The Pandora Key

by Lynne Heitman

  “What sorts of things did he do?”

  “He started sourcing bigger and riskier jobs. High-risk protection stuff that gave us access to diplomats and heads of state in the Middle East. Cy had contacts all over the world from his CIA officer days, so it wasn’t hard. He also jumped on assignments in hot spots like Kosovo. It was great for business, but he was pushing the envelope more and more.”

  “In what way?”

  “If we got called in on a kidnapping case down in Colombia, we’d get the victim released, but the kidnappers would all end up dead at the scene. Then we had to start finding ways to bury expenses, because we were going out on our own missions.”

  “You’re saying Blackthorne initiated missions without being hired by a client.”

  “That’s right. Isn’t that what I just said?”

  “I’m just being clear for the recording. You’re saying Blackthorne became a vigilante organization disguised as a legitimate contractor.” Blackmon didn’t respond, so he went on. “Did you participate?”

  “I can tell you right now, a lot of the things we were doing, they were things that needed to be done. People who needed to be dead. A Syrian gun runner selling weapons used against our troops. An Afghan war lord who sells drugs and on the side buys little boys to fondle and rape. A Palestinian telling a bunch of kids they’ve been chosen by Allah to have the great honor of strapping on some C4 and blowing themselves up.”

  Blackmon had to stop and take a rest here. I pictured him walking away from Lyle, trying to gather himself, and then coming back.

  “The world is better off without these people, and if we had more of that kind of clear thinking in government, we wouldn’t have half the problems we have today.”

  “You don’t consider it murder?”

  “It was murder. I am a murderer. But it was murder that needed to be done.”

  I didn’t know if the long pause here meant Lyle was taking notes or trying to form a question. “If you believe in what he’s doing, why are you talking to me?”

  “Because the more we did, the more Cy wanted to do. He wanted more influence. He started taking money under the table from donors with foreign business interests, and those interests had to be protected. There were certain countries and governments that were more favorable to what we were doing, and their interests had to be considered. The decisions got more complicated, and pretty soon it wasn’t about right and wrong.” There was a real sense of loss in Blackmon’s voice. Whether it was for his friend’s loss of purpose or because he would miss going out and killing people once the article was published, it was hard to say. “Cy had created the thing he hated most.”

  “Thorne created his own politically driven bureaucracy.”

  Blackmon must have nodded, because Lyle told him he had to speak for the tape.

  “That’s what happened. I was ready to bail, but then nine-eleven happened.” The silence that followed went on so long I checked to see if we’d come to the end of the tape. We hadn’t, and eventually Blackmon began again. “Watching those towers fall…it did something to him.”

  “It did something to a lot of us.”

  “Cy felt responsible.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he saw it coming, and he wasn’t able to convince anyone. Because he felt like part of the failure, part of the useless and fucked-up government that had let things get to that point. He started taking a lot of black-bag jobs. Covert stuff. Illegal.”

  “Like what?”

  “Political assassinations, kidnappings, torture—various other forms of violent persuasion aimed at targets of his choosing. Encouraging coups, training and arming insurgents, passing along classified information to where it’s most needed.”

  “Where does he get access to classified intelligence?”

  “You have to remember the core of the company was all ex-military, ex-CIA or DIA or NSA. We all had high-level clearance, and we all have friends who still do. There are a lot of people inside the intelligence community who believe the U.S. intelligence machine is inadequate to the job of defending the country.”

  “You have moles?”

  “We get help here and there. Don’t ask me for names. I’m not compromising those people. They’re trying to do right. Most of us are trying to do right. But the jobs got bigger and riskier and harder to manage, and civilians started getting in the way. Cy’s view is that everyone is a soldier in this war.”

  “Much like the radical Muslim point of view.”

  “That’s what I keep telling him. ‘Cy, you’re no different from the people we’re hunting.’ He doesn’t like to hear that. He considers himself a patriot, the country’s last best chance. The hell of it is, he might be right. But when you start killing citizens, that’s when I get off the train.”

  “What would he do if he knew you were talking to me?”

  “Kill me.”

  The little recording machine turned itself off as the tape ended. I’d heard enough. If Thorne would have been willing to kill his partner over what was on that tape, he certainly must have killed Lyle’s son, and there was no doubt he would kill Kraft.

  I found Kraft’s beeper number and called it. I figured I would beep him every thirty minutes until he called me back. When he did, I would tell him I had something to trade for Vladi’s computer. Then I called Bo. When he answered, I didn’t even bother with hello.

  “I need to see Drazen,” I said. “I need you to hook me up.”

  “Why?”

  “I need a new deal.”

  27

  DRAZEN TISHCHENKO WAS SEATED AT A TABLE IN THE back, a dark presence in the brightly lit fast-food emporium that was Wendy’s. On his table were all the classic Wendy’s accoutrements: orange tray, white plastic silverware, yellow paper napkins. He also had an impressive pile of Saltine packets to go with the chili he was scooping from a cardboard cup.

  The way he held his cup offered a good look at the tattoos on his right hand. The biggest one, a black skull resting in a bed of leaves, was on the back of his hand. Elaborate symbols adorned the base of every finger. The one on his pinkie was a swastika. Just below each fingernail was a Cyrillic letter.

  While I stared at his artwork, he stared up at me with those eyes, still as dead as the tattooed skull’s. I didn’t know how to greet him. I didn’t know whether to sit. Last time, I had counted on Bo for all my etiquette cues, but Bo wasn’t here this time, much to his chagrin. I’d had to work hard to convince him it was a good idea to meet with Drazen alone. As I stood in front of the man himself, I wasn’t sure it had been the best strategy. I felt as if I had a swarm of wasps in my gut.

  “Sit.”

  I pulled out the chair across from him and slid in.

  “What do you want?” He’d turned back to his chili and was scraping the last of it from the bottom of the cup.

  “I have news to report.”

  He put the cup down and wiped his mouth with one of the yellow napkins. “I like that the food at Wendy’s in Denver is the same as the food at Wendy’s in Boston. I don’t like all American ideas, but that one was a good one.”

  “Roger Fratello is dead.”

  He balled up the soiled napkin and dropped it into the cup. “That would be convenient for you.”

  “Not especially. He died in a hijacking four years ago.”

  “What kind of hijacking?”

  “Airplane. It was a Salanna Air flight from Paris to Johannesburg. He was traveling under the alias Gilbert Bernays.” I had brought props to bolster my case—printouts of articles I’d been carrying around in my files. I slipped them across the table to him. Without taking his eyes from mine, he put his hand on them and pushed them right back. “Can you show me his bones?”

  “There wasn’t that much of him left. He burned to death when the Belgians stormed the plane. Nine hostages died. He was one of them.”

  “Again, that is all very handy for you.”

  “I’m not making this up. The FBI has co
me to the same conclusion. They’ve closed the case on Walter Herald’s murder. That should be good news for you.”

  He was so quick I had no time to cover up when he reached across the table and slapped me hard across the face. The force snapped my head sideways. It stung enough to make my eyes tear. I covered my cheek. The skin felt hot where he’d made contact.

  The only other patrons in the place were a few tables over. Two teenage boys wearing baggy jeans and a girl with oily eyelids and a spaghetti-strap top. They were looking at me with keen disinterest, as if the whole scene came straight out of a video game.

  My nose had started to run. I dried it on the back of my hand and tried to pull myself together. “There’s more. I think you’ll want to hear it. It’s about your brother’s computer.”

  At first, Drazen went completely still, which made us a couple of statues, because I couldn’t move, either. Everything rode on his next response. He flattened both hands on the table and canted forward, and I was encouraged. “What do you know of Vladi’s computer?”

  “I know that Roger took it. I know he was carrying it on the flight. I know if the files are intact, it’s worth a lot of money, and I know it wasn’t destroyed.”

  If a rattlesnake had eyelids, it would look the way Drazen did as he slowly blinked at me. “Where is it?”

  When I didn’t answer fast enough, he cocked his fist and reached over to grab my shirt. I pulled away and stood up, stumbling as I knocked my chair backward. At least I knew I was holding some cards, which made me feel surprisingly relieved and foolishly emboldened. “Don’t touch me again.”

  I didn’t have to turn around to know that one of his men was right behind me, probably the one who was holding my gun. Drazen had called him Anton, and he seemed to be his right-hand goon. I reevaluated.

  “I can get the computer back for you, but I’m asking you, please, not to hit me again, so we can get through this conversation.”

  Drazen held his right hand in front of him and lined it up with his view of my throat, then he squeezed until his hand shook, as he must have imagined wringing the life from me. “The next time I touch you, it will not be to hit you.”

  “Give me your word,” I said, “that if I sit down, you won’t hurt me again.”

  I couldn’t tell if his barely perceptible nod was for Anton or for me, but Anton set my chair upright and held it. I sat down again but kept my neck well out of Drazen’s immediate radius.

  “The plane was hijacked four years ago.” I pointed to the printouts, still between us. “During the incident, the hijackers collected anything from the passengers they thought might be worth something. This included all the personal computers. Most of this stuff was found recently in Afghanistan by the U.S. military.”

  “The American army has my money?”

  “No. The CIA was called, but the laptops were all pulled out before it got there. A private citizen has them.”

  “Who?”

  Here was an interesting moment. I could give him Max Kraft’s name, which meant he would have no reason to keep me alive. Or I could lie.

  “The U.S. government is also looking for this man. If they find him first, your money is gone.”

  “The U.S. government does not scare me.”

  “They might not scare you, but they can take your money. At the moment, no one knows those files are there. If we do this right, no one ever needs to know.”

  He gave no indication either way, but I had to be right about this. I had to. There was no way he wanted the feds rooting around in his affairs.

  I stiffened a little when he called Anton back to the table, but it was only to bring a pen. Drazen took it. Writing with his left hand, he scribbled something across the back of a Wendy’s napkin. “This is the model and the serial number for Vladi’s laptop computer.” He pushed it toward me. When I took it, he didn’t let go. “You find it, and you bring it to me and to no one else.”

  “I got that part.”

  I took the napkin and looked over the series of numbers and letters he had printed there. It was interesting that he had the long serial number memorized. “I can’t guarantee the files will be on the unit.”

  “The files will be there.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “They cannot be moved.” He pointed the pen at me. “Straight to me. No one else. Do you understand?”

  “I understand. But if I do, I want—” My voice failed me. Even though I knew what I wanted to say, I couldn’t get it out. He was such a remorseless creature. “I want something in return.”

  His gash of a mouth tightened. “You believe you are in a position to set terms with me?”

  I made myself lean toward him, trying to pretend I wasn’t scared. “A billion dollars is a lot of money. If Roger’s been dead since he lost it, then he hasn’t been around to spend any. It will be substantially more than it was when last you saw it. You lost it once. I can get it back for you, but I want to know that if I do, our deal will be finished. I want my partner and me to be released from all obligations to you.” I was careful not to include Rachel. He would wonder about that.

  I sat back and waited and hoped again that I had gambled right and he wanted the money more than he wanted revenge. Of course, there was nothing to say he wouldn’t decide he was entitled to both. But he did have that whole thing about honoring commitments. I wanted to hear him say it.

  He didn’t say it. He didn’t do anything. Maybe he was calculating. Maybe he was trying to restrain himself. It was hard to know with him. All I could do was wait and see if I had gone one demand too far.

  He pushed the empty chili cup aside. “Let me tell you a sad story. When my brother and I lived in the Ukraine, we were successful businessmen. We had many people working for us all over the country. We had money. Our mother lived in a big house on a hill overlooking our town. We ate and drank and lived like kings. We had women, we had drugs, we had cars. Whatever we wanted. Then, one day, a man came to my door with seven other men, all with guns. Do you know what he wanted?”

  “No.”

  “He wanted to take my life.”

  “To kill you?”

  “No, to steal my life. He said he would kill my mother if I did not leave the country and let him move into my house. He wanted me to give him my cars and my businesses and all my money.”

  “Just like that?”

  “It was wild times in the Ukraine after the fall of the Soviet Union. Worse than that happened. Much worse. This man thought that with a gun, he could take away everything I spent my life building. I have no doubt he would have killed my mother if I had not.”

  “If you had not killed him?”

  He crossed his arms, which served to highlight the lovely tattoo that stretched the length of his right forearm. It was a feral-looking cat, wrapped in barbed wire and still on the prowl. He tipped his head and stared at me as if to say, “Try again.”

  I fought hard against the next, most logical conclusion, but I knew it was the truth. “You killed your mother.”

  “And then I killed him, but first I took him to his house, and I killed his wife and his mother in front of him.” He leaned in. I could smell the chili on his breath. “No one takes my money.”

  I had to think that one through, but eventually I got to what I thought was the parable’s message. He didn’t give a shit about who killed Vladi. Someone had taken his money.

  “All right, Sashen’ka. I will play your game. You bring me Vladi’s computer with the files on it, and it will be done.”

  I felt the tiniest bit of tension bleed off.

  “But there is another part. If you do not find it or you find it and do not bring it to me, we will have a settling of accounts, you and I, and I will kill your partner while you watch. Then I will kill you, too.”

  28

  AFTER I LEFT WENDY’S, I COULDN’T GET TO FELIX’S FAST enough. I would have called him, but I was busy beeping Kraft. I did it three times before I pulled into the parking
lot of Felix’s complex. On the last try, I punched in my call-back number and followed it with 911. Surely he couldn’t ignore the universal code for near hysteria.

  When the elevator at Felix’s building proved too slow, I took the stairs, climbing all seven stories without a pause. By the time I hit five, my legs were jelly. By the time I made it to his apartment and found Felix draped across the lime-green beanbag chair, I could barely stand.

  “Hey, Miss Shanahan.” As soon as he saw me, he set aside his laptop and popped to his feet. “Guess what? Guess what I found out? I was looking into that stuff you asked me about, the vory, and you know what? Do you know what I found out? It’s kind of hard to believe. I don’t know whether it’s true or not. It could be true, I guess.”

  “Felix…” I held up my hand—breathing was an issue. I knew from experience that I had to stop him, or at least slow him down, or he would just roll on and leave me in the dust. Besides, I needed a moment to collect myself. “Give me a second, okay?” I poured myself into his only other seating option, a canvas chair, and closed my eyes. I’d raced over from Wendy’s and Drazen so fast, I hadn’t had a chance to think about what had just happened. When I started to think about it, to feel the enormity of what I was involved in, I decided I’d rather talk. I opened my eyes, and Felix was right there looking at me. Whatever he had to say, he was excited about it, but I had to get my piece said first.

  “I just had a meeting with Tishchenko. He’s not looking for Roger. He’s looking for—”

  “The lost fortune. I know. That’s what I was trying to tell you about. The lost fortune of Drazen Tishchenko. Pretty cool, huh? Sounds like Lara Croft, Tomb Raider, or one of those really old Indiana Jones movies.”

  “Are you talking about the billion dollars that was supposedly on Vladi’s laptop?”

  “Hey! Miss Shanahan, you heard about this?”

  “I did. How did you?”

  “I found it in Russian chat rooms. They have them over there, too. You have to put all the pieces together, and a lot of it was in archived threads, and I had to use translation software, so I’m not sure I got all of it. Translation software is, like, so bogus. Half the time, it’s completely wrong, and the other—”