Дэвид Балдаччи - The Escape

He stared at the fries and then at her. “French fries? I thought you’d come in with carrot sticks and non-fat yogurt.”

She slipped a thick fry from the box, opened her mouth wide, and poised the fry between her teeth momentarily before chomping down on it, causing him to wince slightly.

“A girl can splurge sometimes, Puller. I ran five miles this morning and then did an Insanity exercise routine.”

“Then I think you might be entitled to the whole box.”

He unwrapped his sandwich and saw that it was a Philly cheese-steak. His smile was wide and immediate.

“Boys are so predictable,” said Knox, giving him an amused look.

“In some ways,” said Puller, taking a bite of his Philly and then a drink of the hot coffee.

She glanced at the stacks of papers. “So, anything good?”

He wiped his mouth with a napkin and drew a legal pad covered with notes toward him. “Shireen said they charged my brother with spying under Article 106.”

She put down her coffee. “Right, the one that carries the automatic death sentence.”

He nodded, sticking a fry in the small tub of ketchup. “But then it just went away and was replaced with the espionage charge.”

“Nothing in the court-martial record about exactly why?”

“No, not really. It was just there until it wasn’t.”

“Pretty big difference,” she noted. “Death for certain or life imprisonment.”

“Right. I’m sure if we asked why they would just claim national security.”

“They always pull that crap out when they don’t want to tell the truth,” said Knox.

“Well, I guess you would know,” he shot back.

She flashed him a scowl. “So why do you think they would have cut the charge down? Did your brother have some juice in high places behind him?”

“He was still convicted of espionage. He still got life in prison. How much juice could he have?”

“But still, Puller. They were originally going for the death penalty. And it seemed like his alleged crimes fit the requirements for spying.”

“The defense counsel and prosecutor Shireen talked to would know all about this.”

“But will they talk to us? I’m surprised they told her as much as they did.”

“She’s a fellow JAG. And they didn’t tell her everything.” He stopped and lapsed into thought for a few moments. “We could always ask them, in our professional capacity.”

“Yes, we could. And they could refuse. And we could press the point, go to court, get a subpoena, let the lawyers duke it out.”

“And all of that would take time, maybe a lot of time,” said Puller.

“Lawyers never work fast, at least that’s been my experience.”

“We need to work this out from our angle.”

“What about talking to the judge?” she asked.

Puller shook his head. “I doubt he’ll even see us. And even if he would, he’ll never tell us anything. Judges don’t talk about cases.”

“Well, then the trial lawyers probably won’t either.”

“I think we have a better shot with them.”

“Okay, so where are the lawyers?”

“The prosecutor’s in Charlottesville, Virginia, a couple of hours from here. He’s no longer doing trial work. He’s teaching at the JAG School there. My brother’s former lawyer is out of the Air Force and in private practice in North Carolina.”

“Okay, do we split up or do it tag-team?” she asked.

“Do you want to split up?”

“No.”

“Then let’s head to C-ville. Did you find out anything more about Robinson?”

“Your gut was right. His son was very sick. Terminal, actually. They went to Germany desperate for a miracle cure that fortunately worked.”

“And how did they pay for it?”

“There was a community fund-raiser that brought in some dollars. But I spoke with folks in Berlin familiar with the medical procedure and they said it easily would have cost a million-plus. I don’t think you could sell enough cookies and lemonade to raise that much cash. And Robinson’s insurance, good though it was, did not cover that sort of treatment.”

“And no one became suspicious?”

“Pretty touchy subject when you’re dealing with a sick kid. And it came after the trial was over. Maybe people just didn’t put two and two together.”

“Or maybe they didn’t want to. But we did it, pretty quickly. And I know the kid was sick and I’m glad he’s better. But my brother lost everything.”

“Preaching to the choir,” she replied.

“Yeah,” said Puller. “Too bad someone didn’t start preaching two years ago.”

SUSAN REYNOLDS SLIPPED into her car after putting some shopping bags in the trunk. It was thirty minutes to her home and the traffic was light. She reached her house and carried her bags in. She set them down and turned off the alarm. She was about to switch on the light when the voice called out.

“Please don’t move. There’s a gun pointed at your head.”

Reynolds started to turn around.

“Do not turn around,” the voice said sharply.

Reynolds froze where she stood.

“Now, walk forward and turn into the living room. Sit in the chair nearest the television.”

“You seem to know my house very well,” said Reynolds calmly as she began to walk in that direction.

She turned into the living room and sat in the designated chair. When she reached for the light on the table next to her the voice said, “I’ll do that.”

She slowly pulled back her hand and laid it in her lap while the person behind her turned on the light to its lowest setting.

“How did you get in here? The alarm was on.”

“An alarm is only as good as the password, and yours wasn’t very good.”

“But then you reset it? Why?”

“Well, not resetting it would have given my intrusion away, wouldn’t it?”

He moved fully into the room but kept behind her.

Robert Puller had on a hoodie pulled up and a ski mask that covered everything on his face except his eyes and lips. His gun was pointed at the back of Reynolds’s head. Across the room he had placed a mirror he’d found in her bathroom on a table. It was angled so that he could see her face reflected in it, while he remained hidden from her. He wanted to see her face, and more important, her reactions to his questions.

He said, “I would presume that you’re armed. Take your weapon out holding it by the muzzle or the next sound you hear will unfortunately be the last one you ever will.”

She drew out the compact Sig nine-millimeter by the muzzle and placed it on the carpet.

“Kick it behind you.”

She did so and Puller reached down and pocketed it.

“What do you want?” asked Reynolds. “I have some money in the study. My credit cards are in my purse. I don’t have gold bullion on the premises, if that’s what you’re looking for,” she added snidely.

“Who paid you to lie about what you saw?” Puller asked.

She stiffened and Puller added, “I thought you would have recognized my voice before now, Susan.”

“It’s been two years.”

“Over two years, actually. But still, I remembered your voice.”

“I’ve had a lot more to do over the last two years than you.”

“Actually, I’ve had a lot to think about, if that counts.”

“And what did you conclude, Robert?”

“That you were well compensated, judging by the size of your house and the luxury car you drove up in. Uncle Sam doesn’t pay that well for someone at your level.”

“I invested smartly and I had some money to start with. It’s all been checked out. My security clearances justify that.”

“Not always, as you well know. Granting security clearances these days is not what it used to be. But I’m not here to discuss your financial circumstances, other than to find out who paid you off.”