by D. F. Bailey
Finch smiled to provide a sense of camaraderie. “So now we get the good-cop, bad-cop switch?” A joke. Hopefully Sterne would laugh.
“Maybe. But which is which? Did Agent Lavigne treat you well?”
“No complaints.” He adjusted his weight in the chair.
“Then I guess it won’t take long to figure my approach.” With a superior-looking frown on his lips, Sterne slapped a thick file folder on the table. “Maybe you don’t know as much about investigative journalism as you think.”
Finch took a thin sip of coffee and set the mug aside. “No?”
“This is the file on Oscar Pocklington. Read it and you might find out why he called himself Sochi No-name.”
Finch opened the cover and glanced at the first page. The top of the sheet read “CRIMINAL SUMMARY.” He closed it. “Okay. So give me the Twitter version.”
Sterne tugged the folder across the table, flipped it around to face him and scanned a briefing sheet. “Five years ago it seems that he devised a sports scam involving on-line bets in Curacao. He’d place a dozen bets a day, all under pseudonyms, then hack into their computer system, cancel his losing bets after eight P.M. when the bank wire-service closed — but before the wagers were settled. The winning bets he’d collect on, the losers would be cancelled. Turns out he had a hundred percent winning streak.”
A new ghost from Sochi’s secret past. Finch tried to mask his surprise.
“Tell me you knew about this.”
Finch tried a deflection. “Does your file also reveal that he worked for NASA?”
Sterne nodded. “Yeah. That’s in here.”
“Good ole Sochi.” Finch decided to take Sterne on a horse-and-buggy ride. Make him taste the horse shit. He clicked his lips, cowboy-style. Giddy-up. “That Sochi is one smart cookie.”
“Damn you, Finch!” He slammed the palm of his hand on the table.
“What?”
“I need to know everything you know about Oscar Pocklington!” Sterne’s face turned a shade darker. A vein in his neck throbbed.
Finch waited a moment, let a beat pass, then another. “All right,” he said in a near whisper. “I met him when I took a sublet in his building.” From there Finch continued to fill in the gaps and revealed what he knew about a man he knew very little about. When he reached their point of departure from Honolulu, he held his arms up and shrugged. “That’s it, I’m afraid.”
“You didn’t see him injected with ricin?”
“No. I thought he had a bad flu until Dr. Henney told us he’d been poisoned.”
Sterne pushed the file folder aside. “All right, let’s move on. What about Malinin? I understand you had dinner with him. Tell me what he said.”
Finch brushed a hand over his mouth. He’d been down this road before: a challenge to his first amendment rights. Now would be a good time to probe his limits with Sterne. “You can read about it in the eXpress. Malinin’s a protected source for my story.”
“A protected source?” Sterne eased back in his chair. “Let me advise you not to test me on this. Your friend” — he pointed to Sochi’s file — “is going to die from weaponized ricin. That’s one hundred percent guaranteed. Do you think for a moment that Homeland Security will tolerate two seconds of bullshit about protected sources if they think you know where Malinin scored this ricin?”
Finch considered the threat for a moment. The situation reminded him of Iraq. People he knew disappeared. Friends’ records were simply expunged. He recalled Eve’s guiding strategy: use the FBI to run interference against Malinin and Witowsky. And live to fight another day.
“Okay, I’ll tell you everything you want to know.” He began the narrative about his meeting with Malinin in the gazebo outside the Iolani Palace, then his private dinner at the Shorebird. He laid on as much detail as he could. It was like writing a first-person story for his college newspaper. The more color the better.
“What about the ricin?” Sterne asked when Finch finished his tale.
“The ricin pellet has old-school KGB written all over it. Malinin’s alma mater. You know that. There’s nothing I can add.”
“Did Malinin mention ricin to you?”
“No. But he made it clear that any betrayal would result in instant retribution.”
“And did you betray him?”
“Not until now. It was a formal news interview, pure and simple.”
“Did Oscar?”
“I don’t know.” As much as the steel-framed chair permitted, Will set his shoulders back and tried to relax.
“No?”
Finch shrugged, struck by an intuition that any condemnation of Sochi could hurt them all.
Sterne let out a long sigh. “Okay. Let’s talk about Witowsky.”
“I’d rather not. The guy’s a sociopathic criminal posing as a distinguished cop.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Eve Noon knows him from her days with the SFPD. She also said he probably killed Malinin’s geek, Marat.”
“Be nice to prove that, but I didn’t see it happen.”
“But you told Agent Sterne that you saw Witowsky flee the market seconds after Marat was shot.”
“I did. And I heard three shots fired and counted three holes in Marat’s chest.”
“What else did you see, Finch?”
He closed his eyes, shook his head in exasperation.
“Come on, Finch!” Sterne slammed Sochi’s file folder on the table. As it skidded past him papers flew into the air and scattered onto the floor. “Fuckin’ help me here! What did you see?”
To Finch’s surprise the tantrum had some effect. He remembered Witowsky brushing past him, advising him to flee with Eve and Sochi. Then Finch turned to see Witowsky whisk through the crowd, a dash of blood on his sleeve and a bag slung over his shoulder.
“He stole Marat’s shoulder bag. And Marat’s computer. It’s the one thing the HPD couldn’t figure out. What happened to Marat’s laptop.”
“All right. What else, Finch? I need to know everything you’ve got.”
Finch shrugged and shook his head with weariness. He took another thirty minutes to elaborate each encounter he’d suffered through with Witowsky. The night he’d first met the grizzled old cop following Dean Whitelaw’s murder. In the hospital as Eve recovered from her coma. Again at his apartment following Fiona’s kidnapping. Then at the SFPD media briefing. Finally, in the market after Marat’s murder. Each lap backward in time required him to provide context: people, places, dates, motives. And on each occasion he supplied layer after layer of detail pointing to Witowsky’s criminal intentions.
But never did he reveal that Sochi had spiked the software. Better not to let the FBI think Witowsky possessed a broken package, he decided. Let them think that once Witowsky acquires the second key, he’ll win the game. Make them want to reel him in first.
※
An hour later Finch and Eve were escorted down the elevator, through the front doors and into a taxi. As Lavigne held the door open to the cab, she said, “Thanks for your cooperation, Ms. Noon. Fare’s on us.”
“Right,” Eve said with a wave of her hand. “Keep us posted on Witowsky and Malinin.”
“You’ll be the first to know,” Sterne said with a brisk nod of his head. “But it works both ways. Here, give me your phone.”
Eve passed her phone to Sterne with a wary look. The cop punched a series of numbers into the contact file.
“There. That’s my number. You call me,” he said. “You may need me sooner than you think.”
As the car pulled away from the curb Finch rolled his eyes dismissively. “Sure thing. First to know.” He glanced around to find his bearings. Once they turned onto Turk Street, he leaned over the seat back. “Take us up to Nob Hill,” he told the cabbie.
“Make that Union Square,” Eve drew Finch away by his elbow and held a finger to her lips: Hush. “I’m famished,” she continued. “Let’s grab some take-out and sit in the square.”
“Good call.”
Finch studied the serious expression on her face. “Great night for it.”
“Wherever you want,” the driver said in a dull, heavy voice. “It’s the same twenty bucks to me no matter where you get to.”
When they climbed out of the taxi at the corner of Stockton and Geary, Finch drew her aside. “What’s up?”
“In a minute,” she said in the same conspiratorial tone and led him across the street up the concrete stairs and into the square. Every day of the year the park throbbed with tourists, but Finch and Eve managed to find an empty space on a long low wall under a few palm trees. A team of elaborately costumed Korean dancers were busy preparing the nearby stage with props. A crowd of sightseers with matching outfits began to gather and settle into place.
“Sorry for the spy-craft,” she said. She glanced over her shoulders to ensure they had a measure of privacy. “The cab driver’s probably an agent. If not, then he’ll be on the FBI payroll. And you can bet your condo is wired, too. And my place. Our phones, everything.” She waved a hand in the air with a look of defeat. “So. Going forward we have to expect to be monitored and likely tailed.”
Finch blinked. Of course. He watched an overloaded cable car climb up the Powell Street hill. A dozen people snapped selfies as they hung from the exterior grab-bars. Ambling along beside the cable car, a gang of Brit drunkards sang soccer chants as if they’d just won the World Cup.
“Were you able to feed Lavigne and Sterne any bait?”
“A couple of times. Especially after Sterne threw Sochi’s file across the room. I had to get him mad before he thought he could trust me.”
“Cops.” She laughed with some apprehension. “A lot of them won’t believe what they hear unless it’s preceded by pain. Or humiliation.”
“AGS.”
“What’s that?”
“Abu Graib Syndrome. Back in Iraq. The brass refused to believe any intel unless somebody cracked open a skull first.”
“Okay. AGS it is.” She glanced away for a moment. “Look, there’s something else I found out from Lavigne.”
“Yeah?”
“She let slip that Damian Witowsky’s gone AWOL. He hasn’t checked in with his unit since Hawaii and nobody can track him down.”
“That would explain why IAD monitored our interviews through the one-way glass. So, he’s gone rogue?”
“It means he’s after one thing only. GIGcoin.”
As Finch considered this he felt they’d entered a passage without side streets or alleyways — and definitely no way to double back. The only escape lay straight ahead along a dim road with no discernible end. “Are you still all right with this?”
“What are our choices? Once Witowsky discovers his copy of GIGcoin is spiked, he’ll come for us.” She stared at Will and then blinked. “You know, I think I agree with them.”
“With who? About what?”
“Sterne and Lavigne. They see us as hapless fools, over our heads in a scheme beyond our control.”
“Maybe we are.” He lifted her hand and caressed her wrist with his thumb. “Need some sleep?”
“Not as much as I need to get back to Sochi.”
“Let’s get that meal first. Then, Sochi. Then sleep.”
※
Finch and Eve returned to the San Francisco General Hospital a little after eleven o’clock that evening. Finch hoped that Sochi might have slipped off to sleep and he imagined that for an hour at least, Sochi could enjoy a reprieve from the poison, a chance to renew his energy in order to prepare for the struggle ahead.
But when Finch entered his room he was shocked to see a skull-like grimace stretched over Sochi’s face. His skin had become a bleached parchment pulled tight from ear to ear and from his forehead down to his lips. The tautness in his flesh suggested an inner ghost waiting to tear through the thin filament of his flesh and then float away. Even his long, red beard looked thinner. A few strands, long curling strings of rusty hair, lay on the bedsheets.
“Sochi,” Finch said as he lifted Sochi’s right hand into his fingers.
“Can you talk, Sochi?” Eve ran her fingers over the sheet covering his chest.
His head swiveled heavily on the pillow. A look of recognition brightened his face. “Dunno,” he whispered.
“Did you get some sleep?” Eve stroked the back of her hand across his forehead.
“Maybe.” A heavy shudder rolled through him. “It’s crazy.”
“What’s crazy?” Finch smiled and squeezed his hand.
“When I close my eyes … I can see my brain.”
Finch glanced at Eve, then turned back to Sochi as another convulsion struck his belly and legs, and then released him.
“Jesus. I’m so scared.”
Finch felt the fear course through Sochi’s hand into his own. The jolt was electric, visceral. He looked into Sochi’s eyes. “At least you can see it. That’s the first step in beating back the fear. Seeing it right in front of you.”
“No,” he gasped. “I’m really scared, Will.”
Finally. The first time Sochi had referred to Finch by his given name.
Dr. Henney pushed open the door and approached the foot of the bed. He studied the readouts on the monitors and nodded, not with a look of hope, but with a sense that Sochi’s condition was following a predictable course.
He said, “We’re keeping him hydrated with the IV drip. I’ve also got him on some medication to elevate his blood pressure. And we’re monitoring the convulsions — they seem to come in cycles — and modifying the anti-seizure meds to keep him as comfortable as possible. Unfortunately, that can increase the delusional episodes.”
Finch gazed at the overhead monitors. He could make out a few readings: blood pressure, heart rate, temperature.
“Any change in prognosis?” Eve asked.
The doctor shook his head and glanced at the clock. “Let’s step into the hall while we talk and give Oscar some rest.”
He led the way into the corridor and continued. “It’s been what? Thirty hours since the attack? He’s entering the normal range of terminal expectancy.”
The normal range of terminal expectancy. Finch grimaced at the psychobabble. But who could blame them? Like everyone else, physicians took shelter behind a wall of jargon.
“Seventy-two hours would be remarkable,” Henney continued. “Anything less will be a blessing.”
“A blessing?” Eve took a step toward the doctor. “Look, I don’t want to sound intrusive, but I checked this out on the internet. Isn’t the CDC working on a ricin antidote?”
Henney seemed glad to hear the question, a distraction from the intractable problem facing Sochi. “Yes and no. I was on the phone with the CDC this morning. Yes, the military is experimenting with something. But no, they’re not even close to sorting out human trials.”
“Couldn’t they try whatever they’ve got on Sochi right now?” Even as he asked this Finch expected a rebuttal. “Good Christ, the way it stands he either dies from the ricin, or the antidote that could save him.”
Henney shrugged as if he heard this sort of logic every day. “You’d think so, but it doesn’t work that way.”
Finch felt a rush of anger bolt through his blood. “Well how the hell does it work?!” He clenched both hands in the air as if he might erase every word he’d just said. He swung around in a full circle and shook his head to clear his despair. “Sorry. Look … I know you’re trying.”
Henney nodded with an expression of sympathy. “Here’s the thing: nothing is going to work. Sochi is going to die. The sooner the better for his sake. In the absence of any supportive euthanasia laws, all I can do is try to make him comfortable and alleviate his pain. If you can make him feel loved, well, that’s more than many people get.”
The buzz of an electric alarm began to resonate from from Sochi’s room. Eve and Finch followed Henney back to his bedside. A round of convulsions wracked Sochi’s body from head to foot. Finch imagined that an invisible cord had lashed around Sochi�
��s feet and begun to whip him through the length of his frame. As the bed shook and the alarm continued to howl, a team of four orderlies and nurses rushed into the room and strapped him to the bed rails. Finally secured, Sochi’s head shifted from side to side as if the last twist of the seizure might wrench his neck from his torso. A drizzle of white foam dashed against his cheeks and beard. Suddenly the spasms ceased. A new alert sounded, a high-pitched ping. Ping. Ping. Ping.
“It’s his heart,” Henney pronounced, his voice calm and assured. “Get the paddles, Jerry. Susan, cut the alarms, please.”
Seconds later a near silence filled the room, broken only by the low hum of electricity buzzing in the air. As the team hovered above Sochi’s chest and prepared the defibrillator paddles, Finch scanned the wall monitors. Sochi’s heart had stopped beating.
“Clear.”
The team took a step back. Henney studied the heart monitor as the first shock hit Sochi’s chest. A digital blip sputtered across the monitor and disappeared.
“Again.” His voice conveyed the weary confidence of an air traffic controller.
“Clear.”
Another blip sounded and vanished on the screen.
“And again.”
“Clear.”
Blip.
“Once more, please Jerry.”
“Clear.”
Blip.
A new hush followed as Dr. Henney turned away from the bed. “Susan, time please.”
She looked at the monitor. Everyone could make out the time on the wall clock, but this aspect of the medical ritual required a sober pronouncement.
“Eleven-forty-three P.M.”
“Enter it on his chart, please. I’ll sign it off later.” Henney blinked and looked away. Then his face brightened and he smiled. “Good effort, team. By the books. You couldn’t have done any more for him. No one could.”
※
During the taxi ride back to Mother Russia, Eve couldn’t stop herself from shivering. She wrapped her arms around Finch, snuggled in close and shivered some more. “I’m freezing,” she complained.
“No, you’re just overtired. You haven’t slept since the flight from Honolulu.”