David Dun - Unacceptable Risk

"Who was under the burka?" Sam asked.

One of the private eyes spoke up. "It was a hundred feet from the Bonanza to the Citation. He or she took fifty steps to cover it. By the stride, I'd say it was a woman. He or she put out a hand when she climbed the stairs. Woman-size hand, although it was gloved. Height we guess at five feet eight inches. He or she is accustomed to airplanes because he or she didn't hesitate for even a second as would someone unfamiliar with private jets. But he or she is not accustomed to the burka because he or she slightly misjudged the added height and just touched the header on the entryway to the jet. We got just a glimpse of the shoes as he or she climbed the steps. They were upscale and they were female-size feet. So we think it's a she and not a he."

"Well, not to put too fine a point on it, but that could bring it down to a few thousand since not many woman with nice shoes and a normal build are used to climbing in and out of private jets. Assuming, of course, we're right about the jets," Grogg said.

"Did anyone notice the fingers of her right hand?" Sam asked.

There was silence.

"Play the tape again." Everyone watched. Sticking down out of one sleeve were the gloved fingers of a hand. They moved like cilia on a sea creature but very slowly.

"Get a signer who knows signing for the deaf."

"That won't take long; we have someone," Jill said. While he waited, Sam used his cell to call people in the flight con trol center tracking the jet. It was headed for Martha's Vineyard. Then Jill came back on.

"Got it. You won't believe it. She signed STOGETH- ERBM and I would take that to mean 'Sam together Benoit Moreau.' "

"Resourceful," Sam said. "In more ways than one. She's out of jail and in the U.S.? What game are the French playing?"

"Figures one of the French is wired into the deal, probably illicitly," Jill said.

Grogg added the punctuation: "Surprise, surprise, surprise."

Sam found Michael and Grady in a booth at a tavern in Gramercy Park nearby the bed amp; breakfast, apparently having sat with their beers for some time. There were six bodyguards spread around the place and their roving eyes created an odd sensation, but it didn't seem to interfere with busi ness. Grady had taken Anna's tragedy hard, but she was weathering it in the presence of the strong calm that was Michael Bowden. It had been two days since the airport incident and Figgie hadn't said a word.

"You've got to get out of New York," Sam said to Michael, not in the mood for circumlocutions.

"What are you thinking?" Bowden asked.

The words didn't contain attitude, but Sam thought the tone did. "Look what they've done to try to get those journals. Gaudet has almost killed you, Grady, me, and Anna. What more do you need to see?"

"I know the whys. Why I should run. Why Gaudet wants me. What I don't know is what you're suggesting. I want him out of my life and everyone else's, out of commission, whatever. Dead. Right? Aren't we more likely to catch him if I'm visible than if I'm hiding?"

"You're right, and I don't disagree. But think about it first. It's not just your life we're talking about."

"Grady should not be with me until this is over. I know that."

"Don't I get a say in that?" Grady had had enough.

Sam and Michael looked at each other.

"Get used to it, Michael. Hey, you have to admit she's not doing bad." Sam drained his drink and leaned forward, el bows on the table. "Look, if you're in, that's fine with me. I have a thought as to how we might lay a trap. But you have to be sure."

"I'm not dying to be a staked goat, but it's better than doing nothing."

Sam looked at Grady, who glowed with pride at her men tor's earlier remark. Behind the glow, though, her face showed her disquiet. In her eyes he saw both the undaunted determination of a woman with a plan and a smart person afraid for her life. And Michael's.

"All right at least let's move you to a bed-and-breakfast over in Greenwich Village. They'll have to find you again."

"That's fine," Michael said and Grady nodded.

"First, I have a big piece of news," Sam said. "We re ceived an e-mail today from France. We think they are relay ing messages from one Benoit Moreau." Sam briefly explained her history with Grace Technologies and her imprisonment. "She seems to be out, and possibly in New York. Apparently she will want a meeting; an attorney ready to attend and most interesting, a fake 1998 journal copy that looks real but is entirely a forgery."

"What?"

"That is totally weird," Grady said.

"I do not know why that request and she hasn't said when she wants a meeting or why. It could be to work her own scam or it could be because she wants to help us. If they think they have the journal, they lay off you. I think she wants me to believe she is on our side. I should mention that the attorney is to be an expert in immigration."

"Should I make a journal with incorrect latitudes and longitudes and with altered descriptions of the material? Mis-describe flora, fauna?"

"It couldn't hurt. But I'm sure it would be a lot of work."

"A whole year's worth of actual data? Maybe. But if I got Lyman and some honest graduate students…"

By the next day, a full twelve days after his arrival in New York, Sam had set up temporary offices. Every morning that he could, he would stop by to see Anna and he called Anna's mother or the nurse Lydia at least twice a day. Here he could work the phones and brainstorm with the investigators feeding Big Brain. It wasn't glamorous, but unlike the LA office, he could be near Anna. He had a better chance of finding Gaudet from the computer room than he did walking the streets, because from the office he could greatly multiply his efforts using contract investigators. A new priority was learning why the French were having secret meetings with Gaudet and who had hired the grad student to steal Michael's jour nal.

Back at the bed-and-breakfast he kissed Grady on the cheek, clasped her hand, and left her with Michael. His instincts were talking to him again. Grady and Michael were assuming he'd go back to LA. He didn't bother to correct the impression, although there were various ways they might find him out. Since he always took calls on his cell, it wasn't always easy to determine his whereabouts and people were very used to not knowing.

Preferring anonymity he stayed over in Greenwich Village, in the apartment of a retired FBI agent. The man was travel ing.

On the way to the office he stopped by the hospital. In mid- afternoon the hospital was getting ready for a shift change. Nurses were standing around flipping through charts and talking in low tones. Anna's room was a good walk down a long corridor filled with people with serious problems. There was a faint antiseptic smell and somehow it didn't help his mood. As he neared the door, the deep reserve of sadness that was always with him these days took over his mind. When he entered, he noticed that the monitor was now silent and each beat was only a line on the screen. Sitting by Anna's bed, her mother held her hand, and it made him feel good and it made him feel guilty all at the same time. When he ap proached Anna's mother, he noticed that her face was drawn and that deep fatigue had set in. The vigil was taking its toll.

"I will leave you alone," she said quietly.

Nothing had ever made him feel so helpless.

Anna's face revealed nothing and it seemed to Sam that she was very far away.

She always liked the smell of a good Cuban cigar, so in violation of all the rules he sat by her bed and smoked a few puffs. After he put out the cigar, he leaned forward and whis pered in her ear.

Sam sat in New York in front of the video-conferencing monitor, talking to Jill in LA the way old acquaintances do, snacking, drinking, and lapsing into silence between broken phrases that called up a history of late nights at the office, long lunches, walks in the park, and even pillow talk. They had each ordered in some fried yearling oysters and Sam carefully dipped the end of about every third oyster in ketchup. He called the ketchup dunking "cleansing the palate." Jill liked the unadulterated oyster flavor and skipped the condiment. Harry sat on the conference table of the New York office watch ing every oyster that went into Sam's mouth and got about one out of four. Jill said the dog had superior taste-he'd have none of Sam's ketchup. One of Sam's staff had been kind enough to bring the lonely dog with him from LA.