False Witness

by Randy Singer

  “This memorandum, as usual, starts with the recitation of facts leading up to our agreement,” Parcelli continued, glancing at the provisions as he summarized them. “On Wednesday, April 9, Mr. Walter Snead, acting as your attorney, called the U.S. attorney’s office and suggested the basic terms of this memorandum of understanding. He called after he had spoken to you about the kidnapping of Jamie Brock by the Manchurian Triad.

  “Mr. Snead proffered an agreement whereby you would lead us to the triad’s headquarters and help us apprehend gang leaders in exchange for complete immunity and new identities under the witness protection program. Mr. Snead did not provide any details of the plan at the time, saying those details were confidential. The U.S. attorney on the case, Mr. Allan Carzak, agreed to the demands but only if you were instrumental in the apprehension and arrest of triad members.”

  Parcelli flipped a page and continued summarizing, sounding bored by the process. “Late Thursday night, Mr. Snead informed the U.S. attorney’s office that there had been some complications . . .”

  Complications. The word sounded so clinical now. So benign. But Shane Peeler, formerly known as David Hoffman, formerly known as Clark Shealy, remembered the panic he felt when Huang Xu discovered the GPS device. And the terror sparked by Huang’s threat to conduct surgery without anesthesia. That certainly qualified as a “complication.” David and Stacie had planned for the possibility of the triad discovering the GPS device, but it made things exponentially more dangerous and gave the couple no room for error.

  At the time, David had wondered if his prayers were falling on deaf ears. He had his answer now. While he considered how fortunate he was just to be alive, Parcelli rattled on about the negotiations between Walter Snead and the FBI. Snead had told the federal agents to be on call Friday, ready to move in on the triad’s headquarters. But the FBI had pressed for details, Parcelli explained, and Snead wouldn’t provide any.

  Of course, Shane thought, because we didn’t provide him with any.

  “Snead did tell us that he was supposed to meet you two at the Sheraton on Fourteenth Street,” Parcelli continued, no longer looking at the document. “So of course we staked out the hotel.”

  Which is precisely why we didn’t give Snead any more details, Shane thought. People couldn’t seem to keep their mouths shut. Shane and Brandi had decided to trust no one except each other. And sometimes, out of necessity, the idealistic young law students.

  “You came through on your end of the bargain,” Parcelli said, ad-libbing and barely consulting the papers in front of him. He was reminiscing now, not just reciting facts. “Surprised the heck outta me. You delivered Huang Xu and had your law student heroes drive us right to the triad’s headquarters.” Though Parcelli’s lips were not smiling, and maybe were not even capable of smiling, Shane thought he noticed a spark of life in the federal agent’s eyes. “For our part, we decided to stage your deaths in conjunction with the raid, rather than take you straight to the airport as you had planned with Snead. That way other mob members wouldn’t be trying to hunt you down in the future.”

  Parcelli hesitated, seemed to return to the present, and fixed his sallow gaze on the document again. He squinted as he glanced through some additional provisions, then emphasized the requirement that Shane and Brandi sever all ties with the past. “You cannot contact anybody you knew in your prior life . . . and I mean anybody.” He paused long enough to accuse them with the silence: We wouldn’t be in this mess if you hadn’t tried to sell the algorithm. Then he quickly reiterated the benefits that the federal government was providing—new identities, complete with prior work histories and educational credentials, assistance with finding one new job for each of them, as well as a housing and furniture allowance.

  “Any questions?” he asked. He shoved the documents toward them. “You need to sign all three copies.”

  “Can you make me about five years younger with my new identity?” Brandi asked. “It’s only fair since this whole affair cost me about ten years off my life.”

  “No,” Parcelli replied, demonstrating once again that FBI agents had no sense of humor.

  Shane shrugged and began signing the documents. Brandi looked at the barren cupboards and counters and asked Parcelli if she could borrow his pen. She signed the same name with three different styles, apparently trying to figure out how her new signature should look.

  Parcelli watched their every move as if they might somehow try to defraud the government by signing bogus names. Shane felt a need to fill the silence.

  “What’s your theory on Snead?” he asked.

  Parcelli frowned as if trying to make up his mind. “Might have been playing both sides, but I doubt it. Too many things don’t add up. For example, if he was a mole for the triads, why did he get caught inside their headquarters? He knew the FBI was preparing to raid the place.

  “On the other hand, I don’t buy the theory that the triad kidnapped him, thinking he might have the code. There was no sign of struggle or break-in at Snead’s house; he wasn’t tied up when we stormed the headquarters.” Parcelli sighed. “To be honest, I don’t have a good theory.”

  “He didn’t have the code,” Shane said.

  “And he wasn’t working with the triad,” Brandi added. She had been adamant about this point every time she and Shane had discussed it. “Shane and I . . . well, I guess at that time it was technically David and I . . . anyway, we knew that the triad would have to think they captured David unaware or they would suspect a setup. Why would they follow David to the bank in that case? Somebody had to ‘snitch’ on David and tell the triad where to find him. That way, when David broke down under pressure and told them about the safe-deposit box, the triad members wouldn’t suspect a trap. That’s what really bothered us about them finding that GPS device—that they might figure out the snitch was actually working with us.”

  As Brandi spoke, Shane watched Parcelli take it all in. Parcelli had his poker face on, which by itself told Shane something.

  “We asked Snead to make that phone call to the triad—to make it look like he was betraying David,” Brandi continued. “If Walter Snead was really working with the triad, he would have warned them it was all a setup.”

  “I understand that,” Parcelli said, “but how do you explain his presence at the triad’s headquarters?” It was the same question Shane had been asking himself the past three days.

  “It’s a mystery,” Brandi said. “And it will probably remain a mystery. But I can’t buy the theory that Walter was working with the mob.”

  Parcelli shrugged and placed two signed copies of the documents in his briefcase. “Some secrets go to the grave,” he said.

  He took a deep breath, and his eyes shifted from husband to wife. “I think you know the real reason I’m here. A first-year assistant U.S. attorney could have handled the memorandum of understanding.”

  Parcelli pulled another contract out of his briefcase. “Have you had enough time to think it over?” He was referring, Shane knew, to the offer Parcelli made at the Atlanta airport last Friday. One million dollars in exchange for the encoded algorithm.

  “That formula is a matter of national security,” Parcelli pressed. He tapped the document. “Think of this contract as a hundred stacks of money. Each stack contains a hundred Ben Franklins.”

  Neither Shane nor Brandi moved a muscle. They had prayed about this next step, rehearsed the alternatives, and endlessly debated the ethics of what to do.

  “It’s caused you nothing but grief,” Parcelli continued. “From what your attorney told us, you can’t even decipher it.”

  Shane looked deep into the man’s hollow eyes, trying to discern whether Parcelli could really be trusted. Out of the corner of his eye, Shane could feel Brandi staring at him, her intense gaze reminding him of how she felt about this. Through the years, he had learned to ignore her and ask forgiveness later.

  This had the potential to be the biggest con of his life. Two hundred thousand for
him and Brandi. One point eight million for Pastor Guptara and the Dalits in India. And he would never have to part with the real algorithm. There could be another windfall later if he sold that.

  In the meantime, all it required was one final bluff and a little white lie.

  87

  The success of any sting depends on the setup. In magic tricks, they call it “the turn,” the place where you do something extraordinary, like make the bird disappear. The reemergence of the bird—“the prestige”—is only climactic if the turn has been executed to perfection.

  In Shane’s opinion, there had never been a more flawlessly executed turn.

  All of the events of the past few days had been pointing to this one final meeting, a perfect setup to sting the government in its own game. Though Brandi had resisted at nearly every step, Shane saw it as the only way out.

  Nearly two weeks ago, when they first formulated Plan B, Shane had spent the better part of three days substituting random numbers in the Abacus Algorithm for the ones that had been originally provided by Kumari. Nobody would ever break this encryption “code” because it wasn’t a code at all, just random numbers meaning nothing. Thinking ahead, they had placed two different bogus copies of the formula in two adjacent safe-deposit boxes. If Plan B worked and the triad leaders were captured, Shane and Brandi knew that the government would demand production of the real algorithm. The feds would undoubtedly assume that a second document, in a different safe-deposit box than the first, would contain an authentic copy of the formula. They would work at breaking the encryption for years.

  True to form, the government had demanded production of the authentic algorithm. Shane had asked what they were willing to pay for it. The opening offer had been one million. Shane knew he could negotiate two.

  The money would be nice, but it was about more than the money. Shane’s and Brandi’s covers in the witness protection program had been blown when somebody sent a letter to Johnny Chin and revealed their whereabouts. Who would have done that other than the government? In trying to convince Brandi that they should go through with this sting, Shane argued that it was the only way to guarantee that the government would leave them alone and not rat them out again in an effort to shake the algorithm loose. If the feds thought they had gained possession of the authentic algorithm, they would leave Shane and Brandi alone.

  In response, Brandi had quoted Bible verses. “‘A false witness will not go unpunished, and one who utters lies perishes.’” She argued that they could put their trust in their own cleverness or put their trust in God.

  Shane said she was trying to overspiritualize things. “And what about our promise to Professor Kumari?” Shane had asked. “What about the children who need this money to have a chance in life?”

  “Why don’t you call Pastor Guptara and ask him if he wants tainted money?” Brandi suggested.

  “Two million,” Shane said, meeting Parcelli’s stare.

  The sunken eyes bored into Shane, the same stare that had unnerved him four years ago, when he was lying in a hospital bed, disoriented from his first violent encounter with the Manchurian Triad. But this time, Parcelli’s gaze struck no fear.

  “I’m prepared to sell the algorithm,” Shane said slowly, decisively, “but not because it’s a matter of national security. And not because we can’t decipher the code. I’ll sell it because our own government hung us out there as bait once before to pry loose this formula. You’re the ones who wrote that letter to Johnny Chin, starting this whole mess a second time. And we’ve got every reason to think you’d do it again.”

  When Parcelli didn’t flinch, Shane had his answer.

  Parcelli said he needed to make a call. After he stepped outside, Shane blew out a breath. “I hope this works,” he said.

  “It’ll work.” As usual, Brandi was the strong one. Her faith gave Shane an extra dose of courage.

  Two days ago, immediately after their phone call to Guptara, they had agreed on a new course of action. Guptara said he didn’t want any money tainted by a lie. He sided 100 percent with Brandi, urging Shane to do the right thing.

  “You have to choose,” Guptara had said, “between the old Shane and the new Shane.”

  After hanging up, Shane suggested a plan that shocked even Brandi. They would sell the algorithm to the government, but it would be the real algorithm, not the bogus one. If the feds didn’t know the key was contained in Pastor Prasad’s Bible, how would they ever be able to decode it?

  “We never wanted to take that chance,” Brandi reminded him. “The government can bring all kinds of resources to bear on cracking this code.”

  To an extent, she was right. It was the very reason Shane had not sold it to them in the first place. But the more time passed, the more he appreciated the brilliance of Professor Kumari. Would the man really use a code that even the United States government could crack without access to the key? And couldn’t God confuse the minds of the government cryptologists, if that’s what it took?

  “That’s why they call it faith,” Shane had said to Brandi. He relished the rare opportunity to stake out the spiritual high ground. “I say it’s worth a chance.”

  Shane’s thoughts returned to the present when Parcelli came back in the front door, holding a revised contract for two million. He promised that the government would be watching Shane and Brandi every second to make sure that they didn’t try to resell the algorithm to anyone else.

  “And how do I know that this is the authentic code?” Parcelli asked.

  “You’ve got to trust somebody,” Shane said. And then, to put Parcelli’s mind at ease, Shane pulled out his computer and went into his e-mail archives. He showed Parcelli the e-mail he had received four years ago from Professor Kumari, a few short days after Kumari died.

  “I’m sure the government can check the original servers and verify the timing and origination of this e-mail,” Shane said.

  Parcelli asked a few questions and made a few notes. He appeared satisfied, promised that the money would be wired into Shane’s account, and left with a copy of the encrypted Abacus Algorithm.

  On the way to the airport, Parcelli called Carzak. “They sold it,” he said. “Two million. I had to get approval all the way up the chain.”

  He could almost hear Carzak smiling from three states away. “What changed their minds?” Carzak asked.

  “They really think we’re the ones who wrote that letter to Johnny Chin,” Parcelli said. “They think we’d rat them out again if we didn’t have the algorithm.”

  “Interesting,” Carzak said. “Who did write that letter?”

  “I think I’ll find out at my next stop,” Parcelli said.

  Shane and Brandi called Pastor Guptara and told him about their decision. He seemed a little nervous about the United States government possessing even an encrypted version of the algorithm, but he understood Shane’s reasoning. From everything Guptara had heard about Professor Kumari, he agreed that the code was probably unbreakable. He prayed on the phone that the government would never figure it out. Then he thanked Shane and Brandi for fulfilling the professor’s dying wishes and promised to spend every dollar they sent him on education for the Dalits. He urged Shane and Brandi to keep their focus on Christ.

  “Remember,” Pastor Guptara said, “the government can give you a new identity, but only Christ can change your life.”

  When they hung up, Brandi and Shane toasted the day’s events. The more Shane thought about the bet he had placed on Professor Kumari’s ability to encrypt the algorithm with an indecipherable code, the more his confidence grew.

  He and Brandi touched plastic cups full of diet soda. “Here’s to the witness protection program,” Brandi said. “One of Uncle Sam’s finest inventions.”

  88

  Tuesday, April 15

  Palm Beach, Florida

  Parcelli intentionally showed up late at the Breakers Hotel, a five-star luxury resort covering 140 oceanfront acres in the heart of Palm Beach, Flor
ida. The lobby decor featured thick Persian rugs rimmed with light blue and burgundy hues, marble porticoes, overhead arches lined with crystal chandeliers, and a constant flow of white Southern aristocrats with tanning-parlor skin and five-thousand-dollar face-lifts.

  On his government per diem, he could barely afford to set foot in this place.

  At 10:10, Parcelli strolled into the restaurant, feeling out of place as the only patron wearing slacks instead of shorts, his shirt tucked in, and his face showing his age. He was a runner in the midst of a golf resort, a lower-class working stiff in a hotel that privilege built.

  He scanned the tables and did not see the man he was supposed to meet. He thought about that old adage that some people would be late for their own funerals. That was definitely the case here.

  Parcelli had the maître d’ seat him where he could keep one eye on the door. When the waiter came, Parcelli ordered an orange juice. He ignored the ocean view, deep in thought about the convoluted events of the past several days, events that led him here to consummate this deal with the dark side.

  It was just last Tuesday that Parcelli had called U.S. Attorney Allan Carzak and explained his unconventional plan. The Brock girl had lost her dog and been threatened by the triad, the government had lost track of Hoffman and had no hard leads on the triad leaders, and Snead had filed his multimillion-dollar lawsuit. Parcelli’s plan was unprecedented, but so were the stakes.

  They could stage the kidnapping of Jamie Brock, telling nobody. They could immediately suggest to Hoffman’s lawyer that Hoffman needed to cooperate with the feds in a sting operation in order to save Brock and obtain future protection for himself. Basically they would use Brock’s kidnapping to obtain Hoffman’s cooperation and then turn around and use Hoffman as mob bait. The end game: nab the triad leaders and buy the algorithm from Hoffman as part of the deal.