by Andrew Grant
My conscious brain kept insisting it was a coincidence, the three of them all going the same way as me. But my heart rate accelerated, anyway, and I could feel the muscles around my stomach clamping down tight. I leaned a little harder on the gas, anxious to prove my paranoia wrong, but as I rounded the next bend that became much more difficult. A plume of thick, black smoke was rising from the heart of Weimann’s subdivision. And a moment later, denying my suspicions became impossible.
Two fire trucks were parked on the street outside Weimann’s house. Thick hoses snaked down his driveway, past the blackened skeleton of his Jaguar and on toward the burning shell of the building. And to extinguish any last shred of hope, I saw the paramedics loading a gurney into the back of the ambulance that had passed me, minutes before.
A gurney with a body bag strapped to it.
Friday night–Saturday morning.
IN THE MOMENTS AFTER I PASSED WEIMANN’S HOUSE I FELT PROUD of myself for mastering the panic and continuing to drive, slowly and evenly, not drawing attention to myself, not giving the watching cops the slightest clue that a wanted man had just slipped through their fingers. I told myself it was a sign of growth. Of change. Of increasing competence and self-reliance. And then I turned the rearview mirror all the way to the side to make sure I didn’t catch sight of my face.
Because if I was honest, I wasn’t sure exactly what I’d become. But I had a feeling the truth would be far less flattering than the self-deception.
THE TV WAS STILL flickering in the corner of my room on the seventh floor of the Buckingham when the sun finally rose. I’d spent most of the night pacing, hoping for something to show up on the local news that would break the endless circle of questions in my head. Could the fire have been an accident? Or had Weimann been murdered? Who’d want to kill him? Why? Had anyone told Renée, now that they were separated? How had she taken it? Where were the police?
And how long until the blame came crashing down on me?
In the end, though, there was only one thing I could be sure about. I wouldn’t find any answers—or make sure Weimann hadn’t died in vain—if I was in jail. I needed proof of my innocence. I had to follow my one remaining lead.
——
I KNEW THE RENDEZVOUS with Weimann’s virus expert was set for Valhalla station, sometime in the morning. I found my way there easily enough and parked without any trouble. But when I put on my baseball cap and glasses it hit me how thin my disguise was. The whole area was crawling with people. How many of them had seen my face on the news? Had there been more stories, since I left the hotel? I wished I could get online to check. Or call someone and ask. But I had nowhere to go. And no one to turn to. Weimann’s contact was the last iron I had in the fire. If I couldn’t find him, I’d be on the run for the rest of my life.
No one recognized me as I hurried toward the station concourse, but the first thing I saw when I stepped inside was my own face. It was front and center on all four papers on the newsstand. My plan to hole up somewhere and watch the passersby, hoping to latch onto the fellow IT-geekiness of the virus guy suddenly seemed like madness.
“Hey!” The voice was behind me. “Stop!”
I dived around the back of the coffee cart, whipped off my hat and glasses, and shoved them behind its oversize ornate wheel, desperate to change my appearance. Then I crept to the giant barrel of ferns next to it and peered into the crowd, frantically trying to spot my pursuer.
I could see maybe fifty people, but only one likely candidate. And he wasn’t pursuing me. The guy had been calling to his teenage son. The kid had forgotten his lunch box. The dad had brought it for him. And I’d jumped like a scalded cat. It was a wake-up call. I had to accept the inevitable.
I retrieved my hat and glasses and waited for my moment to slip out from behind the cart. Then I slunk back to my car, feeling the gaze of everyone I passed boring into me like they all knew who I was, and were only delaying turning me in to draw straws for the honor of making the call.
IF I’D HAD A COIN with me when I slid back into the car, I’d have tossed it. Heads, stay in the parking lot and hope for a miracle. Tails, run for cover and try to come up with a plan that had a prayer of succeeding. But as things turned out, the choice was taken out of my hands.
“Marc Bowman!” A man opened the passenger door and jumped in beside me. “I was expecting you, now your buddy Weimann’s dead.”
I was half out of my seat, my heart accelerating so fast I could hear my blood bouncing off the inside of my eardrums, before I registered who it was.
“Sweet heaven above, Agent McKenna. I thought I was getting arrested! Or lynched!”
“Nothing that dramatic. I’m just waiting for a friend.”
“Wait. There’s no way. You’re the virus guy?”
“Of course not. I’m here to meet him. Just like you.”
“I don’t understand. How do you know him? I don’t even know his name.”
“His name’s not important. He probably can’t even remember it, he uses so many aliases. But he’s the top of his field. A morally confused field, granted, but that’s how the world works, these days. Most of the time we turn a blind eye. And in return, if he finds anything of interest to us, he drops a dime.”
“He told you about the virus?”
“He told me someone—Weimann—gave him a memory stick with the virus on it, along with a bunch of AmeriTel data. Which leaves me puzzled. How did your friend Weimann get his hands on such a thing when he didn’t work at AmeriTel? But you did. And you specifically told me you didn’t have any of their data.”
I didn’t answer. This was exactly what I’d hoped to avoid when I found the memory stick in the box with the fresh tequila bottle, but it was too late now to go back and undo all the mistakes I’d made.
“Never mind.” McKenna glanced over his shoulder. “We’ll talk about that later. In the meantime, start the car. I’ll give you directions. This is no time for you to be seen in public.”
MCKENNA DIRECTED ME BACK to the highway, and from there toward a hotel his team was using as an HQ while they were working the case. He told me it would take the best part of an hour to get there, then leaned against the side window and stared at me, unblinking, and in silence.
“What?” I caved after a couple of minutes. “Could you stop that, please? You’re making me uncomfortable.”
“OK. I’ll stop. The moment your comfort becomes important to me.”
“Are you pissed at me?”
“You lied to me, Marc. About the memory stick. And the prison van thing? I saved your ass for what, the second time? The third? And you ran out on me. You made me look like an idiot. Things like that don’t help build careers. This is a temporary thing for you. An adventure you’ll brag about to your grandkids. But it’s my life and my livelihood you’ve put on the line.”
“It’s no adventure. It’s a nightmare. I was terrified. The guy cornered me, and told me to run, and—”
“You went back to your house?”
I nodded.
“You’d hidden the memory stick there? The one you denied having?”
“I wasn’t lying. I didn’t know I had it when I told you that. I found it later. Then I put it somewhere safe.”
“Where?”
“In my kitchen. Under a section of countertop.”
“OK.” McKenna frowned. “We tossed the place twice, and never got a sniff. Did you have the countertop built that way specially?”
“No. It was an accident.” I pulled out to pass a dawdling minivan. “The kind of thing that happens when you mix Carolyn, alcohol, and heavy pieces of domestic equipment.”
“I see. So you recovered the stick and … the guy … what happened? He jumped you?”
I nodded, and a shiver ran through me. It wasn’t an episode I had any desire to revisit.
“One thing puzzles me, Marc. You went to all that trouble to hang on to the memory stick. Why turn around and give it to your friend?”
&n
bsp; “Weimann? He wasn’t really my friend. But I needed help. And he was the only one I could think of.”
“You couldn’t think of me?”
“I didn’t know if you were still alive.”
McKenna nodded, as if conceding the point.
“The papers say you killed Weimann, Marc.”
I felt my chest tighten, and I involuntarily eased off the gas.
“Did you?”
“God, no.”
“Who torched his place?”
“I don’t know. I wish I did.”
“What were you two working on?”
“We started with the virus. That was a dead end, so I dipped into the AmeriTel data. And I found something crucial. Mike Millan? Their finance chief? Someone sent him an email, late last Saturday night. Right before their board decided to revise their bandwidth bid.”
“You think this Millan guy received a tip? An illegal one?”
“Definitely. The email was sent to his Hotmail account, and Millan forwarded it to his work address. That was a huge mistake, because it made it visible. To me, anyway. So they fired me before I could do anything with the data.”
“Can you prove that?”
“Absolutely.”
“OK. I’ll get you set up with the fraud guys, and they can take it from there.”
“I’ll give them whatever they need. But there’s more going on here than just fraud. I know where the email came from.”
“Where?”
“The White House.” I braced for a reaction, but I didn’t get one. “Its origin was pretty well disguised, but we tracked it.”
“You’re talking about high-level corruption? The AmeriTel boys had a tip from the top?”
“Yes, but that’s not the point.” I swerved to avoid the squashed remains of a skunk. “What I think is this: The virus was already at the White House, and it spread to AmeriTel via the crooked email. Brooking’s theory is backwards. If I’m right, and you’re the one to straighten her out, that’s got to be worth something to you, right? You could be the one who stops an attack on the White House. You could get a commendation? A medal?”
“Oh, Marc.” A grin spread across McKenna’s face. “That’s priceless. But make me a promise? When this is all done, go back to your computers. James Bond, you’re not.”
“What?” I didn’t get the joke.
“When we found out the virus was targeted at the White House, where do you think was the first place we looked?”
“The White House?”
“Right. And yes, the virus was already there. Sent from AmeriTel. That’s why three state functions got moved this week. And next week’s are all canceled, too.”
“Sounds like chicken and egg to me, with the virus.”
“You could be right, I guess. But it would be a hell of a coincidence. We think AmeriTel’s ARGUS node was the insertion point. It’s not likely the virus would loop back around to the same place it started, because of a separate fraud thing.”
“You’re sure the fraud thing’s separate?”
“I am.” McKenna took out his phone and started to type. “But you know what? We haven’t specifically checked. It would be wrong to rule it out. I’m getting my guys onto it right away. And because it’s you, Marc, if you are right, I’m not going to take any of the credit. I’m going to let you take everything that’s coming to you.”
Saturday. Late morning.
FROM A DISTANCE, THE ROTUNDA INN LOOKED LIKE A BROKEN cartwheel with only three spokes remaining. Then, from the parking lot, like a Mercedes logo with no outer circle. But either way, Reception was in the hub at its center. It had sliding glass doors that faced the parking lot—curved to match the building’s contours—and a transparent dome covering the check-in area. From there, the residential wings radiated outward, and each was painted a different primary color.
Ours was red.
“Wait here a second.” McKenna knocked on a door halfway down the corridor. “There’s something I have to check on. Then I’ll get the key for your room.”
The door opened, and I recognized the woman who’d been driving the sports car when I’d been rescued from Peever’s people on, when, Wednesday? It felt like years ago. McKenna disappeared inside, leaving me to wrestle a sudden urge to run again, and when he emerged a couple of minutes later he was holding a little cardboard wallet.
“You’re in 112, down the hall. The place is a little primitive, I’m afraid. It was probably cool when it was built, but now all it’s got going is a weird shape, the most basic cable package known to man, and rates low enough to make Uncle Sam’s nightly allowance look generous.”
“I don’t care, as long as no one’s shooting at me. But what if someone sees me and calls 911? I don’t want the cops smashing down my door.”
“Don’t worry. The staff here know we’re federal agents. They know not to interfere. And the local P.D. knows to liaise with us before mounting any kind of operation. You’re safe here. Just don’t set foot outside without me or one of my people, OK?”
“What about my things? I left my suitcase in the car. Can I at least go get it?”
“No. But give me your keys and I’ll have it brought to you.”
MCKENNA DELIVERED MY CASE HIMSELF, five minutes later.
“Mind if I come in?”
“Be my guest. I’d offer you a seat, if I had one.”
“Thanks. But I won’t stay long. I just have a quick question. One of the loose ends we’re tying up. It’s about your friend Weimann. Did he give you the memory stick back, before he … before the …”
“Before the fire? No. He didn’t have it. He gave it to the virus guy, remember?”
“He didn’t, actually. The virus guy told me Weimann made him copy it, then he took it away with him.”
“Are you sure?”
“The guy had no reason to lie. So if you don’t have it, that leaves a wrinkle. Odds are it got destroyed in the … house, but I’d prefer to know for sure.”
McKenna’s words had prompted another explanation: I’d been on my way to talk to Weimann last night because I knew he’d been in touch with Carolyn. I’d made assumptions as to why. But what if I was wrong? What if Weimann hadn’t been getting something from her? What if it was the other way round? Carolyn had been desperate to get her hands on the memory stick from minute one. Could she have found out he had it? And made a deal?
Suddenly the theory took on a much darker shade. One of the thugs Carolyn was hooked up with had been to our house. He’d tried to kill me because I had one of the sticks. Last night Weimann had taken a stick, and now he was dead. Killed at his house.
A 9mm. A box of matches. What’s the difference?
Carolyn’s thugs already knew where I lived. And Weimann would have been easy to follow after he’d rendezvoused with her. Cars like ours stand out a mile.
That was the clincher. The matching Jaguars.
The murderer thought Weimann was me.
“Are you OK, Marc? You look like you’re going to puke.”
“No. I’m not sick. But something just hit me. Weimann’s death? It was my fault.”
I walked him through the logic, slowly, step by step.
“Don’t blame yourself about your friend,” he said, when I was finished. “But your wife? With the memory stick? That could be a problem.”
MCKENNA LEFT ME AGAIN, hinting at vague but urgent aspects of the case that required his attention, but frankly at that point I was happier with the four featureless walls as company. I’d been coming to terms with the end of my marriage for a while now. But Carolyn running around in the shadows, making sure her AmeriTel buddies got what they wanted? While my heart was still breaking over her? That felt like a whole new level of betrayal.
It had wounded me. But it had cost Karl Weimann—her friend—his life.
I turned on the local news in the hope of updates, muted the sound, and tried Carolyn’s number. I wanted to see what she had to say about Weimann’s death, a
nd the role she’d played in it. But not surprisingly, all I got was her voicemail.
MCKENNA SHOWED HIS FACE AGAIN an hour later. I was still on my feet, looking out the window. My room had a great view. Of the parking lot. I’d just noticed how my car was sitting all alone at one side while the others were clustered together in the center. Like a nerd at a nightclub, I thought.
Another unwelcome reminder of life with Carolyn.
“How are you feeling?” McKenna was carrying an aluminum briefcase which, since there was no desk or table big enough to hold it, he set down on the bed.
“I just want to get out of here and put this fiasco behind me.”
“I thought you might feel that way. That’s why I brought this.” He indicated the briefcase. “Because aside from dealing with Peever and keeping the police off your back, there’s paperwork we need to take care of. My fault, I’m afraid. Some of the things I told you along the way, I shouldn’t have. We have to put the genie back in the bottle. Which, in twenty-first century America means there’s a form to sign. We could put it to bed right now, so you can get out of here a little quicker? Or, if you’d rather wait till you can run it by a lawyer, I’d understand.”
“Let me see?”
McKenna flipped open the case and produced a black leather conference folder with a Homeland Security logo stamped into the cover. Then he took out two pieces of paper and handed them to me. They were heavy gauge, thick, slightly off-white, watermarked with a government seal, and covered in fine print.
“I’ve tried to read government forms before. Is this one more understandable than most?”
“Hell, no.” McKenna grinned. “Do you think we want you to understand what you’re signing? Where would the open-ended liability be in that?”
“And suppose I do call my lawyer. He reads it, and asks for changes. What are the chances of the government agreeing to them?”