The Alex Shanahan Series

by Lynne Heitman

  “Excuse me?” I sat forward. Perhaps I hadn’t heard right.

  Rachel pulled her top hand off the pile and used it to straighten her blouse. “He had the whole thing. The shooting. The cleanup. He had it all.”

  “How did he get it?”

  She shrugged as if it should have been obvious. “Surveillance cameras in his office.”

  “You were the auditor, and you didn’t know about them?”

  “It was a secret camera. Roger put it in himself. No one knew. It was like that Nixon thing. Who cares how he got it? He came to my house that same night and showed me what he had. He told me he would give it to Drazen if we didn’t give him what he wanted.”

  “Which was what?”

  “To get out of the country with his head, his hands, and his money.”

  I closed my eyes and pressed the heels of my hands against the bones just above them. “Let me guess. You called Harvey, who had probably just returned home from burying the body of the man you had killed.”

  I opened my eyes. Harvey looked self-conscious. Rachel looked defiant. Maybe I was getting the hang of this silent communication thing. “Harvey, what did you do for Roger?”

  “I alerted several banking contacts I had in Europe. I opened numbered accounts for him in Switzerland. I had several fake IDs made for him and set up credit-card accounts in those names. I did what I could to make sure he would have access to his money anonymously and from a distance.”

  In short, everything Ling had accused him of, and Baltimore was not just a city in Maryland.

  I got up and went to the refrigerator. It had been a while since my cold water had been cold. I grabbed one of the checked dish towels from the oven handle. As I made my own ice pack, I tried to distill the information to its essential elements. I needed to find Roger. If I found him and tried to bring him back, he would no doubt invoke the power of the video. That assumed he still had it after all this time or that it hadn’t burned up in Salanna 809. Or that Ling hadn’t also stumbled across it in a Brussels safety deposit box. If he had, he was keeping it awfully close to the vest. Too close, I decided. If he’d had that kind of leverage, he would have used it on Harvey by now. The safest thing was to assume Roger still had his deadly digital weapon and was still willing to wield it.

  I checked my watch. What had Dan said about the hostage reunion? That it was on for another day and a half, which meant I had to get to Paris by tomorrow before noon. Dan’s next flight to Paris would get me there in time. I had no expectation that Roger Fratello would come to a hostage reunion, as Gilbert Bernays or anyone else, not if he was on the run from Drazen. But if he had been on that hijacked flight, then the last people I knew to have seen him would be there. I went back to the table and eased into my chair. The other aches and pains in the rest of my body were beginning to catch up with my head.

  “We need to find Roger.”

  “Excuse me.” Rachel waved her hand. “Are we forgetting what happens to me if we find Roger?”

  “Think about it this way. When Roger tells Drazen that he didn’t kill Vladi but you did, Drazen has no reason to believe him unless he has the video to back it up. I think the first thing to do is find Roger and find out if he has the video. You can help me find him or not, but that’s what I intend to do. Harvey?”

  “Yes?”

  “You set Roger up for his life on the run. Is there any way you can track him that way? Through these accounts you set up, maybe?”

  “I destroyed all my documentation.”

  “Destroyed it?”

  “I never wanted anyone to find him, nor did I envision any reason to find him myself. For him to come back would have meant a death sentence for Rachel.”

  “All right, look. There’s some indication that Roger might have been hijacked.”

  “Hijacked?” Rachel was incredulous. Harvey was intrigued.

  “Do you remember Salanna 809 from four years ago?” It didn’t matter if they did. “A bunch of people got hijacked to Sudan by terrorists. Some were held onboard for ten days, and most of those were killed. Among the survivors was a man named Gilbert Bernays.”

  Harvey’s eyes opened wide. “That’s him. That was one of the aliases we set up for Roger.”

  “Good. That’s good to know.” I should have been excited, but I was too worn out. “Gilbert-slash-Roger was on his way to Johannesburg when he got hijacked. Does that give us any clues for how to find him?”

  “Forget about all that.” Rachel sounded weary. “I know how to find him.”

  “How?”

  “Answer his e-mail.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Cambridge Cyber Café looked like a shopping bazaar in India. The plaster walls were painted the color of Georgia clay. On the floor were baskets full of magazines and throw pillows. If people hadn’t been there to use computers, they probably would have all been sitting cross-legged on the floor and drinking organic ginger beer.

  I pulled up to the counter and signed in. The pierced, plaited, and tattooed desk jockey looked down at my name and asked to see a picture ID.

  “Just to be sure,” he said. “You’re alone, right?”

  I told him I was, and he took me over to a computer in a secluded alcove. A tent card perched on top of the monitor announced that the machine was reserved.

  “How did you know I was coming?”

  “Dude called.” He leaned across the back of the chair to slap at the keys. “Said you’d be coming and wanted you to sit here.”

  I looked around at the other tables and desks. It wasn’t crowded, and the people who were there seemed to be deep into whatever they were doing. “Why here?”

  “This one has encryption software on it. You’re set.”

  He walked away, and I sat down. He had signed on to a site, clicked on a link to a messaging service, and typed in, “She’s here.” I waited, feeling naked in that situation without Felix either at my side or on the phone, but my instructions had been specific: “Come alone, and stay alone.”

  Now there was a response, with the cursor blinking next to it: “alex shanahan?” It was weird. It was as if the monitor were a one-way mirror and whoever was at the other end could see me, but I couldn’t see him.

  I typed in my response. “Roger Fratello?”

  “answer the question, is this you?” The cursor blinked, and then this appeared: “‘…representing Rachel Ruffielo. We are in receipt of your last communication but need positive identification. Who are you, and can you prove it? Please contact ASAP. We want to make a deal.’”

  I recognized it as an excerpt from the reply I had made in response to Roger’s message, the one Rachel had reluctantly produced after it turned out to be in her best interest. The communication had arrived in Rachel’s in-box several days earlier, and had been the trigger for almost everything else that had happened, including her midnight move and the visit to Harvey. It had been short, blunt, and very intriguing. “Tell me,” it said, “where Vladi is buried or the video goes to Drazen.” Rachel had no idea why Roger would want Vladi’s body, especially after all this time. Harvey had refused to tell her where he buried it. He didn’t want to incriminate her.

  “Yes,” I typed. “I am Alex Shanahan, Boston PI representing Rachel. Why do you want location of the body?”

  “this is not roger”

  I read it, then I read it again. It was a hard sentence to misinterpret. I typed, “My message was response to blackmail threat. Did you send it?”

  “message was sitting in out-box. sent automatically when I signed on”

  “Who are you?”

  “not important ”

  “Why do you have Roger’s laptop?”

  “no comment ”

  I sat back to contemplate. An e-mail message sits in Roger’s out-box and goes out automatically the next time someone—but not Roger—opens the program. I hadn’t seen that one coming. “If you’re not Roger, how did you sign on?”

  “hacked in”

>   “The account is still active?”

  “is that rhetorical?”

  Good point. Obviously, it was. I wasn’t sure what to say. I hadn’t prepared for this particular scenario. “Where is Roger?”

  “don’t know”

  “Just to be clear, you’re not blackmailing my client?”

  “not for money but watched an interesting video. explanation?”

  Now things were getting tricky. I hadn’t mentioned any video, so he must have found it on Roger’s hard drive. But I had to know his intentions before giving him information. “Hard to give info when I can’t get any in return. Who are you? Why do you have Roger’s computer?”

  I hit enter and waited. I didn’t like exchanging information this way. I didn’t even like talking on the phone. I liked seeing the face of the person I was speaking to.

  “investigative journalist working on story. came into possession of computer by legitimate means. whom did rachel kill?”

  Yep, he had definitely seen the video, and he was another reporter, probably looking for a story. “Have answers to all questions. Makes for a great story. Will trade for laptop with video.”

  “who is fratello?”

  “Former CEO of Betelco, embezzler, and accused conspirator in a murder. Missing for four years. Possibly hijacked.” That should get his attention.

  “hijacked?”

  “Can tell you more, but would like to meet and get file back.”

  “no way. not even in the country”

  Here was the problem with written communication. Did that comment mean “No way will I even consider meeting with you,” or “There is no way I can arrange a meeting with you or anyone else because I’m not even in the country”? I craved inflection.

  “Telephone?”

  “this is the only way i’ll talk to you. spew or get off”

  That took care of the inflection problem. I sat for a long time with my hands resting on the keyboard, long enough that another entry came up from him, one that simply said “?????????????????”

  “I’m thinking,” I typed. “Don’t bother me.” It’s amazing how e-mail as a communication medium removes the rules that make us generally civil to one another. I was trying to think of a way to make sure that if I gave him anything, I got what I needed, too. I wanted to be interesting but not informative. I pulled out my notepad and paged through it. I finally went with the obvious.

  “The man in the video is a Ukrainian mobster. I’m trying to keep the video out of the wrong hands. It’s a good story for a reporter. Will be in Paris within the next 24 hours. Would like to meet.” I hit enter. Another long delay. I didn’t know how to interpret the silence. Was he thinking, or had he left the building? I got tired of waiting.

  “You have my contact info,” I typed. “Let me know when and if you want to talk.”

  I reached down and was about to turn off the computer when his response came back.

  “i’m an investigative journalist, not a reporter…are you working with blackthorne?”

  Blackthorne? My pulse rate jumped. “Working independently, but have information on Blackthorne.”

  The answer came fast. “what information?”

  My heart sped up to about two beats for every blink of the cursor. “Will trade for video.”

  I waited. This was it. Finally, his answer came. “will meet you in paris”

  I used a self-serve kiosk at the Majestic Airlines counter to check in. The security line moved quickly because the Paris flight was the last of the evening. After clearing the checkpoint, I went straight for the gate where the LA trip was boarding. The second the agent opened the door, I handed over my boarding pass, rolled down the bridge, onto the aircraft, and all the way to the aft galley. Dan was waiting with a ramper’s hat and jacket.

  “See anybody?”

  “No,” I said, slipping the gear on over my jeans. “But that doesn’t mean they’re not back there.”

  “Who?”

  “Russians…paramilitary storm troopers…FBI.”

  “Since when did you get so paranoid?”

  “Since this case.” I put on my ramper’s hat. “How do I look?”

  “Like I should be reaming your ass for dogging it. Get out of here.”

  The cabin services crew was just finishing. I joined in and went down the aft stairs. I walked across the ramp to the Paris-bound B767 and climbed the outside jet-bridge stairs. Using Dan’s key, I unlocked the door and went inside.

  Passengers were already boarding, so I stood to the side and waited. Dan arrived moments later, strolling down the jetway with my bag. He traded it for the hat, the coat, and the boarding pass to LA.

  “Here.” He put a ticket jacket in my hand. “Don’t say I never did anything for you.”

  Inside, I found a first-class boarding pass to Orly. He had already waived the sixty-day advance purchase requirement on my ticket. I was flying to Paris in style, or at least as much style as airlines provided these days, for the grand total of three hundred dollars. That was damn good news.

  “Wow. I didn’t expect this.”

  “You don’t deserve it, either. I just didn’t want to hear you bitch and moan.” He turned to help a stooped woman with long gray hair who had caught her rolling bag on the lip of the aircraft door. “Here you go, ma’am. Have a nice flight.”

  She thanked him, and so did I.

  “Remember the story,” he said. “I don’t want you embarrassing me with my contacts over there.”

  “I’ve got it. Don’t worry.”

  Dan had told a tiny white lie to get me onto the very tightly controlled guest list for the hostage reunion. I was enhancing the customer-care section of Majestic’s disaster manual, the one that gets pulled out when you have to turn your maintenance hangar into a morgue or make arrangements for your hijacked passengers, or their bodies, to get home. I was to interview passengers about how they had been treated in the wake of the flight 809 hijacking to find out what had worked and what hadn’t, what they had needed and not gotten.

  “What do you think you’ll find over there, anyway?”

  “Someone who can tell me they’ve seen or heard from Roger lately, or his alter ego, Gilbert Bernays.”

  “That reminds me.” He pulled some folded pages from the pocket of his suit jacket. “Take this with you.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s the 809 manifest and as much updated contact information as I could find. I was going to throw it away, but I thought you might need it.”

  Like Felix, Dan had a way of coming through with all the things I didn’t even know I needed. I gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for the first-class seat.”

  “Get your ass onboard. I’m not taking a delay for you.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  If you didn’t know otherwise, you would never guess the people talking and laughing at the Paris Hyatt were former hostages gathered to commemorate their hijacking. Considering the outcome, perhaps gathered to celebrate the fact that they were there at all. Nine of them, plus eight hijackers, hadn’t come back.

  I took a few minutes at the door to review the scene. Straight in from the airport, I’d taken time to shower in my room and change my clothes. Then I’d ordered a room-service breakfast and eaten, so I was feeling all right. I’d put some heavy-duty concealer over the cut on my forehead, pulled my bangs down as camouflage, and come down early to the ballroom.

  The room was just beginning to fill. People gathered around twelve round tables with white tablecloths set for brunch. Each table had a bright bouquet of spring flowers as a centerpiece, which struck me as optimistic, given the cold and damp early-spring weather outside.

  As people filtered in, I spotted the one man who looked to be in charge. I got close enough to read his name tag. He was the contact Dan had set up for me.

  “Dr. Wilson.” I offered my hand. “I’m Alex Shanahan from Majestic Airlines.”

  “Oh, indeed. You’re the researcher from Boston.
We had a call that you were coming. Welcome.”

  There wasn’t much on Dr. Wilson’s tall frame except his suit, and his voice was almost as wispy as he was, but there was substance in his eyes. He seemed to be someone you could count on.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I feel privileged to be here. I know you don’t let a lot of people in.”

  He shifted his drink from one hand to the other and put the free hand in his pocket. It allowed him to lower his head without appearing to be whispering. “This is a smart thing your airline is doing. Salanna did a very poor job in the area of customer support. We were scattered all across Africa with no money, no passports, and only the clothes on our backs. Everything was taken from us. We had no cell phones and very little information. You never realize how important your identity is in this world until you stand without it in a hostile country.”

  When I hadn’t been sleeping on the flight over, I had been studying the information I had on the passengers, trying to match names on the manifest to stories in the various articles. I knew Dr. Wilson had diabetes. He had been let off the plane early with a group of women and children. His being from Portugal and considering how the ordeal ended, his disease might have saved his life. “You were one of the hostages?”

  “We prefer to be called survivors.” He gestured to his name tag. It said it right there: “Survivor.” Mine said “Guest.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  “Not at all. How would you like to approach this? Shall I introduce you to some of our group?”

  “I know this seems xenophobic,” I said, “but would it be possible for me to start with the Americans, since Majestic is a predominantly domestic carrier? Domestic to us, anyway.” I pulled out a picture of Roger and showed him. “How about this man? I’ve been told that he would be a good one to start with. You know, lots of complaints to air.”

  “Ah, Mr. Fratello.”

  “Yes, Mr.—” Wait, he wasn’t supposed to know that name. “What did you call him?”