by Unknown
He laughed his surprise. “And only I have the secret code. Or something like that, right?”
“Or something like that,” she agreed, turning to Martell. She herself knew only the basics of the situation. But one thing she did know, with certainty, was that the deal the other lawyer was offering was a gift from on high. “Mr. Griffin, I believe that’s your cue.”
But Dunn was already shaking his head as he told Martell, “Whatever you think I know, you’re mistaken.”
“Whatever you tell us,” Phoebe interjected, despite having passed the invisible talking baton to Martell, “whatever you say, regardless of its legality, will not be used against you, now or in the future. You will receive immunity. Completely. I’ve made very sure of that.”
Martell chimed in: “Play your cards right, Mr. Dunn, and you will walk out of here, with us, today. A free man.”
Dunn laughed again, but his laughter faded as he looked from Martell to Phoebe. “Whoa, wait. He’s shitting me, right?”
She shook her head.
Dunn got very still as he gazed at Martell. “Who are you?”
“I’m here on behalf of, well, the government, is what it comes down to,” Martell told him, “even though I don’t work for them directly and I can’t be specific about the organization in charge of this mission. What you need to know is that I’m here to offer you your freedom, effective immediately, in exchange for your cooperation in—”
“No,” Dunn interrupted him, turning his chair as far as he could with his tether in place. “No way. No deal. No thanks. Not interested.” He raised his voice and called toward the door, “Hey, Roger, we’re done in here!”
This time it was Martell who was so surprised that he laughed. “Are you kidding?” He looked at Phoebe as if she could help. “Is he kidding? He wants to stay in prison?”
She shook her head. She, too, was clueless.
Which was proving to be a not-unusual state for her in this, her first week of employment at the prestigious law firm. Upon her arrival, she’d been thrown into the deep end of the pool, assigned to assume the caseloads of three lawyers who’d recently been jettisoned. She’d spent most of the past week paddling desperately just to keep her head above water.
And then today had happened, creating even more chaos. Since she was one of the few lawyers who’d never met the boss’s poor deceased daughter, she’d been hurriedly handed Ian Dunn’s file, which was marked Top Priority. And the waves she’d thought were formidable turned out to be mere swells as this latest tsunami washed over her. It was part of her new normal.
And that was a total change of reality for her, since she prided herself on her ability to always—always—be one of the few people with a clue in any given room.
But now that she’d met him, it was clear that Ian Dunn’s file was incomplete. Phoebe was going to have to dig deeper to figure out what made him tick. Which she would do as soon as she found both a little time and some Internet access.
“Roger!” Dunn called again. “Where the hell are you?”
But Martell stood up and knocked on the table in front of the man. “He won’t come back in until I tell him we’re done. And we’re not done until you listen to what I have to offer, and then walk out of here with me, because that’s what sane people do when they’re handed a Get Out of Jail Free card.”
Dunn looked from Martell to Phoebe, and his eyes were no longer warm. In fact they were positively steely. “I’ve been locked up for nearly a year, so maybe things have changed out beyond these walls. Is that really legal now?” he asked her. “Forcing me to do something I’m unwilling to do?”
She cleared her throat. “This is an unusual circumstance. Not only are those children’s lives at stake, but from what I understand, this is a matter of national security. And Mr. Griffin is offering you quite a—”
“I’m not interested in what he’s offering. While I wish you luck in finding someone who can help you save the world, it’s not gonna be me. Not this time.”
Phoebe blinked at him. “As your lawyer, Mr. Dunn, I highly recommend that you—”
“You’re not my lawyer,” Dunn said evenly, almost pleasantly, “and I don’t give a shit what you recommend. No deal. Get me out of here. Now.”
* * *
Well, wasn’t this a goatfuck of a different color?
Ian Dunn didn’t know his lawyer, Jerry Bryant, very well, and he’d never actually met the son-in-law, Bob, who was supposed to show up if Jerry couldn’t attend a jailhouse meeting—of which there had been decidedly few. The story Ian had told about his grandfather and Vietnam had been just that—a story. It was cover for why Bryant personally represented him.
And not only had Ms. Kruger failed to respond correctly to his coded inquiry about the fictional Conrad, but Ian had been told, again and again, that only Jerry or Bob would act as his conduit to his current asshole of an employer. Somehow, in the confusion created by the fatal car accident, one of the firm’s junior lawyers had been sent here, probably also by accident.
“We’ve found the man who can save the world—and those kids,” the lawyer named Martell Griffin now told Ian as neither he nor Ms. Kruger moved to call the prison guard. “And it’s you.”
Ian silently shook his head as he glanced over at the woman who looked as if she’d graduated from law school last Tuesday—she seemed to be that freaking young. But from what he knew of Bryant, Hill, and Stoneham, they didn’t hire anyone right out of school, so she had to be older. Late twenties, maybe early thirties. The dewy freshness of her porcelain-perfect complexion was no doubt due to massive hours spent huddled in a windowless law office.
She wore her brown hair pulled up into some kind of bun thing on the top of her head, and with those dark-framed glasses and the square-cut pants suit that didn’t succeed at hiding her substantial curves, she gave off quite the hot librarian vibe.
She was pretty, but she didn’t give a shit. In fact, she worked hard to hide it—including by covering those eyes with those clunky glasses.
Ian had expected a woman with her pale skin to have blue or maybe green eyes. But hers were the richest, deepest, darkest shade of brown. Meeting her gaze was like falling backward into a warm, moonless night.
And … yesssss.
It had been way too long since Ian had had the pleasure of female companionship. And it was going to be even longer before he got some, because he wasn’t walking out of here with Julie and Linc, no matter what they offered him to become the third member of their ridiculous child-rescuing Mod Squad.
Ian’s little brother’s life depended on him staying right where he was. And the fact that Aaron was no longer actually little didn’t matter. Dead was dead, and Ian was determined to ensure that Aaron lived to a ripe old age. Besides, the kid had his own kid now. Which meant the stakes were even higher.
“I’m going to count to ten, Julie,” he now told Ms. Kruger, whose first name probably wasn’t Julie, but he could file that fact, too, under things about which he didn’t give a damn. “If you don’t fetch Roger and get me the fuck out of here, I’m going to spend the afternoon writing a letter of complaint about you to the Board of Bar Overseers, which I know won’t do much—except submerge you, hipdeep, in bureaucratic bullshit that you’ll have to wade through for months to come. You look, to me, like a girl who has better things to do.”
She didn’t flinch. In fact, his fighting words made her raise her chin. “First of all, I haven’t been a girl in years. Second, I can and will argue that it’s in your best interest to listen to Mr. Griffin’s proposal. And third, it’s Phoebe, not Julie, and I still prefer Ms. Kruger, thank you very much, Mr. Dunn.”
“One,” Ian responded as he met her steady gaze and held it. And held it. Phoebe, huh? The name suited her, although she probably wished it was something easily shortened and crisp, like Kate or Jenn or Meg. On the other hand, maybe she liked having a name that matched the softness of her appearance so that her not-a-pushover personality could
be used as a secret weapon, to catch her opponents off guard.
“Two,” he said, and added the tiniest of smiles to their staring match, just to make her think that he was picturing her naked. Which he now, of course, was, since doing so made this SNAFU slightly less of an ordeal.
On the other end of the table, Martell Griffin heavily exhaled his frustration.
Phoebe took the opportunity to end their stare-down game by looking over at Griffin as the other lawyer said, “Let’s talk about the Kazbekistani embassy heist,” he started. “In Istanbul, on August the twenty-ninth—”
“Oh, here we go.” Ian rolled his eyes. This again. Was this really what this was about? Jesus Christ, that had gone down years ago, and he’d never been formally charged, thanks to Shelly’s quick work with the embassy’s security camera files. “Three,” he told Phoebe before telling Griffin, “Believe it or not, even I’m not crazy enough to scale a four-story building and climb in a window—during an embassy dinner party—for only a three-million-dollar payout. How many times, on record, do I need to say that?”
“As many as you want,” Griffin countered, “but we all know that you’re lying.”
“I don’t know that he’s lying,” Phoebe spoke up. “I mean, I’m not one hundred percent convinced that he is. The facts—”
“Put him in Istanbul at the time of the burglary,” Griffin finished for her.
“That’s circumstantial evidence at best,” she argued.
“Look,” Ian interrupted her. “Sweetheart, if you really want to help me, go get Roger and—”
“The Kazbekistani consulate, in Miami this time,” Phoebe interrupted him, “is where Mr. Griffin’s clients believe the children are being held. And they and Mr. Griffin seem to think that makes you uniquely qualified to help them out. They claim you’re familiar with the consulate’s methods of security.”
“Allegedly familiar,” he told her, adding, “Four, five, and six, for believing their fairytale shite.”
“What I believe,” she continued, unflinchingly direct, “without a doubt, is that Leo Vaszko, age seven, and Katrina Vaszko, age thirteen, are being held, against their will, in the Miami consulate. If they’re not rescued, they’ll be spirited out of the country and returned to their father—a notorious and dangerous Kazbekistani warlord. They’ll never see their mother again.”
Ian narrowed his eyes as he looked back at her. “Since when does the federal government get involved—to this extent—with the rescue of kidnapped children?”
Phoebe glanced at Griffin, because, yes, that was a good question, wasn’t it? The lawyer cleared his throat and shifted in his seat.
“So who’s their mother?” Ian asked, because there was definitely more to this situation than met the eye.
“Dr. Lusa Vaszko,” Griffin said.
Ian didn’t know the name. “Doctor of what?” he asked.
Another round of throat clearing. “She’s, um, a nuclear physicist.”
Ah.
“My client,” Griffin continued, “wants to ensure that Dr. Vaszko is not forced to return to Kazbekistan, where she could be pressured into heading their budding nuclear program.”
Yes. That was more like it. Ian nodded. “So I’m supposed to, what? Provide you with a detailed report on K-stani embassy and consulate security procedures? Even if I’d had access to that information all those years ago—it was all those years ago. Their entire security system has been revamped, and the ambassador’s new—the position’s turned over at least twice since then. You don’t need me. Any team of Navy SEALs worth their billion-dollar training can insert, covertly, into that consulate and save those kids.” Even as he said it, he recognized the flaw in that plan.
“For obvious reasons, we can’t use Navy SEALs,” Griffin confirmed. “Or even former SEALs. At least not any who haven’t spent time in prison.”
Because a team of SEALs covertly entering a foreign consulate would put the U.S. into a diplomatic shitstorm if something went wrong and they got caught. It might even be misconstrued as an act of war.
“Likewise, we can’t use the FBI or CIA—or even the local police,” Griffin continued.
But since Ian’s résumé now included convicted felon and alleged international jewel thief along with former Navy SEAL … He realized exactly where this meeting was going. “You want more than information from me,” he said, looking from Phoebe to Griffin and back. “That’s what this is about. Oh, no. No, no. I can’t do this. Besides, you do know that if there’s proof that the ambassador’s committed a crime, you can go into a consulate and kick his ass—”
“We believe the ambassador is purposely being kept in the dark,” Griffin said. “And our current relationship with Kazbekistan is so fragile, we can’t take any risks whatsoever. Kicking down doors isn’t an option. The rescue must be done with stealth.”
Ian just kept shaking his head. “I can’t help you.”
“There’s more,” Griffin said. “The FBI has identified one of the men responsible for the kidnapping as an alleged acquaintance of yours. George Vanderzee. Nicknamed—”
“The Dutchman,” Ian finished for him with a laugh. Jee-zus. He knew Vanderzee well. Half K-stani and half Dutch, he looked European, but embraced his Kazak mother’s traditions and culture. He also made his money from others’ misfortunes. Ian had used him in a gun-running sting back in ’09, not long after he’d left the Navy. “Fantastic. He’s a fucking lunatic. And FYI, he pronounces Georg the German way: Gay-org. It’s spelled without the final E.”
“Not in my file, it’s not,” Griffin said.
“Your file is wrong,” Ian informed him. “You do know that his involvement makes the job harder, not easier?”
“Mr. Griffin’s client believes that his involvement makes you the right man for this job,” Phoebe pointed out. “You’ll win your immediate freedom, as well as your complete and total immunity—”
“I don’t want it. I’m not taking this deal, regardless of what’s offered,” Ian informed her, adding, “Seven, eight, nine …”
Phoebe ignored him, her full attention on Griffin, who’d closed his file and almost violently pushed it back into his briefcase as he stood up.
“This meeting is over,” the lawyer said. “I’m done wasting time. I got blood in this game. My dearest friend on this planet is in the hospital, clinging to life as we speak, having nearly died defending those children. Who I am now going to help find. So no more bullshit—I’m going straight to Plan B.”
Whatever he was planning, Phoebe clearly wasn’t in on it. She stood up, obviously startled as she watched Griffin cross the room while she echoed, “Plan B …?”
Griffin picked up the phone that would connect him with the guards, even as he rapped impatiently on the door. “Hello! We’re done here.”
Ian moved his chair as far as he could, given his restraints, straining his neck to watch as pretty Phoebe joined Griffin at that door.
“Plan B?” she asked again, lowering her voice. “We didn’t discuss any Plan B, Martell.”
“I’ma get Dunn the hell out of here despite the lack of any agreement,” Griffin said, interrupting himself to speak into the phone. “Yeah, open the door. Now.” He hung up and told Phoebe, “We’ll make this deal after he’s free.”
“With what leverage?” Phoebe put voice to Ian’s own amazement.
“The threat to put his sorry ass right back here after he gets a taste of that freedom he says he doesn’t want,” Griffin said. “Along with a shitload of money. Everybody has a price. Dunn’s got his, and with stakes this high, my employer will be willing to pay.”
“You’re going to just check me out of a maximum security prison,” Ian protested, “like it’s some kind of spa or resort hotel?” He laughed. “You do that, and there’s no one on this planet who won’t know that I’m now working for the FBI or the Agency, or whoever the hell you bow to as your evil overlord. Which makes me immediately unusable. Hello.”
Mart
ell Griffin smiled, but his eyes were ice. “We know a lot about you, Mr. Dunn. We’ll spin it like you made a deal on the local level.”
Ian laughed. “That’s crazy.”
Phoebe obviously thought so, too. She tried to speak quietly, but the room was so small, Ian couldn’t help but hear her. “If Dunn was really behind the embassy heist in Istanbul,” she told Griffin, “he’s got more money in an off-shore account than either of us can imagine.”
“I wasn’t and I don’t,” Ian insisted, but neither of them so much as glanced at him.
“Maybe so,” Griffin answered Phoebe with an extra-large dose of grim. “But money’s not the only thing we have to offer.” The door opened. “Everyone has a price,” he said again, “including Ian Dunn.”
And with that, he stalked out of the room, with Phoebe right behind him.
“Shit,” Ian said into the empty room, as the door closed with a thunk. If this clown succeeded at getting him out of here, not only would nine months of hard time be flushed down the crapper, but Aaron would be in imminent danger.
Ian did have a price, but Phoebe was right. It had nothing to do with money. In fact, it had to do with only two things: the safety of his brother, Aaron, and the safety of Aaron’s family.
* * *
Aaron had just gotten Rory down for a nap when the phone rang.
“Motherfuh—” He cut himself off, in case the shrill ringtone had woken up his son. At eleven months old, Rory was starting to make word-sounding noises, and motherfucker was not going to be part of his vocabulary. At least not until he went to school and heard it from some other kid with crappier parents.
Getting him to nap today had been a battle for the ages, with Rory sobbing as if his life was ending—which was always jarringly reminiscent of the first painful months of the baby’s life. But time had been on Aaron’s side. Tired was tired, and with the kid wearing himself out even further with all the drama, it was just a matter of when before the eyes started rolling back in that tiny, brilliant, sweet-smelling little head.