Chris Jordan - Measure of Darkness

Bevins instantly perks up. “Location?”

“Unknown. But Joey was spotted in the vicinity.” She explains that in a moment of apparent lucidity, Shane recalled having seen a video of Joey taken on a bridge crossing the Charles River.

“A ransom clip?”

“Possibly. He didn’t say. That was earlier today, we’re trying to run it down.”

“And you’ve shared this information with who?”

Dane shrugs. “With my boss.”

“Not with the authorities?”

Dane gives her a level look. “It was the ‘authorities’ who did this to him. Look, he’s been interrogated for seventy-two hours straight and then discarded. The ‘authorities,’ which happen to include you, have already been alerted to the possibility of a kidnapped child. We informed the Boston cops, the Cambridge cops and the local field office of the FBI, as I’m sure you know. The reaction? Professor Keener didn’t have a child, so how could a kid that doesn’t exist be missing or abducted?”

Bevins’s smile is grim, acknowledging the truth of what Dane is saying.

“Mostly I didn’t want a goon squad of macho detectives in here interrogating him yet again. The poor guy already thinks somebody removed part of his brain.”

Bevins winces. “Dr. Gallagher mentioned that that will pass.”

“Let’s hope she’s right. Meantime, Naomi Nantz is on the case. No small thing.”

“And you think having your boss in the hunt, that’s better than any of these ‘authorities’ you so clearly mistrust?”

“Absolutely. The local cops have already decided he’s a stone killer and your FBI colleagues in the Boston office have yet to respond to our inquiries. We don’t expect them to. The Bureau never shares, not with civilians.”

Bevins glances at the open doorway again, her eyes calculating. “I’m about to share, but it can’t have come from me, do you understand? At this point I can’t be seen conferring with a private investigator. Which is why I was hoping to catch you here at the hospital. I’m logged as visiting a sick friend, period.”

“Understood.”

The agent takes a breath, hesitates.

“Naomi is famous for her discretion,” Dane assures her. “You must know that.”

“Yeah,” Bevins says. “But what about you?”

“I’d pretend to be insulted but, really, what’s the point?”

“Okay, fine. If you work for Nantz you must be okay. Here’s the deal. When I spoke to you in Washington, I was under the impression that the Bureau never had Professor Keener on its radar, and that we certainly had nothing to do with Shane’s rendition, if that’s what it was. The latter is still true, but I was mistaken about Keener. He’s been a subject of interest.”

Instantly, Dane focuses. “In what way a subject of interest?”

“An anonymous memo came through Homeland, alerting the Bureau to the fact that Keener, whose company is apparently involved in top-secret research, had made at least two unexplained visits to China. The inference being, he might be passing information to Chinese intelligence agents.”

“And was he?”

Bevins shrugs her wide shoulders. “I have no way of knowing. The Bureau did due diligence, concluded the subject had no contact with foreign agents. He’d been seen conversing with quite a number of Chinese people-not exactly surprising if you’re visiting China-but none were identified as agents of the Chinese government. Therefore no evidence that he was passing secrets, either in China or here in the U.S., and therefore no further action was warranted. That information was bounced back to Homeland, as required, and there it stayed, with access restricted to the highest levels.”

“So the professor was no longer under surveillance?”

“Not by the Bureau, no. It’s still within FBI purview to take the lead in espionage cases, but in the real world, post-911, and with the exception of the odd batch of Russians infiltrating the suburbs, the emphasis has been on counterterrorism, not spy catching. We’re focused on the guy with the bomb strapped to his underwear, not the scientist with the laptop full of data. That’s just how it is.”

“So the Bureau isn’t interested, but others might be. Are you saying Professor Keener was under investigation by another agency? Can you be more specific?”

Bevins shakes her head. “Sorry, no. Can’t, because I don’t know for sure. Just a rumor of interest, you might call it. Persistent questions about Keener’s connections to China-it was known that he had a Chinese girlfriend-but no actual evidence to warrant FBI involvement. Somebody in the community didn’t trust him, that’s for sure.”

“This ‘rumor of interest,’ did it mention the boy?”

Monica Bevins looks down, studying her large but somehow elegantly shaped hands. Elegant but for the fact that some of her nails are chewed to the quick. “There was a mention, yes, in the context of family vulnerabilities. It was noted that agents of the People’s Liberation Army are known to intimidate their targets by making threats, usually very vague, about the well-being of family members who still reside in China.”

“That’s it? No mention that Joey Keener was actually missing?”

Bevins shakes her head. “The circulated memo was a simple series of questions, the point of which was to stimulate an active response from interested agencies. Why had Professor Keener frequently emailed an address in Hong Kong? Why did he go there? What was he doing in mainland China? Who did he meet there? Was the mother of his illegitimate child an agent of the PLA? Was the child being used as leverage? Like that.”

“And you have no idea who circulated this memo?”

“I can guess, but sharing the specific source would be a felony, and I can’t go there, not even for Naomi Nantz.”

“Not even for Randall Shane?”

Bevins’s cold glare makes Dane feel like she’s been drenched by a bucket of ice water. “The Bureau looks out for its own,” the big woman says, hotly. “We’re now fully involved. There’s an FBI alert out for the missing child, as of this morning. That’s all you need to know.”

Before the young lawyer can apologize-testing and probing, that’s her job, nothing personal-the patient groans from his hospital bed. They both turn to see Shane attempting to sit up.

“Monica!” he cries in a ragged whisper.

A moment later the two old friends are embracing, faces wet with tears, and this time Dane Porter follows her best instincts and steps out of the room for a few minutes. Texting quietly as she goes.

He always carries his own bag. No cart, no caddy, and the best part, today he’s playing alone. Not quite a scratch golfer, but close, and perfectly capable of birdieing this, the seventeenth hole. Salt water on two sides, as blue as the sky above. Seagulls wheel like silent drones in the high summer air. Unarmed, he hopes, chuckling to himself. On this course, with so many ducks and seabirds in the general vicinity, members wear hats to avoid the splat.

Taylor Gatling, Jr., finds himself in an excellent mood, savoring life. It helps that he owns the course, and that he’s arranged to have this part of it to himself. Nobody ahead, nobody behind. Could a man ask for more?

Oh yes, a chilled martini back at the clubhouse. That will make it a perfect day for bananafish, as his dad used to say, in reference to some silly story Taylor never bothered to read. Taylor has never cared for fiction. Why bother, when reality is so much more interesting?

With no other players pressing he can take his own sweet time, savoring the moment, imagining his triumph. Two hundred and fifteen yards to the pin, no problem, sir, consider it done. He selects his club, extracts it from the bag. An easy three-wood will impart the necessary backspin, placing the ball tight on the green.