James Patterson - Blindside

Fiore visibly softened for a moment. “I know you’re not a bad guy. My guess is you’re over here for all the right reasons. But the FBI has to maintain a relationship with all the countries that allow us to operate within their borders. I can’t have every hotshot cop in the US coming over here, thinking they can do whatever they want.”

“How many cops want to come to Estonia?”

“You have no idea how much cybercrime originates from here. Teenagers with access to high-speed internet are figuring out schemes to bilk old people out of money in the US. Every swinging dick in this country has a computer.”

“Sounds like it’s a good idea for me to leave.”

“Finally you’re making some sense.”

CHAPTER 64

THANK GOD ST. LASZLO’Swas on the way to the hotel, where I still needed to pick up my carry-on bag. It was hard enough to convince the FBI agent to bring me to the church, let alone to let me get my bag before we headed to the airport.

The church was certainly not as grand as the Alexander Nevsky Cathedral on the hill in Old Town; it looked more like a suburban church in Baltimore. But it was still clearly Orthodox, with the three horizontal bars on the cross, the bottom bar at an angle and much smaller than the middle bar.

There were no tourists here. Only a few cars were in the parking lot alongside the church, probably the staff vehicles and something for the priest to drive.

We parked on the street directly in front, where a walkway lined with budding bushes led to the main entrance.

I opened the door, and Fiore opened the driver’s door. He just looked at me and said, “You think I’m going to let you just walk away? I’m with you until I see your smiling face walk down the Jetway to your plane.”

This could get tricky. I considered how far I’d be willing to go to escape the FBI’s custody.

A priest in his clerical cassock stepped out the front door and waved to me. He was nothing like I had expected. I don’t know why I had assumed a friend of my grandfather’s would also be an elderly man, but this priest was in his early fifties with slightly graying hair. He looked to be in pretty good shape and had clear, blue eyes.

He hurried down the steps and along the walkway, extending his hand. “You have got to be Seamus’s grandson, Michael. I would see the resemblance anywhere.”

I wasn’t sure if that was a compliment. But I shook his hand and thanked him. I said, “This is my”—I paused for a moment, then finished—“friend, Bill Fiore.”

The priest said, “I’m Martin Zlatic, but everyone calls me Marty.” His accent was almost unnoticeable.

We chatted for a minute about some of the work my grandfather had done and his interest in history. I guess we went on too long because the FBI agent said, “I hate to break this up, but can we grab your grandfather’s envelope and get going?”

Marty said, “I’m so sorry. Yes, of course. Follow me, please.”

If my grandfather had called and tipped Marty off, he was one of the best actors I had ever met.

He took a moment to show us the altar, mentioning that his congregation stood during mass, which explained why there were no pews. I thought about some of the sermons I’d sat through in my childhood—that was a long time to stand.

I knew the clock was ticking. Whatever this priest had in store for me, I hoped he did it soon. Fiore was getting more impatient by the second and could call this whole thing off. I tried to signal Father Marty with a look, communicating that we were up against a deadline.

He led us past the altar into the back corridors. They felt like a maze. I noticed Marty subtly picking up his pace as Bill Fiore started to drift farther back from me. It was right then that I realized this priest wasn’t fooling around. He knew exactly what he was doing. And he was exactly the kind of friend I’d expect my grandfather to have.

We took one corner, then another, and I swear we were headed back to the altar, but instead we just kept walking.

I heard Fiore call out, “Hey, wait up.” He took a wrong turn and I heard some language that shouldn’t be used in a church. Then a more urgent, “Where’d you guys go?”

Suddenly and without warning, Father Marty pressed what looked like a solid wall and shoved me into an opening. I slipped inside just as I heard Fiore yell, “Bennett, you better not leave this church.” I thought I heard the FBI agent running as Marty followed me inside the dark, narrow corridor and set the panel back in place.

He said, “There’s no time to lose. Come with me.” He squeezed past me and nearly jogged down the remarkably constricted hallway.

We took a flight of stairs down. I had to hunch over to make it through the next hallway. Then we descended a long staircase that disappeared into the dark.

My heart was racing as I wondered what I could accomplish while trying to avoid the FBI. It seemed like it took a full minute, but it probably wasn’t nearly that long before Marty opened the last door. The sun hit me right in the face. I looked around and didn’t recognize anything.

Marty pointed up the hill and I saw that we’d traveled through some sort of basement and out a back door. We might’ve been as far as three blocks away from where Bill Fiore had parked his car, if you considered the elevation. It was the cleanest getaway I’d ever made.

Marty smiled and said, “Old Russian Orthodox churches are full of surprises. I’m glad we could use them to help you on your mission.”

“My grandfather told you why I’m here?”

“To save a girl who’s missing.”

“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”

The priest frowned and said, “I can delay the FBI agent a few more minutes still. Find this girl.”

CHAPTER 65

AFTER HIDING OUTin a tourist welcome center for a while, I hailed a taxi and told him exactly what Gunnar, the janitor, had told me. Twenty minutes later, I saw Toit’s City café and a series of office buildings and warehouses across the street. This had to be the place.

I was literally like the dog who’d chased a car and caught it. Now what to do with it? I was standing there, looking at a likely location for the infamous Endrik “Henry” Laar, and only then did I realize I needed backup. Damn. Good luck and a little help from a priest had put me in a position to find Natalie, but I didn’t think it was smart to barge in. I did have a gun, but only sixteen rounds of 9mm ammo, and there was no telling what was inside the warehouse.

I stepped into the café. A few minutes later, I was seated with a cup of coffee for my own version of surveillance. I had no vehicle, no official authority, and no backup. Suddenly my brilliant plan looked like a six-year-old’s idea.

I pulled out a paper napkin and made a few notes on it. If nothing else, once the FBI caught up to me, I could give it to them. But I wasn’t ready to surrender just yet.

I kept watching the windows of the building across the street. There was definitely someone inside. So far, I had counted only two men. One matched the general description of Henry. Well under six feet, around thirty, neatly groomed, and wearing a blue T-shirt with some sort of emblem on it. The other man was older and heavier. If there were just two men, I might have a decent chance if I got inside.

I wondered if that was my attempt to build confidence. But I had no chance of finding Natalie if I didn’t at least go into this warehouse. I did, for about thirty seconds, consider how it might screw up Fiore’s operation if there was a large-scale investigation into the cybercrime organization.

I’d seen these conflicts of interest a dozen times, like when the FBI arrested someone on a minor fraud charge who the NYPD had under surveillance for a major RICO charge. Even within the NYPD, different units would step on one another’s feet; more than one homicide surveillance I had conducted had been interrupted when the Narcotics unit made a quick bust.