Дэвид Балдаччи - The Sixth Man

I KNOW. E. BUNTING. FRAMED. SUSPICIONS?

Roy made no visible reaction to this, but as Sean glanced down at him, he could see that his eyes had finally come to life and that the tiniest fraction of a smile tugged at his lips as his image was safely shielded from the camera by his sister’s bulk.

The zombie, it seemed, had just arisen.

Paul started tapping her finger against the paper. She did it almost silently, but slowly and methodically. At first Sean couldn’t understand what she was doing. But then it finally hit him.

She’s communicating with him via Morse code.

And then another noise arose. Sean glanced down. Roy was tapping against his leg. He was answering her. She tapped her response back.

Edgar Roy’s gaze returned to the spot on the ceiling.

Paul crumpled the paper, put it in her mouth, and swallowed it.

As they walked out Sean whispered to Paul, “What was that about?”

“I gave him details and asked him to analyze them.”

“What did he code back to you?”

“He wanted to know if I had told Bergin about the E-Program. I told him I hadn’t.”

“What do we do now?”

“Now we go on the attack,” replied Paul.

“How?”

“I’ll tell you exactly how, because you and Michelle will be the tip of the spear.”

“Is Bunting behind all this?”

“We’re going to find out.”

Roy was returned to his cell. Once there he immediately turned away from the camera so he could at least close his eyes. He was tired, but the visit had lifted his spirits considerably.

His sister had come. He had always thought that she would. Her message had made it clear that she understood his situation. And she had told him quite a bit more using Morse code. She’d taught him the code when he was a child.

He opened his eyes and stared at the blank block wall across from him. It was painted yellow for some reason. Perhaps they thought the color soothing to the inmates here, as if a mere color could overcome what being here clearly meant.

Ted Bergin, Hilary Cunningham, Carla Dukes, Brandon Murdock, all dead. Think about a pattern there.

That was what his sister had asked him to do.

And so he did, dutifully. He turned over every possible combination in his mind.

Bergin and Dukes up close with a handgun. Cunningham killed and her body moved to Bergin’s place. Murdock from a long distance with a rifle. Who had motive? Who had opportunity?

Roy’s mind powered through the possibilities at a pace that would have been astonishing to anyone who could have somehow witnessed the execution of his thought process, the speed with which he considered and then rejected possibilities that ordinary people would have muddled over for months.

His mind slowed down, his factual base exhausted. He had not been given much to work with, but for him it had been enough. He had not detected a single pattern.

He had detected four. But he had no way to let his sister know this. He might never see her again.

LED BY AN ARMED ESCORT, Bunting walked down the halls of the new DHS headquarters in D.C. It was a sprawling complex whose true price tag had never been revealed because it was classified. That essentially meant one had a license to print money, Bunting knew.

He was ushered into the room, and the door was closed and automatically locked behind him. He looked around the empty room and wondered if he’d been shown into the wrong space. He stopped wondering when Mason Quantrell and Ellen Foster stepped through from an adjoining room.

“Sit, Peter, this shouldn’t take long,” said Foster.

She opened a laptop that rested in front of the chair she took while Quantrell sat beside her. He smiled at Bunting. “How goes it, Pete?”

Bunting ignored him and said to Foster, “Secretary Foster. Again, I have to tell you that I’m extremely uncomfortable with having my chief competitor in the room during a confidential discussion.”

She said demurely, “Peter, we have no secrets from each other, do we?”

“Actually we do. I employ a large number of people who perform very specialized work using procedures, protocols, proprietary soft- and hardware, algorithms, and the like that I have spent years and a great deal of money creating.” He glanced at Quantrell, who continued to stare at him with what appeared to be an amused expression, making Bunting want to reach across the table and strangle him.

Quantrell said, “Well, Pete, under the current structure with the E-Program, all of your competitors have to send off their data collections for your use. I spent a lot of money putting my business together, too. But I share.”

On the contrary, Bunting knew that Quantrell had made only a pretense of doing this over the years and was still collecting his government check. He had simply been waiting for any chance to take Bunting down. And it was clear he thought he had one now.

“Well, Mason, I’m sure if you’d been the one to come up with the E-Program you’d be smart enough to know it’s far better than the way we all used to operate in the Dark Ages. That was when you were top dog on the private-sector side and everybody was going in a hundred different directions at once. You know, when 9/11 happened?”

Quantrell’s patronizing smile faded and he snarled, “You have no idea who you’re dealing with, you little prick.”

“Okay, boys, we don’t have time for schoolyard posturing,” Foster admonished.

Bunting sat across from them and waited expectantly.

Foster entered her password and tapped some computer keys, read the information revealed on the screen, and showed it to Quantrell. He glanced over at Bunting and nodded.

If they were trying to intimidate him, thought Bunting, they were doing a spectacular job of it. But his face remained unreadable. He could play this game, too.

“Do we have an agenda?” he asked. “For the meeting?”

Foster motioned for him to wait just a moment while it appeared she was sending an e-mail. She closed the laptop and looked up at him.

“I do appreciate your meeting on such short notice, Peter.”

“Certainly, whatever I can do,” replied Bunting grudgingly.

She placed her elbows on the table. “I have one pertinent question and I’d like an honest reply.”

Bunting gazed blankly at her. “I hope that you believe I am always honest with you.”

“As it turns out, the question isn’t that difficult, but the answer may well be.” She paused. “Did you have Edgar Roy’s lawyer, Ted Bergin; his secretary, Hilary Cunningham; the director of Cutter’s Rock, Carla Dukes; and FBI Special Agent Brandon Murdock murdered?”

Bunting’s brain momentarily shut down. Then he literally shouted, “Of course I didn’t! I can’t believe you’d even ask the question.”

“Please calm down. Now do you know who did kill them? If so, we really need to know.”

“I don’t have people murdered. I have no idea who did it.”

“Bluster won’t work. Do you know who killed them?” she asked again.

Bunting eyed Quantrell. “Why is he here?”

“Because I asked him to be here. In fact, he’s been quite helpful in piecing some things together for DHS.”

Bunting put a hand on the table to steady himself. “What sort of things?”

“Let’s just say that Mr. Quantrell’s people have done some digging and uncovered some interesting facts.”

“Such as?” demanded Bunting.

“Not prepared to discuss them with you right now.”

“If you’re making accusations, I think I have every right to know what they’re based on.” He shot a furious glance at Quantrell. “Particularly if this guy is involved. He’d kill his own mother to win back the business I took from him because I was smarter than he was.”