by Reece Hirsch
The letter went on to provide additional details about the information that Sam had disclosed to Nikolai and Yuri, the various client relationships that had been compromised.
“We knew Ben had been murdered by the Russians, but now we know for certain that Sam played a role,” Will said, turning the letter over in his hands. “And we have the evidence to prove it.”
“So were you approached by this Katya person, too?” Claire asked.
“Yes.”
Claire looked at him for a moment, apparently deciding not to ask her next question, at least for the time being.
They took the letter with them and drove aimlessly about the city. If he went directly to the Justice Department or the FBI with Ben’s letter, it might be enough to successfully prosecute Sam and Boka. But then again, it might not. Because the defense wouldn’t have the opportunity to cross-examine Ben, the letter would probably have little probative value in court. And even if the letter proved effective as evidence, it would still fall to him to be the government’s primary witness in a case against the mafiya. If there was any truth to Jon’s story about what had happened to the last witness against Boka’s organization, it meant that there was a distinct possibility that he could lose his head, hands, and balls, none of which he was prepared to part with. Even in a best-case scenario, he would probably have to give up his legal career and spend the rest of his life hiding in a witness protection program.
By the time they had driven out to Ocean Beach, Will had formulated a plan. By the time they had returned to the financial district, he had managed to convince Claire that he wasn’t crazy.
Will wanted to consult with Jon and hear his defense lawyer’s take on the value of the letter in a prosecution. But Will did not want to implicate Jon by telling him what he planned to do next, and he also didn’t want to lie to him, so that conversation would have to wait.
They stopped at a copy shop on Geary to have Ben’s letter scanned and an electronic copy saved to a diskette. If the long-haired young man behind the counter read the letter, Will was ready with a story that it was a prop in a low-budget mystery thriller being filmed in San Francisco. But the copy shop clerk, his eyes glazed with boredom, didn’t glance at the letter as he scanned it, sliding the diskette and the original back across the counter to Will without comment.
After leaving the copy shop, they drove to Embarcadero Four and the offices of Reynolds Fincher. They circled the tower, counting the lighted office windows on the thirty-eighth floor. Only two windows were lit, but it was impossible to tell whether attorneys were still at work up there.
Will pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dialed the number for Sam Bowen’s office, which he knew from memory. The phone rang five times, and then Sam’s voice mail picked up, laying on the honeyed north Florida accent a bit too thick for Will’s taste, like one of those airline pilots determined to impress you with how right his stuff was. “Hi, you’ve reached voice mail for Sam Bowen at Reynolds, Fincher & McComb. Leave me a message and I’ll call you right back.”
After hanging up, Will muttered to himself, “Hello, Sam, you two-faced bastard.”
THIRTY-ONE
The guard in the front lobby nodded in recognition as Claire pushed through the revolving door and approached the security desk. Will’s heart sank when he saw that it was Jeff Wilson, the massive guard who had escorted Will out of the building just a few days ago. He obviously had no idea that Claire had also been fired.
Will wore a Giants cap pulled low over his forehead and tried to look everywhere but at the guard. If he gets a good look at me, Will thought, this little mission is over before it has begun.
Claire could have commanded Jeff’s attention without even trying, but she took no chances, bustling up to the security desk. “It’s so nice and quiet here at night, isn’t it?” she said sweetly.
“Yeah, I guess it is,” Jeff conceded, surprised to be engaged in conversation.
“I’m moving some things out of my office.” Unnecessarily, she held up the empty cardboard box. “I’ll just be a few minutes.”
Will hung back, pretending to be fascinated by the electronic touch-pad directory of the building’s tenants.
Claire nodded over her shoulder. “My boyfriend’s going to help me carry the stuff out. Does he need to sign in?”
“Nah,” Jeff said, with a magnanimous wave. “He’s your guest.”
Claire swiped her electronic card key over the pad on the security desk, and the guard activated one of the elevators so that they could go up to the thirty-eighth floor. Claire was receiving two months’ pay while she looked for another job, which technically entitled her to access to the offices. But both parties understood that she wasn’t actually supposed to show up, and especially not after hours.
There would be no record that Will had entered the building. And it was true that Claire had never cleared out her desk. If anyone questioned her, she would just say that she had been too embarrassed by her firing to show up during regular business hours to remove her things, a story that had the advantage of being true.
The elevator doors opened on the dimly lit reception area. The brightest source of light was an open office door at the far end of the hall.
“I’ll come by your office and get you when I’m finished,” Will whispered before heading for Sam’s office. Claire went in the opposite direction to her office, carrying the empty cardboard box. If they were discovered, she would be able to produce a box full of her office items to support their story.
Will recognized that the lit office at the end of the hall belonged to Richard Grogan. Richard was the type who might actually be working at this hour. Richard’s office was two doors beyond Sam’s, so he would be able to enter Sam’s office without passing the open door.
If Richard or other attorneys were working on the floor, they weren’t making any noise. He crept down the carpeted hallway, past several works from the firm’s bland collection of modern art. At night, the tower creaked softly like a ship at sea. He quickened his pace, anxious to get out of the hallway, where he could be easily spotted.
After confirming that Sam’s office was empty, he ducked inside and shut the door, slowly releasing the doorknob so that the lock wouldn’t click. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness. The office was lit only by moonlight streaming through the narrow, vertical windows that ran from floor to ceiling along one wall. He turned on a brass lamp and sat down behind Sam’s desk.
As he waited for Sam’s computer to boot, he examined the framed photo of Christine, Sam’s wife. She had a strong chin, streaked blond hair, and a bemused expression. Everyone who worked with Sam knew that he used his allegedly domineering wife as an excuse for every event that he wanted to skip.
Will froze as the computer’s speakers chimed with the musical tones that heralded a Microsoft product. He doubted that anyone could hear that sound through a wall or a closed door. Just the same, he listened, motionless, for footsteps in the hall.
He entered Sam’s password, Azalea. He knew the password because Sam had once given it to him when they were working on a deal together. Sam had needed Will to access his e-mail to retrieve draft documents sent by opposing counsel while he was on the road. Sam had felt the need to explain, noting that his wife had enlisted him into gardening. The azalea was Christine’s favorite flower.
An instruction box appeared on the screen: Password is incorrect. Please enter password again. He retyped the password and got the same result.
Will felt like slamming the desk with his fist, but he couldn’t afford to make the noise.
He tried to think it through. The system required that attorneys change their password every three months. What did Will do when he was asked to make the change? He usually just added a number to his current password.
Will tried again, typing in the password Azalea1.
Wrong.
Next, he entered Azalea2.
Wrong again.
Nearly ready
to give up, he tried Azalea3. A few seconds later, he was staring at the contents of Sam’s e-mail inbox.
Will removed the diskette from his jacket and slipped it into the computer’s disk drive. He opened the imaged copy of Ben’s letter and saved it as an attachment to a blank e-mail.
Consulting the business card that she had given him, he typed the following e-mail to [email protected]:Dear Ms. Boudreaux,
I understand that you’ve been investigating the connection between the Russian mafiya and insider trading in Jupiter Software stock. When you read the attached letter, which was written by my former colleague Ben Fisher, I think you’ll agree that we have a lot to talk about. Please meet me at the bottom of the escalators in Four Embarcadero Center at 10 P.M. Thursday night.
Sam Bowen
Will paused for a long moment, his finger on the mouse, before sending the e-mail. Even if he had not actually pushed Ben off the roof of Embarcadero Center, Sam had killed him just the same. He deserved what he got.
Will entered Sam’s outbox of sent items and deleted the record of the e-mail to ensure that Sam didn’t see it, then turned off the computer.
It was then that Will heard footsteps coming down the hallway, followed by a voice. Sam’s voice. He frantically searched for a hiding place, but the desk was the only option. Turning off the desk lamp, he got down on all fours and crouched beneath Sam’s desk.
The lights came on.
“So all that’s left is to revise the indemnification provisions and prepare the exhibits, right?” Sam said, sounding tired and irritable.
“That’s it. Then I’ll e-mail the revised draft out, and the ball’s back in their court until tomorrow.” It was Jay Spencer.
“They can’t say we’re holding up the deal this time,” Sam said.
“Well, they can,” Jay said, “but they’d be wrong.”
Will heard Jay leave and Sam’s footsteps as he walked around the office. There was a sound of shuffling paper. Sam was probably picking up some files from the working table in the corner of the office.
By placing his face nearly flush with the floor, Will had a sliver of a view from beneath the desk. He saw an expanse of green carpet and Sam’s tasseled loafers.
The shoes began moving across the floor. Will hoped that he was leaving, but he passed the office door. He was approaching the side of the desk.
Will drew a deep breath and began formulating the lame story he would tell as he climbed out from under the desk. Sam’s response would likely be outrage, tempered with paternal disappointment. Always most comfortable in the role of good guy, Sam would make a show of not reporting him to building security. He would probably let him walk out on his own. But as soon as he was gone, Sam would call Boka and have him killed, just as he’d had Ben Fisher killed.
But Sam’s shoes were now facing the door.
“Claire?” Sam sounded surprised.
“Hi, Sam.” Will exhaled with relief at the sound of Claire’s voice.
“I don’t mean to sound rude, but what are you doing here?”
“Just cleaning out my desk. I preferred to do it when no one was around. I’m sure you can understand.”
There was a long pause. “Yeah, sure. Hell, I remember what it’s like. I was laid off myself when I was a young attorney.”
“You’re working late,” Claire offered. She was stalling, trying to figure out a way to get Sam out of the office.
“Yeah, we’ve got a closing. Grogan and Spencer are here, too. I’m too old for this shit.”
“What’s the problem? Are you short of associates?”
Sam gave a tentative chuckle. “Glad to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor. These things always sort themselves out. You’ll see. Well, I’m afraid I’ve got to—”
“I just wanted to say that I really enjoyed working with you.” Claire wasn’t going to be able to stall Sam much longer. He wanted to get back to work.
“Same here, Claire. Same here. Are you going to be able to get all of your things out tonight?”
“Yes. There’s not that much stuff left.”
“Good. I hope you’ll take this in the spirit in which it’s offered, but you probably shouldn’t come back up here after hours while you’re in your severance period. Don’t want anybody getting the wrong idea.”
“No problem,” Claire said, with a slight edge. “I’m done here.”
“Well . . .” Sam said, trying again to break off the conversation.
“Hey, Claire!” It was Jay Spencer.
Sam stepped away from the desk and walked over to the doorway.
“Claire’s just packing up the last of her things,” Sam said. “I don’t think she expected to find so many of us working tonight.”
“I sure didn’t,” Claire said. “Hello, Jay. Richard.”
Richard Grogan answered. “Claire. I hope all is well with you.”
“Thanks, Richard. I’m fine,” Claire said coolly. “And you?”
“Fine as well.”
Will pictured Claire standing there, refusing to allow them an easy exit from the conversation, while Sam, Richard, and Jay grew impatient.
Finally, Jay broke the silence. “Sam, Richard and I were wondering if you could come take a look at the new indemnity language. If it looks okay to you, then I think it’s ready to go. Excuse us, Claire, but we’re kind of under the gun here.”
“I understand,” Claire said, sounding relieved.
From his vantage point under the desk, Will watched Sam’s loafers exit the office as he followed Richard and Jay down the hall.
Will emerged from beneath the desk. Peering from the doorway, he saw that the hallway was now empty. He hurried to meet Claire in her office so they could make their escape. Roaming the office’s hushed corridors after hours had always made him feel vaguely conspiratorial, but never more so than that night.
THIRTY-TWO
A bank of fog rolled across the city like a rising tide, lapping at the office towers of the financial district, pooling in the hollows around Russian Hill, flowing languidly through the warrenlike streets of Chinatown. Seen from Nob Hill down the corridor of California Street, the Bay Bridge was a connect-the-dots abstraction of support pillars and spires, with nothing in between. Will felt almost as if he were intruding on something intimate as he steered his car down an empty Geary Street at three thirty A.M. on a Thursday, watching the fog and the city nestle against one another in the night like an old married couple.
He drove past Dacha Restaurant three times until he was satisfied no one was there. Then he circled twice more, trying to spot any law enforcement surveillance. He decided that if the FBI, the DOJ, or the San Francisco cops were staking out the restaurant, he probably wouldn’t be able to spot them, anyway. He was willing to take that risk.
Will pulled into the alleyway behind the restaurant. There was the rusted iron door that Yuri and Nikolai had shoved him through on the night that they introduced him to Valter.
He parked beside a Dumpster and reread the message that he had printed on his home computer:Boka—
I can’t do this anymore. Meet me at the entrance to Justin Herman Plaza, next to Four Embarcadero Center on Thursday at 10 P.M. I want out. But I have something for you—a going-away present.
Sam
He placed the sheet of paper inside an envelope bearing the Reynolds Fincher logo and sealed it. Will slipped the envelope beneath the restaurant’s back door.
THIRTY-THREE
On Thursday afternoon at five P.M., Will drove into the parking garage beneath Four Embarcadero Center. He started on the first parking level and worked his way down, until he found Sam’s blue Mercedes SLK parked on the third level in a corner far from the elevators. He parked his BMW in a nearby spot.
Sam should appear sometime in the next couple of hours. Even if a transaction was on the brink of closing, he was likely to leave the final preparations, and the attendant all-nighter, to his associates.
Will searched for
video surveillance cameras and spotted several, but they did not appear to be trained on the corner of the garage where Sam’s car was parked. He knew that he would attract the attention of patrolling security guards if he loitered near Sam’s car, so he took the elevator up to the street-level shops. Sam would have to pass this way to take the elevator down to the garage. Will bought a cup of coffee, took a seat on a concrete bench twenty yards from the elevators, and waited. The shadows grew long, the night fell, and a cold wind whipped through the walkways of the shopping center. The shops closed, and the pedestrians dwindled to a few office workers hurrying home, late for dinner.