Jeff Abbott - Panic

‘You couldn’t copy a whole computer hard drive using this, though, could you?’

‘No. Not this. Too small. But another PDA, or a set of files, sure.’

Maybe my mother used an approach like this to steal the files from Khan, Evan thought. ‘It would be fast?’

‘Sure. If you grab other files along with it, no problem. Grab a whole folder, it’s faster than searching and grabbing for files. If you can compress it, all the better.’ He handed him back the PDA, his eyebrow raised. ‘You steal this from the spooks?’

‘Spooks?’

‘Spies.’

‘You don’t want to know.’

‘I don’t,’ Razur said.

Evan watched the status bar slowly inching its progress. Please, he thought, crack. Give me the files. But they weren’t just files: they were a lifetime’s worth of secrets, the financial trails of terrible deceits, the record of lives snuffed out for dirty money. He had one hand to play with Jargo, and it was on these files.

Razur lit a cigarette. ‘I could hack a porn site while we’re waiting. Cover up the tits with pictures of prominent politicians. I’m very antiporn these days. I’ve gone all Victorian.’

Evan shook his head. ‘I want your opinion on an idea of mine. If we crack the password, but the files on the laptop are encrypted, would that keep you from copying them to another computer?’

‘Possibly. Depends on how they’re encrypted. Or if they’re copy-protected.’

‘The program to de-encrypt the files has to be on this laptop, right? I mean, you would need to edit files, so you would have to decrypt them first, make changes, and lock them back up.’

‘Yes. If the unlocking program’s not on the laptop, it needs to be in a place where it can be downloaded easily. Otherwise it’s like a lockbox without a key, worthless. If your bad guy stashed a custom program on a remote server, I’ll dig through his cache, if it hasn’t been erased, to track it, or I’ll have to hack into his service provider.’ Razur grinned. ‘I detect an evil idea about to take flight.’

‘So we could decode the files,’ Evan said, running a finger along the smooth edge of the laptop, ‘and hide a copy. On a server where I could retrieve a copy off the Web. Then we encrypt the hard drive of this laptop again, using the same locking software and the original password. I give the bad guys their encrypted laptop, they might believe I never, ever saw the files. It’s like returning a locked box to them that I never had the key for. So they think I’m no longer a real threat to them.’

Razur nodded.

‘Or even if they kill me, the files could still be used to cut off the balls of said bad guys. It would be my ace in the hole.’

‘No guarantees,’ Razur said, ‘that I can even break this system open.’

‘Then I think I need a Plan B.’ Evan toyed with the possibilities. He smiled at Razur. ‘I’m going to need a bit more help from you. Of course I’ll pay extra.’

‘Sure.’

‘Tell me, do you play poker?’

T he men caught Evan at Heathrow Airport early Friday afternoon. He made an effort to look like any young tourist. He wore fresh-pressed khakis and a new black sweater, tennis shoes, and sunglasses bought from Razur. His hair was still CIA-short but now it was platinum-white, courtesy of Razur’s much-tattooed girlfriend. The men let him approach the British Airways counter, buying a round-trip ticket to Miami, paying with cash, even let him glide through security. He used the South African passport he stole from Gabriel a lifetime ago. He was nearly to his gate when the agents came up on both sides of him, said, ‘This way, Mr. Casher, please don’t make a fuss,’ with cool politeness, and so he didn’t. Suddenly walking next to him and in front of and behind him were six British MI5 officers, and they boxed and steered him with grace.

No one around Evan realized he had been plucked into custody.

The agents escorted him into a small, windowless room. It smelled of coffee. Bedford stood at the end of a conference table. Then Evan saw Carrie on the other side of the room. She rushed to him, embraced him. ‘Thank God, thank God.’

She held him for a long minute, tight, and he gave in to her embrace, being careful of her hurt shoulder.

‘I thought you were dead,’ she said into his neck.

‘I’m sorry. I tried to stop your car but you didn’t see me. I was too far away. But I knew you were alive. You’re okay?’

‘Yes. British intelligence had a team following us. They found me after the blast. Took me to a safe house for questioning.’

She pulled back from him, kissed him quickly, put her hand on his cheek. Giddy in her relief. ‘What’s with the Sting look?’

He shrugged. Bedford came forward, put his hand on Evan’s shoulder. ‘Evan. We are all tremendously relieved that you’re alive and well.’

Another man sat next to Bedford: clipped hair, good suit, a face bland as air. ‘Mr. Casher. Hello. I’m Palmer, MI5.’

‘My counterpart, of sorts,’ Bedford said. ‘Not his real name. You understand.’

‘Hello,’ Evan said. He ignored Palmer’s outstretched hand, shrugged his shoulder out from under Bedford’s grip.

‘Evan?’ Carrie eased him into the chair next to her. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘My problem is with you,’ Evan said to Bedford. ‘You delivered us into the hands of a murderer.’

Bedford went pale. ‘I’m sorry. We’ve looked at every moment Pettigrew’s spent in the Agency for the past fifteen years and still haven’t found the connection to Jargo.’

‘I know where you can get the accounts linking Pettigrew and Jargo. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll give it to you. But you and I have to make a deal.’

‘A deal.’

‘I don’t think you can keep me alive, Mr. Bedford. You’re so worried about showing your face you don’t know who to trust. I’m not waiting to be shot by Pettigrew, Part Two.’

Carrie asked Bedford, ‘Could I talk to Evan alone?’

Bedford measured the chill in the room and gave a quick nod. ‘Yes. Palmer, let’s you and I talk outside, please.’ They shut the door behind them.

Carrie took his hand. ‘How could you let me believe you were dead? I’ve spent the past twenty-four hours grieving.’

‘I am truly sorry. But I didn’t know who other than you and Bedford I could trust. Clearly Bedford doesn’t know either. I wasn’t going to phone in and walk back into the arms of another Pettigrew.’

‘How did you get information tying Pettigrew to Jargo?’ she said.

‘I got resourceful.’

‘Will you give it to me?’

‘No. If I hand it over, my father is dead. I need your help. I have to get out of here.’ Evan spoke in the barest whisper. ‘If Jargo gets word that the CIA has picked me up, he’ll call off trading me the files for my dad.’

‘You really have the files.’ She sounded stunned.

‘Yes.’

‘I can’t go against Bedford. You’re not thinking straight.’

‘I’m so far down the rabbit hole now… I can’t trust anyone. Jargo not to kill me, Bedford to protect me. You to love me.’

‘I do love you.’

He was suddenly afraid the poker face he’d worn the whole day would crack. He closed both his hands around hers. ‘I want to forget everything. I want us to have a normal life. But that’s not going to happen while we’re still down the rabbit hole. I have to take the fight right to Jargo, and I’ve got a way to stop him cold, but I need your help. I have to get to Florida. I need you to stay here, out of harm’s way.’

‘Evan…’

Bedford opened the door. Walked in without waiting to see if their conversation was done. Palmer and one of the MI5 officers followed him into the room, the officer carrying Evan’s luggage. He set it down and left, shutting the door behind him.