Yep.Useitonyourfirst
turnandit’sworthahundredandtwenty-eightpoints.”Iwaitedforherto
continue.Shedidn’t.“Andasecondreason?”I
asked.She’dsaidthatwasonereasonwhysheknewtheword.Withthelookshegaveme,
Isuddenlyrealizedthis
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wasn’tmereidlechitchat.ValeriewasfinallyansweringthequestionI’daskedwhenwefirstmet.Whoareyou?Therewasnoonearound
usinthehallway.Still,shelookedbothwaysasifcrossingthestreet.“IwasstationedinMoscow,”shesaid.Butthewayshesaidit,I
knew.“CIA?”Shenodded.“Howlongago?”Iasked.
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“Itfeelslikeforever.”“Whathappened?”“Someonedecidedtotell
theworldourdeepest,darkestsecretsbecausehedidn’tlikethewaywegotthem.Consequencesbedamned.”Sothatwaswhoshewas.
ValerieJensenhadbeenanundercoverCIAagent.“Andyouwereexposed….”“Hundredswere,allover
theworld,”shesaid.“Morethanafewwerekilled,too.
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Notthatitevermadethenews.Iwaslucky.Itwasn’tlikeawomancouldeverbeinTehranorKabul.”“Still,”Isaid.“Moscow.”
Putinhadneverstruckmeastheforgivingtype.“Thankfully,moneywill
prettymuchgetyouanythingyouneedthere,includingawayoutthroughFinlandinthemiddleofthenight,”shesaid.“Funny,though.Afterallthat,wheredoesour
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whistle-blowerfirstgainasylum?”Russia.“Sohowdidyouendup
withtheNSA?”“ItwasabitliketheIsland
ofMisfitToys.Nooneelsehadanyuseforus.Allthecoverttrainingandnowheretouseit,”shesaid.“Excepthereathome,ofcourse.”“Anotherthingthatwill
nevermakethenews,”Isaid.“Thatdepends,Isuppose.”
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“Onwhat?”“Onhowwellyoucan
keepasecret.”Ihadtolaugh.“Imagine
that,”Isaid.“You’renoteventhebestsecretI’vegotgoingrightnow.”“Allthemorereasonwhy
we’resittinghere.”“Yep.Acoupleof
muzjiks.”Valerielaughedback,and
foraminute,itwasasifwe
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wereabletoforgetwherewewereandwhy.Actually,itwasonlylike
tenseconds.Rightupuntilthedooropenednexttousandanolderwomanwithgrayhairsteppedoutandpeeredoverherhorn-rimmedglasseswithaperfunctorysmile.ShewasClayDobson’sassistant.“Youtwocancomein
now,”sheannounced.
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CHAPTER105
THEONLYwayIeverthoughtI’dsetfootintheWhiteHousewasonaguidedtourwithabunchofpeoplewearingfannypacks.Shufflingalongthevelvetropes,I’dstareintoallthecapitalRrooms.TheEastRoom.TheStateDining
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Room.TheBlue,Red,andGreenRoomsdecoratedbyJackieKennedy.Still,whenthetourwas
over,theclosestI’devergettotheOvalOfficewasapostcardinthegiftshop.NowIwasliterallyafew
feetawayfromitintheWestWing—theofficerightnextdoor.Theofficeofthepresident’schiefofstaff.AndifOwenwasright,the
manultimatelyresponsible
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forthedeathsofClaireandourunbornchild,aswellascountlessothers.Butthatwasabigif.Asin,
ifonlythereweresomeactualevidence.“Ian,domeafavorand
scootoveronthecouchthereforMr.Mann,”saidDobson,orchestratingfrombehindhishugedesk.Makenomistake.Thiswashisoffice,hismeeting,hisseatingchart.He’dalreadymotionedfor
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ValerietotaketheotherarmchairnexttoCrespin.Ian—asinIanLandry,the
president’spresssecretary—promptlyscootedoveronthecouchtomakeroomforme.“Thereyougo,”hesaid.
“Bestseatinthehouse.”Itwasalittlestrangetosee
LandryoutfrombehindthepodiumoftheBradyRoom.Towatchhimtakequestionsfromthepresswastoknowtherewasn’tanythinghe
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couldn’tspin.Itwasatalentallthemoreremarkablegiventhat,unlikepreviouspresssecretaries,Landrydidn’thidebehindthefaçadeofplausibledeniability.Rather,he’dclaimedfromdayonethathekneweverythingthathappenedintheWhiteHouse.Afterall,PresidentBretton
MorrishadwonelectionbypromisingtolevelwithAmericaatalltimes.“Hardtruths,andnoeasyfixes,”he
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wasfondofsayinginhiscampaigncommercials.Andwithnearlyabilliondollarsspentonadvertising,he’dsaiditanawfullot.“Wouldeitherofyoulike
anycoffee?”askedDobson.“Nothanks,”ValerieandI
answeredinunison.“Allright,then.Letme
startbytellingyouwhatItoldJeffrey,”Dobsonsaid,pointingtoCrespininhischarcoal-graysuit.“The
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presidenthasnoknowledgeofthismeeting.Ifhedid,itwouldneverbehappening.Instead,IanwouldbeinthepressroomtellingtheworldeverythingaboutOperationTruthseeker,orwhateverstupidnamethisdamnthingprobablyhad.”Seamlessly,IanLandry
chimedin.“Thepresidentwouldsoonersacrificeasecondtermthantrytosweep
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somethinglikethisundertherug.”“Andtrustme,that’snot
hyperbole,”saidDobson.“Unfortunately,though,thisisaboutmorethanjustfavorabilityratingsandpolitics.Thisisaboutnationalsecurity.AndFrankKarcherhasseriouslythreatenedit.”Ilistenedverycarefullyto
whatcamenext.Dobsonexplainedthe
protocolofwhathappens
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afterthedeathofactiveCIApersonnel,especiallysomeoneonKarcher’slevelastheNationalClandestineServicechief.Basically,anythingandeverythinghavingtodowithhislifegetssearched,reviewed,rakedover,andthenrakedoveragain.“Theprobleminthiscase,”
saidDobson,“isthatit’slikehavingthefoxguardthehenhouse.Wedon’tknow
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howdeepthisrunsattheCIA—whowasinvolvedandhowmany—butiftheguyshootingatyoufromthatrooftopyesterdayisanyindication,itdoesn’tbodewell.”“He’sanagentwiththe
SpecialActivitiesDivision,Karcher’sformerunitwithintheCIA,”explainedCrespin.“Then,ofcourse,there’s
theyoungmanatthecenterofallthis.”Dobsonlooked
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downatanopenfileasifsearchinghisnotesforOwen’sname.“Yes,OwenLewis,”hesaid.“Who,asofrightnow,isnowheretobefound.”Damn,Skippy,nowhereto
befound.Wherethehellareyou,Owen,andwhat’swiththesecretfishingexpedition?You’reuptosomething,butwhat?IwaitedforDobsontolook
atmeinlightofhis
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mentioningOwen,buthedidn’t.Instead,hereachedforanotherfileonhisdesk,thisonefeaturingabrightredstripeacrossit.“ButbacktoKarcherand
theissueofnationalsecurity,”hecontinued.“I’mprettysureIcouldlosemyjob,ifnotworse,forwhatI’mabouttosharewithyou,butsincethat’stheleastofmyproblemsthismorning,we’llbemakingan
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exception.”Hepausedtotakeasipofcoffee,staringatusoverthelipofthemug.FirstatValerie.Thenatme.“Besides,accordingtoCrespinhere,ifitweren’tforthetwoofyou,thingscould’vebeenalotworse.”Andwiththat,Dobson
openedthefile.
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CHAPTER106
THEFIRSTthingheheldupwasacolorphotograph,measuringroughlyeightbyten.Itcould’vebeenaheadshotforaleadingman,albeitonemoresuitedforBollywoodthanHollywood.“ThisisDr.Prajeet
Sengupta,”saidDobson,his
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exaggerateddictionsuggestingjustatraceofxenophobia.Hethenreadfromthefileinbullet-pointfashion.“BorninIndia,educatedhereintheStates.Stanfordundergrad,HarvardMedicalSchool.CurrentlyastaffneuroscientistwiththeNewFrontierMedicalInstituteinBethesda,specializinginionotropicandmetabotropicreceptormanipulationinthehuman
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brain.”Dobsonpaused,lookedup.“Ifanyoneknowswhatthatactuallymeans,bemyguest.”Ididn’t.Notexactly.Still,
itwasn’thardtoseewherethiswasheading.Sureenough,accordingto
Dobson,PrajeetSenguptawasthemissinglinktotheserum,theguyKarcherhadusedtoturnOwen’sresearchintoaninjectablepolygraphmachine.Onequestion,
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though,andIdidn’thesitatewithit.“Howdoyouknowthis?”I
interrupted.Dobsonnoddedslightlyas
ifhe’dexpectedmetoaskthat.“Again,thisisn’tforbroadcast,butbeforetheCIAcoulddoitsreconnaissanceonKarcher’sapartment,includinghisharddrive,Igotintherefirst.”Hecorrectedhimselfwitharaisedpalm.“Notmepersonally,buta
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specialinvestigatorwiththeFBI.Workingunofficially,ofcourse.”Allthewhile,Dobsonwas
stillholdingupthepictureofSengupta.Itwasaposedphotograph,mostlikelytakenonbehalfofthemedicalinstitutewherethedoctorworked.Icouldpicturethewebsite,completewithaglowingbiounderneathhisgoodlooksandwarmsmile.Nowherewouldhis
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moonlightingeffortsbementioned.Then—poof!—hewas
gone.Dobsonloweredthephoto,
onlytoliftanotheronefromthefile.ExhibitB,apparently.“NowmeetArash
Ghasemi,”hesaid.Theonlythingthetwo
pictureshadincommonwasthesize.Insteadofaposedheadshot,thisonewas
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courtesyofazoomlensfromananglethatsuggestedthephotographerwassomewhereintheMiddleEasthereallyshouldn’thavebeen.Black-and-whiteandabitgrainy,itwasstillclearenoughtotellthatGhasemiwastheoppositeofSenguptainthelooksdepartment.Moretothepoint,Ghasemihadprettymuchbeenhitbytheuglystick.Repeatedly.
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Again,Dobsonreadfromthefile.“BorninIran,educatedintheStates.Stanfordundergrad;MITgraduateprogram,nuclearscienceandengineering.Then,daysafteracceptingajobwithGeneralAtomicsinSanDiego,hesuddenlysplittownandreturnedtoIran.”Thesubtextofthatlast
sentencewascrystalclear.ArashGhasemiwasnow
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workingfortheIraniannuclearprogram.Lessclearwaswhetherit
wasbychoice.AndevenlessclearthanthatwaswhatthisIraniannuclearengineerhadtodowithSengupta,theIndianneuroscientist.UntilIreplayedDobson’s
descriptionsofthetwoinmyhead.Wordforword.Andtheoneword—theoneschool—he’dmentionedtwice.“Stanford,”Isaid.
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“Verygood,Mr.Mann.YouwintheSamsoniteluggage,”saidDobson.“Yousee,thisisataleoftworoommates.”
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CHAPTER107
HEHADitallrightthereinthefile,rightdowntotheactualdormwheretheyfirstmetfreshmanyear.ArroyoHouseinWilburHall.PrajeetSenguptaandArash
GhasemihadbecomefastfriendsatStanford.Putthemmostanywhereelseinthe
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worldandtheyhadlittleincommon.UnderthebrightglareofaCaliforniasun,however,theymightaswellhavebeenbrothers.Twostrangersthrowntogetherinastrangeland.Bysophomoreyearthey
hadbecomeroommates,allbutinseparable,includingrushingSigmaChitogether.“Andifyou’relookingfor
areasonwhyGhasemitrustedSenguptasomuch—even
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twentyyearslater—looknofurtherthanthatfraternity,”saidDobson.Thehandsomeandmore
gregariousSenguptahadbeentappedtopledge.ButGhasemihadbeenpassedover.Thatis,untilSenguptamadeitveryclearthattheywereapackagedeal.SigmaChicouldn’tgetonewithouttheother.Ofcourse,whothehell
wassomepledgetobe
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makingademandlikethat?“Aprettydamnclever
one,”saidDobson.“Intruefrat-boyfashion,Senguptachallengedtherushchairtoadrinkingcontest—shotforshot,lastmanstanding.IfSenguptawon,Ghasemicouldbecomeabrother.Andifhelost?Thatwasthecleverpart.TherushchairoutweighedtheskinnykidfromBangalorebynearlyahundredpounds.Itwasn’ta
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fairfight.Howcouldheeverlose?”Buthedid.Dobsonsmiled.“LikeI
said,itwasn’tafairfight.Sengupta,whowaspremedatthetime,hadinjectedhimselfwithaderivativeofadrugcallediomazenil.Apparently,itbindsthealcoholreceptorsinthebrain.Inotherwords,it’sabingedrinker’sdreamcometrue.”Dobsonpointedatme.“Okay,nowthisis
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whereyouaskmethatquestionagain,Mr.Mann.HowdoIknowthis?”Forsure,Iwasaboutto.
NotValerie,though.She’dbeenaroundtheblockafewtimesintheworldofintelligencegathering.Allshecoulddowassighinawaythathadonlyonetranslation.Weliveinaverycomplicatedworld.“CIAorNIA?”sheasked
Dobson.
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“Both,”heanswered.Thenheexplained.NotlongafterGhasemi
returnedtoIran—againsthiswill—toworkfortheIraniannuclearprogram,SenguptawasrecruitedbytheNationalInvestigationAgencyofIndia,theNIA.ThiswasattheurgingoftheCIAbasedonthegreatestsharedinteresttheUSandIndiahaveastwonuclearpowers:makingsure
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Irandoesn’tbecomeoneaswell.“Senguptaknewthathis
goodfriendGhasemiwasmiserablebackinhishomelandofIran,”Dobsoncontinued.“IraniansmightdespisewhattheyseeasUShegemony,buttheydosohavingneverspenttimeinthiscountry.ButGhasemihad.Weweren’ttheenemy.”IlistenedtoDobson,
almostdizzy.Itwashard
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enoughtokeeptrackofthenames,letalonethemotivesandinferences.Valeriemighthavehadthe
poleposition,butIwasfinallyuptospeed.Ghasemiwasgiving
Sengupta,hisgoodfriendandformerroommate,Iraniannuclearsecrets.Dobsontookanothersipof
coffeebeforeleaningforward,hiswordscomingslowly.“Iunderstandyou’ve
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lostsomeoneveryclosetoyou,Mr.Mann,andthatundoubtedlyyouwantjustice.Isurewould.ButI’mafraidjusticemeansexposingSengupta,andthatwouldmeannomoreconnectionwithGhasemi.Thankstothatrelationship,ourgovernmentcurrentlyknowsmoreabouttheIraniannuclearprogramthantheSupremeLeaderhimself.AndIwishitwerehyperbolewhenIsaythatthe
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fateoftheworldcouldverywelldependonthatrelationshipcontinuing.”Yes,indeed.Weliveina
verycomplicatedworld.Iwasn’tsurewhatIwas
goingtosay,onlythatitwassomething.Perhapsafeebleattempttostrikesomesortof“justicebargain,”thewayIusedtowithprosecutorsafterIwenttothedarkside,asClairelikedtocallit,andbecameadefenseattorney.
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ButbeforeIcouldevenpushoutthefirstword,thedoorofDobson’sofficeopened.Itwashissecretary.“I’msorrytointerrupt,but
there’s—”Dobsoncutheroff.“Isaid
nocalls,Marcy.”“Iknow,butit’snotfor
you.It’sforMr.Mann,”shesaid.“Apparently,it’sanemergency.SomeonenamedWinstonSmith?”
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Thatgoteveryonestaringatme.Although,withDobson,itwasmorelikeglaring.Iflookscouldkill.“Nooneoutsidethisroomissupposedtoknowyou’rehere,Mr.Mann,”hesaid.Immediately,Crespin
clearedhisthroat.Maybehecouldjustsenseit,thatsomethingwasupandIdesperatelyneededalifeline.Ormaybeitwasmorethana
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sense.Perhapshe,too,hadread1984.“Sorry,Clay,mybad,”said
Crespin.“Mr.Mann’ssisterisbeingoperatedonthismorning,andthat’shisnephewcallingtolethimknowhowitwent.Forobviousreasons,Mr.Mannditchedhiscellphoneoncethiswholeordealstarted.”Iwatchedandlistenedto
Crespinwithnothingshortofamazement.Hewassocalm,
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soconvincing.Theguycouldprobablyfoolapolygraph,ifhehadto.HehadtobethebestliarI’devermet.Actually,makethatthe
secondbest.Dobsonnoddedtohis
secretary.“Putitthrough.”Asshedisappearedbackto
herdesk,hehandedmehisphone.ThelongesttwosecondsofmylifefollowedasIwaitedforthecalltobetransferred.
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Click.“Winston,isthatyou?”I
asked.“Yes,it’sme,”saidOwen.
“AndwhatDobsonjusttoldyouisbullshit.”
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CHAPTER108
THEQUESTIONSwerebouncingaroundinmyheadsofastanddeliriouslyIcouldfeelmybrainsmushedupagainstmyskulljusttryingtocontainthemall.WherehasOwenbeen?
HowdidheknowIwasinDobson’soffice,letalone
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whatwasbeingsaid?Andwho’sthe“newfriend”hewentontomention,theonehewantsmetomeet?Theonlythingclosetoan
answer—or,betteryet,whatwouldgetmeclosertoalltheanswers—wastheaddressOwengavemebeforehangingup.ButnotbeforefirsttellingmeIhadtocomealone.“Forreal,Trevor.Imeanit.Justyou.”
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Ofcourse,thatwentoverlikeafartinanelevatorwithValerieandCrespin.EspeciallyCrespin.HeandhisSpideysensehadbailedmeoutinDobson’soffice,andthiswashowIrepaidhim?I’mofftogomeetthekid,butyoucan’tcome?“I’llbeback,Ipromise,”I
said.“AndI’lldoeverythingIcantohaveOwenwithme.”Itwaseitherdetainmeor
letmego.Theyletmego.
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Almostonehourtothedotaftersayinggood-byeonthephoneinDobson’sofficetomynephew,WinstonSmith,IarrivedatFifteenthStreetNWandMadisonDrive.IftheJeopardy!categoryis
Well-KnownWashingtonAddresses,I’lladmitthatItapoutwith1600PennsylvaniaAvenue.Besides,whoreallyneedstoknowtheaddressoftheWashingtonMonument?All
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youhavetodoislookup,right?“Father,Icannottellalie,”
cameavoiceovermyshoulder.IturnedtoseeOwen,
smilingathisownclevernessaboutthelineandourlocation,althoughIknewhehadn’tchosenitfortheirony.JustbecauseIthoughtI’dcomealonedidn’tmeanIactuallyhad.Theflat,sprawlinggroundsofthe
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WashingtonMonument,withnothingbutacircleofskinnyflagpolesforcover,werehiswayofmakingsurethatevenifIhadbeenfollowed,noonewaswithinearshot.Speakingofhearingthings
onthesly…Owenpivotedtohisright.
“Trevor,I’dlikeyoutomeetLawrenceBass,”hesaid.Ipushedasidewhatwas
nowthelatestquestioninthelongqueue—Howthehelldid
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thesetwoevermeetup?—andshooktheman’shand.IknewexactlywhoBass
was.Namelybecauseofwhathewasn’t—thenextdirectoroftheCIA.OwenandIhadwatchedhimwithdrawhisnameontelevision,standingintheEastRoom,flankedlovinglybyhiswifeandtwoyoungdaughters.We’dlistenedtohimexplainthathewantedtospendmoretime
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withhisfamily.Andwe’dbothknownhewaslying.“Waitaminute,”Isaid,
turningbacktoOwen.Gonefishing?LawrenceBass?“Thisiswhereyouwent?”“Noonejustwalksaway
frombeingnamedCIAdirector,”Owensaid.“Therehadtobemoretoit,notthatIwasreallyexpectingLawrencetodivulgeanything.Butasitturnsout,
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hewasdoingsomefishingofhisown.”Truetohismilitary
background,Basstookthecueanddidn’tdillydally.Norwastheremuchemotion.Theguyseemedtohaveeverythingwrappedinablanketofcalmandmeasured.“Lastweek,Ipaidavisitto
ClayDobsoninhisoffice,”hesaid.“AndIneverreallyleft.”
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Withthat,BassreachedintohispocketandheldoutaniPhone.Irecognizedtheapphetapped;itwasthesameoneClairealwaysusedtoeditandorganizeherinterviews.VoiceRecorderHD.Lettheanswersbegin.
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CHAPTER109
OWENDIDN’Tbothersayingtheactualwords.Thatwould’vebeenredundant.Oneglanceathim,thelookonhisface,wasallittook.WhatdidItellyou,dude?AllIcouldseeinmymind
wasthepictureofDr.Wittmerandhisgoodol’
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collegechum,ClayDobson.AndallIcouldhearnowwasDobson’svoicetellingsomeoneinhisofficethatWittmershould’vebeenkilledsooner.Ofcourse,thatsomeone
wasFrankKarcher—orKarch,asDobsonkeptcallinghiminbetweenroundsofcursinghimout.Fortwoguysincahootswitheachother,theysureweren’tseeingeye
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toeyeonmuch.Cover-upsareabitch.“Jesus,”Isaid.“How…?”“Well,Iwasthedirectorof
intelligenceprogramswiththeNSC,”saidBass,whosomehowmanagedtoconveythatwithoutahintofbravado.Itwasmerelyfact.Sameforthewayheclaimedhe’dbeenabletohidethebuginDobson’soffice.“Ijustdroppeditinhispencilholderwhenhewasn’tlooking.”
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BassfellsilentagainsoIcouldkeeplistening,butallIhadweremoreandmorequestions.“WhataboutLandry?”I
asked.Wasthepresssecretaryinvolvedaswell?“Bestwecantell,no,”said
Owen.“There’satleastahalfdozentimeswhenthetwoarealoneinDobson’sofficetogetherandnothingevercomesup.”“Anybodyelse?”
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“JustPrajeetSengupta,”saidOwen.TheIndiandoctor?“I
thoughtyoutoldmethatwasallbullshit.”“Notallofit.Likewith
anygoodlie,there’salwaysabitoftruth.Senguptaexists,he’sarealperson,”saidOwen.“Cometothinkofit,theIranianguyfromStanfordisreal,too.”Iclearlydidn’tfollow.
Basspausedtherecording,
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histhumbshiftingtoanotherfile.HepressedPlay.Forthenextminute,with
theflagsaroundthemonumentwhippinginthewindaboveus,IlistenedtoDobsononthephonewithSenguptaaskingabouthisfriendsincollege,specificallyiftherewasanyonefromtheMiddleEast.“SenguptawasDobson’s
manfortheserum,botchedasitwas,”saidOwen.“Turns
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out,SenguptahasabrotherbackinIndiadoingtwentyyearsfordrugtrafficking.Oratleast,hewasuntilDobsonintervenedwithIndianintelligenceofficials.Theseruminexchangefortimeserved.Thebrother’snowafreeman.”“SoDobsondiscoversan
Iranianroommateandinventsthestoryabouthim,”Isaid.“Yeah,andofallthings,
theguy—Ghasemi—actually
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didgobacktoIran.AccordingtoStanfordalumnirecords,heownsasoftwarecompanyinTehran—butofcourse,thatwouldn’tpreventhimfrommoonlightingforthenuclearprogram,right?Dobsonhadalltheanglescovered,”saidOwen.HethenturnedtoBass.“Exceptone.”Bassraisedhispalmsasif
todeflectthecredit.“Iknewnothingaboutthisserum,butIcouldn’tshakethefeeling
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thatsomethingwasup.EspeciallywhenIheardKarcher’snametoreplaceme.”“Youwereright.Hell,you
werebothright,”Isaid,givingOwenhisdue.Sowhydidn’ttheylook
happieraboutit?Orevenhappyatall?ThatwaswhenIrealized
whattheyhadalreadyfiguredout.Andtothink,Iwastheonlyonewiththelawdegree.
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CHAPTER110
“DAMN,”Imuttered.Owennodded.“Yep.”Therecordings.“They’re
inadmissible.Notonlythat,they’reillegal,”Isaid.Owennoddedagain.
“Yep.”“Idon’tcare,”saidBass.
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“Hereallydoesn’t,”saidOwen.“Believeme,I’vetriedtotalkhimoutofit.”“Outofwhat?”Iasked.Bassshrugged.“Somaybe
Iriskdoingalittletime.ItwillbeworthittoimplicateDobson.Andoncetheinvestigationstarts,somethingelsewillhavetoturnup,”hesaid.“Thetruthwillcomeout.”Ihadeveryintentionof
makingagreat
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counterargument,beginningwiththereasonwhyOwenhadn’twantedtogopublicinthefirstplace.HewantedDobsondeadtorights.Webothdidnow.ButI’djustcomefromtheguy’soffice,whereI’dseenupcloseandpersonalDobson’sabilitytoconstructanalternatereality.Dobsonwasgoodatit.Toogood.Withouttherecordingsfromhisoffice,theoddsofhisseeingtheinsideofajail
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cellwereanythingbutasurething.He’dberuinedpolitically,buthe’dprobablystillgofree.Yeah,thatwasthe
argumentIwasabouttomake.Pointbypoint.Instead,allIcoulddowas
listentotheechoofBass’slastsentenceinmyhead.Thetruthwillcomeout,hesaid.Thetruthwillcomeout.IturnedtoOwen.“You
stillhavethenotebookfrom
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thelab,right?”Ittookhimasecondto
figureoutwhatIwasasking,butonlyasecond.Thekidwasagenius,afterall.AndwhenIsawhimsmile,itwassuddenlyasifhecouldhearthesameecho.“I’dsaythreedays.Two,if
Idon’tsleep,”heanswered.“Butthenwhat?How?”Ireachedintomypocket.
Neverhadaprepaidcellphonebeenputtobetteruse.
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“Yes,Operator,couldIpleasehavethemainnumberfortheNewYorkTimes?”SebastianColecouldn’t
takemycallfastenough.“JesusChrist,you’re
alive!”hesaid.“Iwasstartingtowonder.”“Youandmeboth,”Isaid.
“Butyes,I’malive.Verymuchso.Now,doyourememberthatenvelopeIgaveyou?Theoneyouwere
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onlysupposedtoopenifIwasn’t?”“Areyoukiddingme?”
saidSebastian.“I’vebeenstaringatiteverydaysinceyouleft.IwasplanningtokillyoumyselfjustsoIcouldopenit.”“I’llsaveyouthetime,”I
said.“Goahead…openit.”“Areyouserious?”“AstheQueenMother,”I
said.“Andasyoureadwhat’s
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inside,Iwantyoutokeeponethinginmind.”“What’sthat?”“Youain’tseennothing
yet.”
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CHAPTER111
INSIDETHEWhiteHouse,deadpresidentsarenothingmorethanoldpaintings.Therealcurrencyisthealmightyfavor,andI’djustdoneabigonefortheMorrisadministration.“Thankyouagain,Trevor,
formakingthishappen,”said
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Dobson.HehadlefttheWestWing
fortheWestinandSebastianCole’scornersuite,whereIgreetedhimatthedoorwithafirmhandshakeandtheassurancethat“this”—asin,thismeetingandwhatitwasinexchangefor—wasineveryone’sbestinterests.ThedealI’dbrokeredwas
simple.ItoldDobsonthatI’dalreadygonetoSebastianattheNewYorkTimeswiththe
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recordingsoftheserumbeingusedattheblacksiteinStareKiejkuty.Butalothadchangedsincethatvisit,mostofalltherevelationbyDobsonthattheCIAhadamoleintheIraniannuclearprogramwhostoodtobeexposed.WithKarchernowdeadandhisdraconianoperationdisbanded,therewasachoicetobemade.AbombshellofastoryfortheTimesversusourcountry
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knowingwhetherIranhadthebomb.WhatwasanAmerican
patriottodo?ConvincetheTimeseditor
tostanddown,thatwaswhat.Andinreturn,Sebastiangotunfetteredaccesstothepresidentandhisfullcooperationforanunprecedentedseriesofin-depthinterviewsculminatinginabookdetailinghisfirstterminoffice.Guaranteed
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bestsellerontheTimeslistitself.Numberonewithabullet.Thismeetingwassimplyto
ironoutthedetails.“CanIgetyousomething
todrink?”Iasked.Ipointedoveratacredenza.“Theyjustbroughtupsomefreshcoffee,ifyouwant.”Ofcoursehewantedit.
Death,taxes,andDobsonchuggingcaffeine.“Sure,”hesaid.“Black,nosugar.”
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Rightoncue,Sebastiancameovertoshakehands,launchingimmediatelyintoaconversationwithDobsonaboutthelasttimethey’dseeneachother.Itwaslastyear’sWhiteHouseCorrespondents’Dinner,justafewmonthsafterPresidentMorristookoffice.JimmyFallonwashilarious.“Ithoughtthepresident
wasingoodform,too,”saidSebastian,orsomethinglike
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that.WhateverittooktokeepDobsonoccupied.“Hereyougo,”Isaid,
returningmomentslaterwiththecoffee.“Black,nosugar.”Dobsontookasip.Heshot
aglanceatthemug.“Iknow,it’salittlestrong,
isn’tit?”Isaid.“Toostrong?”Whichwaslikeaskinga
guyifyourhandshakewastoostrong.What’shegoingtosay?
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“No,notatall,”hesaid.“It’sgood.”“Good,”saidSebastian.
“Shallwesitdown?”Heledthewayovertothe
hotel’smodernisttakeonalivingroomarea—onecouchoppositetwoarmchairs,ablacklacqueredtableinthemiddle.Therewerenoplacecards,butonceSebastiansatdowninoneofthearmchairs,itwasonlynaturalthatDobsonwouldtakethe
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couch.Betteryet,hesatrightinthecenter.Centerstage,ifyouwill.“Niceroom,”saidDobson,
lookingaround.Youshouldseetheother
one,dude.Or,atleast,thatwaswhatI
picturedOwensayingthroughthewallwhilewatchingonhislaptop.Thekidreallyhadathing
foradjoiningrooms.
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CHAPTER112
FROMTHEotherarmchair,IwatchedandlistenedasDobsonlaidoutindetailthewaysinwhichSebastianwouldbeablenotonlytoconducttheone-on-oneinterviewswiththepresidentbutalsototravelwithhim
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oncehebeganhisreelectioncampaign.“Notthepressbus,Cole,”
saidDobson.“Imeanshotgun,righttherenexttotheman.We’retalkingthekindofaccessthatwouldmakeBobWoodwardshithispantswithjealousy.”Sebastiansmiledand
nodded.Infact,thatwasprettymuchallheallowedhimselfashedeftlyusedthecoverofhisproperBritish
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upbringingtocomeoffasagreeableaspossible.Owenhadmadeitveryclear.Fasterthanaspirinbut
slowerthaneyedrops.“Clay,doyouwantsome
morecoffee?”Iasked.FiveminutesinandI’dalreadypouredhimonerefill.Dobsonshookmeoff.“No,
I’mallset,”hesaid.We’llseeaboutthat,Iso
wantedtosay.
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Instead,IsimplypeekedatmywatchandshotaglanceoveratSebastian.Finally,andonceandforall.Itwastimetohearthe
truth.“So,anyquestionssofar?”
Dobsonsoonasked.Itwasclearhewasonlybeingpolite.Thiswashisendofthebargain,thequidtoSebastian’squo,andhewassurehe’ddeliveredinspades.
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And,infact,hehad.Desperatemenknownoboundaries.Sebastiansatbackinhis
armchair,foldedhislegs,andusedthefewsecondsofcompletesilencethatfollowedtomakeitveryclearthat,yes,heactuallydidhavesomequestions.“Haveyouevertoldalie?”
heasked.Dobson’sreactionwasas
expected,hiseyesnarrowing
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toanincreduloussquint.“Whatkindofaquestionisthat?”“Arathersimpleone,”said
Sebastian.Dobsonlookedatmefor
helpwiththissuddenlycrazyBritishjournalistfortheNewYorkTimes.Iwasthebrokerofthisdeal,afterall.ButIwasalsoaformer
prosecutor.“HadyouevermetClaire
Parker?”Iasked.
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“What?”saidDobson.“Who?”“Didyounothearmeordo
younotknowthename?”“Iknowthe…Imean,I
knowwhosheis.”“Youmeanwas,right?
You’reawarethatshewasmurderedinManhattanalittleoveraweekago,aren’tyou?”IwatchedasDobson
lookedovermyshoulderatthedoor.Itwashiswayout.
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Escape.Freedom.Fromwhatexactly,hewasn’tsureyet.Butitcouldn’tbegood.Thatis,foralesserman.Andinthatmoment,right
there,alifetimeofegoandarrogance—ofDobsonalwaysthinkinghewasthesmartestguyintheroom—didexactlywhatwethoughtitwould.Itkepthisassseatedsquareonthatcouch.Completeandutterinertia.
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“Yes,itwasalloverthenews,”hesaidcalmly.“ClaireParker,thewriterfortheTimes,wasshottodeathinthebackofataxi.”“Doyouknowwhyshe
wasmurdered?”Iasked.“Itwasreportedasa
robbery,”saidDobson.“Doyouthinkthat’swhat
itwas?”“Whywouldn’titbe?”Thesmugexpression,the
self-satisfaction…helooked
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likeakidwho’djustfiguredoutaboardgamewithoutreadingtherules.“Idon’tknow,youtell
me,”Isaid.“Doyouknowwhyshewasreallymurdered?”Dobsonopenedhismouth
toanswer,butitwasasifthehingesofhisjawhadsuddenlyjammed.Everymuscleinhisfaceandnecksnappedtoattentionasifsomewhereinhisbraina
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switchhadbeenflipped.Andindeedithad.“No,”hemanagedtopush
pasthislips,butassoonashedid,itwasasifthewordhadturnedaroundandpunchedhislightsout,hisheadjoltingbackandhislegsshakingasifthecouchhadjustbecomeanelectricchair.Hiseyesdartedtothetable
infrontofhim,thecoffeetable.Hestaredathiscup,therealizationsinkingin.He
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couldn’tbelieveit.Hedidn’twanttobelieveit.Buthehadnochoice.Hewasgettingtheultimatetasteofhisownmedicine,anditwasgoingdownhard.Sowashe.
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CHAPTER113
“DIDYOUinstructFrankKarchertohaveClaireParkerkilled?”Iasked,andimmediatelyrepeatedthequestion,full-throated,overthesoundofDobsondesperatelytryingtofightagainstthepain.“Didyou.
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Instruct.FrankKarcher.TohaveClaireParkerkilled?”Evenifhewantedtoleave
now,hecouldn’t.Hisbodywouldn’tlethim.Buthealsohadno
intentionofanswering.Forgeteveryword,itwaseverysyllablethathadbecomeastruggle—andyethesomehowmanagedtostringtwotogetheraftersuckinginagaspofair.“Fuckyou!”hebellowed.
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Fromthecornerofmyeye,Isawtheflat-screenagainstthewalllightup.Dobsonturnedtolook,onlytorealizehewaslookingatalivefeedofhimself.Feelingpainwasonething,watchingyourselffeelingitaddedawholenewcomponent.Owenwasplayingforkeeps.Weallwere.Fuckyouback,Dobson.
Haveyouforgottenhowyourserumworks?
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Onlythiswasn’thisserum.Thiswastheonehe’d
wishedhehadfromthestart.Theonethatdidn’tkillpeopleeveniftheywerebeinghonest.Betteryet,itdidn’tneedtobeinjected.Itcouldbeabsorbedintothebloodstreamwithoutbeingcompromisedbystomachacids.TheonlythingOwen
couldn’tdowasmakeittasteless.Butstrongblack
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coffeewasaprettygoodmaskingagent.Ileanedforward,staring
intoDobson’seyes,whichhadturnedredfromburstbloodvessels.Helookedlikeademon.“Theonlythingthatwill
stopthepainistellingthetruth,”Isaid.ButasIlookedathim,his
bodyconvulsingsoviolentlyitfeltasiftheentireroomwereshaking,Irealizedwe
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bothknewthatwasn’ttrue.Therewassomethingelsethatcouldstopthepain.Sebastianlookedoverat
me,worried.Icouldreadhisface.IsDobsonthatderanged?Ishecrazyenoughtodoit?Ishookmyhead,butitwas
toolate.DobsonhadseenSebastian.Andofallthings—ashiseyesbegantoleakwithredtears,hisfistsballedsotightIthoughttheywould
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bothsnapoffatthewrists—hedidsomethingthatforthefirsttimemademethinkthat,yeah,maybehewasthatsickinthehead.Hesmiled.Iturnedaway,onlytosee
himagainonthetelevision,thesmileseeminglywider.Hewantedustoknow.IfI’mgoingdown,I’mtakingyouallwithme.No.Hewasbluffing,Iwas
sureofit.Sebastian,onthe
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otherhand,wasn’t.Hewasmorethanlookingatmenow.Hewaspleading.“Doit,”hesaid.“Please.”Iputmyhandinmy
pocket,feelingforthecylinder.Iknewitwasthere;ImusthavecheckedittwentytimesbeforeDobsonarrived.ButIhadnointentionoftakingitout,letaloneusingit.“Doit!”Sebastian
repeated.Hewasscaredto
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death.Or,morespecifically,scaredofthemurderchargethatwouldbeslappedonallofus.Inthecylinderwasthe
antidote.Asmallsyringewithaspring-loadedneedleandtheabilitytonegatetheeffectsoftheseruminamatterofseconds.“Justincase,”Owenhadsaid.Asin,justincaseDobson
wouldsoonerdiethanconfess.
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ButIwasn’thavingit.OrmaybeIwassimplytooangry,tooconsumedbythedesiretoseehimownuptowhathe’ddone.Suddenly,Iheardthedoor
flungopenbehindme,thesoundofOwenburstingintotheroom.Asfastashewasmoving,hemanagedtokeephisvoicecalm.“Trevor,”hesaid.Justmy
name.That,andallthesubtextthatwentwithit.Are
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yousureyouknowwhatyou’redoing?Andforthefirsttimesince
thiswholenightmarehadstarted,Iwas.Istoodandwalkedslowly
overtoDobson,sittingonthecoffeetabledirectlyinfrontofhim.Therewouldbenomoreyellingfromme,nomoredemandingthathecomeclean.Hesimplyneededtoknow
thatIwasfinewithhis
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decisioneitherway.Hehadeverythingtolose,andIhadnothing.“Shewaspregnant,”Itold
him.“Shewaspregnantwithmychild.”Andwiththat,Istoodup
andwalkedoutofframe.Thechoicewashisnow,andonlyhis.Truthordie?
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EPILOGUE
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CHAPTER114
INTHEworldofnewspapers,thetermisshirttail,ashortandrelatedstorythat’saddedtotheendofalongerone.Ofcourse,Ionlyknowthat
becauseofClaire.Shewasmygo-toforjournalisticlingo,andIwashersforallthingslegal.Betweenthetwo
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ofus,wealwayshadalegupontheSundaycrossword.Sufficeittosay,Dobson’s
confessionwasalltherageforacoupleofweeks.Allthemoresogivenhowitwasobtained.Butthatwasthewholepoint,wasn’tit?Owenneverdeniedthattheserumhadthepotentialtofoilaterroristplotthatcouldkillhundreds,ifnotthousandsormore.Thequestionwas,whogottodecidewhetherornot
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weusedit?Soletthepublicdebatebegin,becausethat’showademocracyissupposedtowork.InthewordsofLincolnatGettysburg,“governmentofthepeople,bythepeople,forthepeople.”Itwasonlyfitting,then,
thatOwengavetherecordingofDobsontotheDCpolice,theFBI,andtheentireworld,viatheInternet,allatthesametime.First,though,he
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gaveaprivatescreeningtoAgentValerieJensenandJeffreyCrespin.ThatwasthefirstofafewdealsInegotiated.Ethicsandmoralityexist
onanever-shiftingscale.Thetrick,Ithought,waskeepingperspective.Somewherealongtheline,therealwaysneededtobeaclearlyestablisheddefinitionofrightandwrong.Blackandwhite.Aslongasyouhadthat,you
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couldproceedtodealwiththegrayareas.Atleast,thatwaswhatI
usedtoteachmystudentsatColumbiaLaw.Butthenthispastsummerhappened.Idon’tteachthemthatanymore.“Lookaroundyou,Mr.
Mann,”saidCrespin.It’sallgray.Whichwouldexplainwhy
hewasultimatelyfinewith
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myothertwodeals.Theyneededhisapproval.OnewasregardingJosiah
Brennan.Jesushimselfcould’ve
returnedtodefendBrennanincourtformoneylaundering,buttherewasstillnowayhecouldavoidjailtimeentirely.Thatis,iftheNSAchosetocooperatewithlawenforcementandpursuechargesagainsthim.
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AllIcouldpicture,though,wasBrennan’snine-year-olddaughter,Rebecca,gettingfriskedeverytimeshewenttovisithimbehindbars.ThesameRebeccawhocould’veeasilyrattedoutValerieandmeinherfather’soffice.SoIhadadifferentsuggestion,andCrespinwentforit.ItwastimeforBrennanto
laundersomeofhisownmoney.
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DetectiveDaveLamontdidn’thaveanine-year-olddaughter,buthedidhavethreeteenagesonswithhiswife,Joanie.Theyalsohadamortgage,schooltuitions,andorthodontistbills.NYPDdeathbenefitsonlygosofar.Hisadditionallifeinsurancepolicy,evenlessfar.SoBrennanwascharged
withsomethingelseinstead:lookingaftertheLamontfamilyfinancially.Also,
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settingupaspecialIRAforLamont’spartner,McGeary.Wasitarichmanbuyinghisfreedom?Maybeifhe’dthoughtofitfirst.Buthedidn’t.Moneydoesn’talwayshavetobetherootofallevil.Whichwasthesame
rationaleIusedregardingShahidAlDossari,theotherdealthatneededCrespin’sconsent.Personally,Ididn’tcare
onewayortheotherwhatthe
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NSAwantedtodowithhim.HehadskedaddledbacktoSaudiArabiathesplitsecondDobsonwasarrested,andthefactthathewasn’taUScitizenpresentedafarmorecomplicatedlegalchallenge,especiallygivenhiswealthandinfluence.Butthereitwasagain.
Wealthandinfluence.“Mightaswellputitto
gooduse,”ItoldCrespin.
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“Justwhatdoyouhaveinmind?”heasked.ItwasactuallywhatOwen
hadoriginallyhadinmind.
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CHAPTER115
ITHOUGHTIwascuringAlzheimer’s….Thatwaswhathe’dtold
mefromthestart.Nowmaybehewill.Ofcourse,Icouldn’treally
blameAlDossariformakingacounteroffertothe“strongly”suggested
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contributiontoOwen’snewlyfoundedresearchfacility.Twentymilliondollarsisalotofmoney,afterall.EvenforaSaudibanker.Thenagain,everythingis
relative.AssuminghewasabletofightextraditionandavoidtrialintheStates,he’dstillbetheRomanPolanskiofpokerandgamblinghere.NomoretripstoVegas.NomoretripsanywhereintheUnited
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States,hisfavoriteplacetobe.Intheend,AlDossari
figuredthatwasanevengreaterpricetopay.GodblessAmerica.AndGodspeedtoOwen.
“I’vegotmyworkcutoutforme,”hesaidwhenthefacilityofficiallyopenedinthefall.“Well,then,”Isaid.“You
bettergetbusy…dude.”Forgoodmeasure,Irubbedmy
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handstogetherasifdoingabitofhisdrywashroutine.Youmeetalotofpeoplein
yourlifetime,manyofwhomwillhaveanimmeasurableimpactonyou.Thentherearethosewholiterallychangewhoyouare.Youcangenerallycountthosepeopleononehand.Andfittingly,OwenLewiswillalwaysbeoneofthem.Inthewakeofeverythingthathappened,allthesadnessanddespairand
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mayhem,hemanagedtogivemesomethingIwould’veneverthoughtpossible.Optimism.Crazytothink…Istill
can’tevenbuythekidadrink.Sothatwasthat.Allthe
dealsI’dcutafterDobson’sconfession.Asfortheonemadebeforeit,I’mfairlycertainSebastianhasnoregrets.Infact,I’mpositiveofit.
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SebastianColemaybethelastjournalistonearthwhomPresidentMorris—withhistwenty-one-percentapprovalrating—willactuallygrantaninterviewto,butSebastian’sfirsthandaccountofwhathappenedinthathotelroom,includingaveryrevealingQ&AwithDobsonwhilehewasundertheinfluenceoftheserum,gavehimthescoopofalifetime.
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ThrowintheexclusiveinterviewsOwenandIguaranteedhiminreturnforhiscooperation,andSebastianallbutownedthefrontpageoftheTimesforanentiremonth.Butthebestpart—atleast
forme—wastheclasshedisplayedthroughoutitall.Thebylineofeveryarticlehewrotecoveringthestoryreadthesame.ByClaireParkerandSebastianCole.
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“You’reafarbettermanthanIfirstgaveyoucreditfor,”Itoldhim.“Likewise,”hesaid.It’sbeenmomentslikethat
whenI’vemissedClairethemost.That’swhenIusuallyhopinmycarandmakethedriveuptoWellesley,westofBoston,andtheWoodlawnCemetery,whereallParkershavebeenburiedforoveracentury.Onlyonce,though,haveIfallenintotheclichéof
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talkingtohertombstone.Shewould’velaughedatthesightofthat.Andwhoknows?Maybesomewheresheislaughing,anddoingthatlittlecrinklethingwithhernosethat,inaweirdandwonderfulway,alwaysmadeherlookevenprettier.Iknowthatastimegoes
on,thosetripstohergravesitewillhappenlessoften.ButnotbecauseI’llmissherless.No,eventuallywhatwill
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happen,maybeamidagustofwindthroughthebranchesofanearbynorthernredoak,isthatI’llhearthattombstoneofherstalkbacktome.“It’sokay,Trevor,”she’ll
say.“Nowgetonwithit,willyou?MaybeevenaskoutthatgorgeousagentfromtheNSA.Thoughbetweenyouandme,shemightbealittleoutofyourleague.”Clairealwaystolditlikeit
was.
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Though,fortherecord,ValerieJensenandIdidmanagetohavedinnertogetherwhenshewasinManhattanbeforetheholidays.Weevenwentbacktoherhotelafterward.“Yourmove,”shetoldme.Ofcourse,thatwasduring
thegameofScrabbleweplayedinthebaroffthelobby.She’dbroughtthegameallthewayupfromDC.Andofcourse,she
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kickedmyassbutgood.Herfatheralsotaughtherpoker,shesaid.“Maybewe’llplayafterthetrial.”Whichbringsusfullyupto
date.Dobson’strial.Andmesittinginthefirstrowwaitingmyturn.Itcouldn’tcomesoonenough.“TheprosecutioncallsMr.
TrevorMann.”Itfeltstrangetobebackin
acourtroomafteralltheseyears,andevenstrangertobe
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takingthewitnessstand.I’dalwaysbeeninfront,askingthequestions,notactuallysittinginthestand.Placeyourlefthandonthe
Bible,raiseyourrighthand…Noserumneededhere.We
werekickin’itoldschool.“Doyousolemnlyswearor
affirmthatyouwilltellthetruth,thewholetruth,andnothingbutthetruth,sohelpyouGod?”
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Youbetterbelieveit.
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“THISISNOTATEST”—
EVERYNEWYORKER’SWORST
NIGHTMARE
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ISABOUTTOBECOMEAREALITY.
ALERT
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FORANEXCERPT,TURNTHEPAGE.
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AT3:23A.M.,thetwoSupervactrucksturnedofftheirheadlightsandpulledoffthenorthboundFDRintoajunk-strewnabandonedlotbesidetheHarlemRiveracrossfromtheBronx.Afterheputthefirsttruck
intopark,TonytookaquartoforangeGatoradefromthecoolerthey’dbrought,
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crackeditslid,andcommencedgulping.Hisstubbledfacewasfilthy,andhewassweatingexuberantly,hadinfactsweatedthroughthebackofhisheavycoveralls.“Hey,youwantsomeof
this,Mr.Joyce?”saidTony,comingupforair.“No.Allyours,Tony.
Truly,youbrokeyourbuttdowninthehole.I’mproudofyou,”Mr.Joycesaid.
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Itwastrue.Tonyhadsomeheftonhimandcoulduseafewhygienesuggestions,butnoonecouldsayhewasn’taworker.He’dbeengoingatithardforthelastthreehoursbetweenthetwomanholes,reallyhustling.He’dbeenJohnny-on-the-spotforeverytaskwiththeequipmentwithoutawordofcomplaint.Theywerefinallydone
now.Atleastwiththeprepwork.Ithadgoneoffwithout
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ahitch.Thetrucktankswereemptynow,andthemanholeswereclosed.Everythingwassetupandreadytogo.“How’sthelink?”Mr.
Joycecalledintotheradiohetookfromhispocket.“Crystalclear,”Mr.
Beckettintheothertruckreplied.Theyhadhackedintothe
MTAinternalsubwayvideofeed,andMr.Beckettwasnowmonitoringthesecurity
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camerasatevery1LinestationfromHarlemtoInwood.“OK,Iseeit,”Mr.Beckett
saidovertheradioasecondlater.“It’spullingoutof157thinthenorthboundtunnel.There.It’sallthewayin.Youhavethegreenlight,Mr.Joyce.”Mr.Joycetookthecheap
disposablecellphonefromtheleftbreastpocketofhisbluecoveralls.Itwasa
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Barbie-purpleslidephonemadebyacompanycalledPantech,atrainingphoneonewouldbuyasuburbangirlforhermiddle-schoolgraduation.Heturneditonandscrolledtothephone’sonlypreprogrammednumber.Theorybecomesreality,he
thought,andhethumbedthecallbutton,andthetwopressurecookersplantedinthetraintunneltenstoriesbeneathBroadwaytwenty
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blocksawaydetonatedsimultaneously.
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THEINITIALEXPLOSIONofthepressure-cookerbombs,thoughgreat,wasnotthatimpressiveinitself.Itwasn’tmeanttobe.Itwasjusttheprimer,thematchtothefuelthatthetwotruckshadbeenpumpingintotheairofthetunnelforthelastthreehours.
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Thetunnelwassemicircular,seventy-threefeetwideatitsbase,twentyfeethigh,andalittlelessthanfourmileslong.Withinsecondsoftheblast,apowerfulshockwaveracedinbothdirectionsalongitsentirelength.Therewerenopeopleonthesubwayplatformssolate,butinbothstationsthewaverippedapartvendorshacksandMTAtoolcartsandwoodenbenches.
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Asthewavehitthesouthendofthe181stStreetstation,athree-tonsectionofthevaultedtunnel’srooftorefreeandcrashedtothetracks,whileuponBroadway,thefantasticforceoftheblastsetoffcountlesscaralarmsasitthrewahalfdozenmanholecoversintotheair.Southofthemainblasts,in
thetunnelbetweenthe157thStreetstationand168thStreet,theshockwave
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smashedhead-onintotheapproachingBronx-bound1trainthatMr.Becketthadspotted.Thefrontwindshieldshatteredamillisecondbeforeittoreloosefromitsmoorings,killingthefemaletraindriverinstantly.Asthetrainderailed,its
onlytwopassengers,aManhattancollegestudentcouplecomingbackfromaconcert,wereknockedspinningoutoftheirseats
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ontothefloorofthefrontcar.Bleedingbutstillalive,theyhadasplitsecondtolookupfromthefloorofthetrainthroughthefrontwindowatarapidlybrighteningorangeglow.Itwasstrangelybeautiful,almostlikeasunset.Thenthebarrelingtwenty-
foot-highafter-burnfireballthatwasbehindtheshockwaveslammedhome,andtheairwasonfire.
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BackattheHarlemRivershore,Mr.Joycehadtowaitsevenminutesbeforeheheardthefirstcallcomeinontheradioscannerhehadtunedtothefiredepartmentband.Heclickedapenasheliftedhisclipboard.“Wedidit,Tony,”hesaid,
givingthedriverararegrin.“Phaseonecomplete.”
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MOREBLUEANDredemergencylightsthanIcouldcountwereswingingacrossthesteelshuttersandSpanishbillboardsof181stStreetandSt.NicholasAvenuewhenIpulledupbehindadouble-parkedFDNYSUVthatmorningaround4:30a.m.Icountedsevenfiretrucks,
anequalnumberofpolice
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vehiclesandambulances.AsIhungmyshieldaroundmyneck,Isawanothertruckroarup.RescueOne,FDNY’sversionoftheNavySEALs.Holyshit,wasthislookingbad.Ifoundthepitch-black
subwayentranceandwentdownstairsthatreekedofsmoke.AllIcouldhearwereyellsandthemetallicchirpoffirst-responderradiochatter
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asIswungmyflashlightoverthetiledsubwaywalls.TheinitialreportIreceived
frommyboss,Miriam,wasthatsomekindofexplosionandasubwaytunnelfirehadoccurred.OnememorykeptpoppingintomyheadasIhoppedaturnstiletowardthesoundofradiosandyelling.Don’ttellmethisis9/11
alloveragain!Iwentpastatokenbooth
andalmostknockedoverthe
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white-haired,blue-eyedfirechief,TommyCunniffe,thumbingsomethingoutofhiseye.“Chief,MikeBennett,
MajorCaseNYPD.Whatthehellhappened?”“Massivetunnelexplosion
ofsomekind,Detective,”Cunniffecalledoutinadrill-sergeantbaritone.“Twostations,168thStreetandhereat181stStreet,arecompletelydestroyed.We
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havethefirealmostundercontrolhere,butthere’scolossalstructuraldamage,alargecave-inatthesouthendofthisstation.It’slikeamineaccidentdownthere.We’relookingforbodies.”“Isanybodydead?”“Wedon’tknow.Iheard
overthehorntherewasatrainthatgotfriedalittlesouthof168,buteverythingisjustnonsensestillatthispoint.Igottwoengine
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companiesdownthereworkingthiswaterlinethatwehadtofeedsevenstoriesdownthroughtheelevatorshaft.It’sanunbelievabledisaster.”“Chief,”cameavoicefrom
hischest-strappedradio.“Wegotmovement.Aheartbeatonthemonitor.”“Comingfromwhere?”
Cunniffeyelledback.“Upnearyouinoneofthe
otherelevatorshafts.”
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“Downey,O’Keefe,getmeagoddamnhalogen!”Cunniffescreamedattwofiremenbehindhim.Iranoverwiththefiremen
andhelpedthempryopenthedoortooneofseveralelevatorshafts.Whenwegotthedoorsopen,threehugefirementhesizeofrugbyplayersappearedoutofnowhereandtossedarope.“Hey,Danny,whatthehell
areyoudoing?It’smyturn,”
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saidoneofthemasthebiggestclickedhisharnessontotheropeandloweredhimselfintothedarkness.“Screwyou,Brian,”the
bigdudesaid.“Yousnooze,youlose,bro.Igotthis.Watchhowit’sdone.”Ishookmyhead.These
guyswereamazing.Trippingoverthemselvestohelp.Nowondertheycalledthemheroes.
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“Senddowntherig,”saidthefiremanintheshaftaminutelater.“Wegottwo,amomandadaughter.They’reOK!They’reOK!”Everyonestartedcheering
andwhistlingasapudgyHispanicwoman,clutchingherbeautifulpreschool-ageddaughter,waspulledupoutoftheshaftintothelight.“OK,goodjob,everyone.
Attaboys!”CunniffebellowedasEMTstookthe
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motherandchildupthestairs.“Nowgettheeffbacktowork!”Anhourlater,Iwasdeep
undergroundtenblockssouthinfull-facebreathingapparatusandaTyveksuitasItouredthedevastationthathadbeenthe168thstationwithFBIbombtechDanDunning,fromtheJointTerrorismTaskForce.“Thisisunbelievable,”he
said,swingingthebeamof
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hispowerfulflashlightbackandforthoverthevaultedceiling.“Whichpart?”Isaid.“Thiswasoneofthe
grandeststationsofthewholesubwaysystem,Mike.Seethechandeliermedallionsnexttothecave-in,andtheantiquesconcesinthatrubblethere?ThisusedtobethestationfortheNewYorkHighlanders,whowentontobecometheNewYork
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Yankees.Apartofhistory.Nowlookatit.Gone.Erased.”“Couldithavebeenagas
leak?”“Notonyourlife,”
Dunningsaid.“Gasandelectricaresurfaceutilities.Thesearethedeepeststationsinthesystem.Tenstoriesdown.Whateverblewthemupwasintentionallyputhere.Ican’tsayforsureyet,butyouaskme,thesegoddamn
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bastardssetoffathermobaricexplosion.”“Awhat?”Dunningpulledoffhis
maskandspatsomething.“Thermobaricexplosions
occurwhenvapor-flammabledustordropletsignite.Theyrelyonatmosphericoxygenforfuelandproducelonger,moredevastatingshockwaves.Asyoucansee,whentheyoccurinconfinedspaces,theyarecatastrophic.They
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pumpedsomethingdownhereandlititup.Agasolinemistmaybe,ismyguess.Justlikeinadaisycutter.Imean,lookatthis!”Wehoppeddownoffwhat
wasleftofaplatformandwalkedovertheincineratedtrackstowardablackenedtrain.Ascrime-scenetechstookpictures,Icouldseethatoneofthetrain’splasticwindowshadmeltedandsliddownthesideofoneofthe
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carslikecandlewax.Inside,thedriverwasburntpulp,thetwootherbodiesinthefrontcarskeletalandblacklikesomethingfromahauntedhouse.“Lookatthat,”Dunning
said,pointinghislightatacharredsneakerinacorner.“Wow,theshockwave
musthaveknockedthemoutoftheirshoes,”Isaid.“Worse,lookatthesoleof
it.It’salmostcompletely
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rippedoff.That’showpowerfulthisbombwas.Itseparatedthesoleoffasneaker!Thinkoftheincredibleviolencethatwouldtake.”IshookmyheadasI
thoughtaboutit,breathinginthesweetgasolinesmellofburnthattherespiratorcouldn’tfilterout.Whatisthisandwhereisit
going?
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THREEHOURSLATER,ourcommandpostshiftedfourblocksnorthtotheNYPD’snew33rdPrecinctbuildingat170thandEdgecombeAvenue.WhenIwasn’tanswering
myconstantlyhummingphone,Iwasbusyupstairsinahugesparemusterroomhelpingacoupledozen
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precinctuniformssetupacentralstagingareaforwhatwasobviouslygoingtobeamassiveinvestigationintotheexplosion.EverywhereIlooked
throughoutthecavernousspacewerestressed-out,soot-coveredMTAengineers,FDNYarsoninvestigators,andFBI,NYPD,andATFbombtechstalkingintophonesastheytriedtogeta
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griponthescopeofthedisaster.Thebiggestdevelopment
byfarwasthediscoveryofshrapnelintwoseparatesectionsofthetunnel.Preliminaryfieldreportsseemedtoindicatethatthemetalshardswerefromsomesortofpressure-cookerbombplacedatthetwomainblastsites.Wehadn’treleasedanythingtothepressasofyet,butitwaslookinglike
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thiswasinfactabombing,amassiveanddeliberatedeadlyattack.At6:05a.m.,themayor
hadmadethecallandcanceledthecity’ssubwayservicesystem-wide.Itwasahuge,hugedeal.Forthefirsttimesince9/11,eightmillionpeoplenowhadtofindanewwaytogettoandfromworkandschool.Amegameetingattheprecinctcommandposthadbeencalledfornine-
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thirty.Themayorandcommissionerwereontheirwayaswellasheadhonchosfromthecity’sfederallaw-enforcementagenciesandtheMTAbosseswhoranthesubway.I’dmanagedtogetaholdof
myfirstcoffeeofthemorningandhadjustdeclinedathirdcallfromsomeannoyinglypersistentNewYorkTimesreporterwhenIlookedupandsawChiefofDetectivesNeil
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Fabretticomethroughthecommandpostdoor.Ialmostdidn’trecognizehiminhisstatelywhite-collaruniform.Athisheelswasatall,clean-cutwhiteguyinanicesuitwhomIdidn’trecognize.“Detective,Ican’ttellyou
howmuchIappreciateyoubeingalloverthissincethismorning,”Fabrettisaid,givingmyhandaquickpump.“IalreadyspoketoMiriam.NYPDhastheball
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onthis,andIwantyoutoheaduptheinvestigation.TherestofMajorCaseisnowatyourdisposalaswellasanyandalllocalprecinctinvestigatorsasyouseefit.Howdoesthatsound?Youupforit?”“Ofcourse,”Isaid,
nodding.“DoyouknowLieutenant
BryceMiller?He’sthenewcounterterrorismheadoverattheNYPDIntelligence
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Division,”Fabrettisaid,introducingthesleek,dark-haired,thirty-somethingcopathiselbow.“Bryceisgoingtobeinvolvedinthisthingfromtheintelligenceangle,soIwantedyouguystomeet.You’regoingtobeworkingtogetherhandinglove,OK?”I’dactuallyheardabout
Miller,whowassupposedtobesomethingofahotshot.He’dbeenanFBIagentandDepartmentofJusticelawyer
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linkedcloselytotheDepartmentofHomelandSecuritybeforebeinghiredsplashilytoshowthenewmayor’sseriousnessinfightingtheterroristswhoseemedtoloveNYCforallthewrongreasons.Buthandinglove?IthoughtasIshookMiller’shand.Iwasincharge,butIalsohadapartnerorsomething?Howwasthatsupposedtowork?
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Andwhowastoreporttowhom?Millerquicklytookback
hishandasifhedidn’twantmysoot-stainedjeansandwindbreakertomusshisdapper,streamlinedgraysuit.“Herculesteamshavebeen
deployedtoTimesSquareandWallStreet,”Millersaidingreeting.“Thehelicoptersareup,andthereareboatsinthewater.Justgotoffthephonewiththe
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Commissioner.We’regoingfullcourtpressinManhattan,rivertoriver.”IassumedMillerwas
talkingabouttheIntelligenceDivision’stacticalunitsusedtofloodanareatoshowanypotentialattackerstheNYPD’slightning-quickresponsecapability.Butweren’tsuchshowsofforcesupposedtobeusedtopreventattacks?
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“Nowwhatisthisthermobaric-bombstuffIkeephearing?”Millercontinued.“That’scrazyspeculationatthispoint,isn’tit?Somethinglikethatwouldtakeanincredibleamountoftechnicalknow-howandmeticulousplanning.Wewouldexpectablipofchatteractivityfromsurveillancebeforesuchalarge-scaleattack,andmyteamandmycontactsinWashingtonare
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reportingexactlynada.Couldn’tthisjusthavebeenautilityscrewup?”“Idon’tknowaboutanyof
that,Bryce,”Isaideyeinghim.“Iwasactuallyjustwiththebombguysandsawtheshrapnelfromwhatlookedlikepressure-cookerbombsintwoseparatelocations.”Myphonehummedagain
asItookablackpieceofsomethingoutofthecornerofmyeyewithapinkienail.
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“Nomatterhowlittleanyonewantstosayorhearit,thiswasdefinitelynoaccident.Wejustgothitagain.”
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Thisebookiscopyrightmaterialandmustnotbecopied,reproduced,transferred,distributed,leased,licensedorpubliclyperformedorusedinanywayexceptasspecificallypermittedinwritingbythepublishers,asallowedunderthetermsandconditionsunderwhichitwaspurchasedorasstrictlypermittedbyapplicablecopyrightlaw.Anyunauthorizeddistributionoruseofthistextmaybeadirectinfringementoftheauthor’sandpublisher’srightsandthose
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responsiblemaybeliableinlawaccordingly.
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Copyright©JamesPatterson,2015ExcerptfromAlertcopyright©
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JamesPattersonhasassertedhisrighttobeidentifiedastheauthorofthisworkinaccordancewiththeCopyright,DesignsandPatents
Act1988.
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