Brian Haig - PrivateSector

In fact, I was speculating wildly. I was connecting dots in midair. But the dots did connect.

After a moment, Janet said, “So they sent a hit man after Lisa, and the rest of us, to bury it.”

“Yes.” Then I said, “Incidentally, did you call your friend in Boston and ask him to check on Grand Vistas?”

“I did. I should call him back now, shouldn’t I?”

She should, and we agreed she’d call me right back. I returned to the living room, where Spinelli and his buddies were seated on the couch, shotguns in their laps, eyes glued to an old rerun of Miami Vice. Cops love their cop shows.

We spent a few moments surveying the preparations. This began with an incisive dissertation by Charlie about the vulnerabilities and ports of entry to my home. My apartment complex had been built some fifty years earlier, when construction techniques included heavy steel girders, cinderblock walls, and super-thick layers between floors. Were the building newer and less sturdy, he informed me, intruders might blow their way through walls or ceilings, but that wouldn’t happen here. I informed Charlie that this was exactly the selling point that drew me here. He thought that was very funny.

He next showed me an electronic device he had installed on the floor of the tiny porch off my living room: a dark pad that operates like a dog fence, except the current is triggered by touch and vibration. Were I to, say, accidentally wander out onto my porch, Charlie assured me, I’d be fine. I’d get some fried hairtips and loose teeth, but the voltage was designed to be incapacitating, not lethal. My windows were covered with dark paper and wired with motion sensors. A miniature camera in a filament had been run underneath the door, displaying the hallway. Four metal shooter’s shields of the variety favored by SWAT teams had been erected in the living room, facing the door.

After we inspected all these little treats and nasties, Bill asked me, “What makes you think he’ll come soon?”

“A hunch.”

Charlie asked, “How does he even know you’re here?”

“Because they’ve been following Janet and me for days.”

“They?” Spinelli asked. I guess I had failed to mention this part to him.

“Yes, they,” I responded. “Inside the files in the rental car were multiple photos of Janet and me. Janet, for instance, was photographed the same day Lisa died. The picture was taken in Boston. Think about that.”

“No shit.”

“He’s not acting alone. He has an accomplice who handles the research, probably handles logistics, and helps set up the kill.”

He shook his head. “That’s how the asshole kills so many, so quickly.”

“We should assume they saw me leave the firm and come here.”

The phone rang and I returned to the bedroom.

It was Janet, and she informed me, “I caught John at home. He says there’s nothing in his database about Grand Vistas.”

“Is that odd?”

“For privately owned internationals that do little business in the States, no. So he called the U. S. consulate in Bermuda. The consulate found an address and sent a man over to check. Grand Vistas occupies a small office on Hamilton Street. The consulate man spoke with the landlord and was told Grand Vistas has rented the office the past four years. The landlord says he rarely sees anybody enter or leave.”

“Meaning what?”

“John was guessing, but the office might contain a phone switch. The office fulfills the residency requirements; calls come in and are rerouted somewhere else.”

“Isn’t that odd?”

“Not according to John. Corporations that want the tax benefits of Bermudan registration set up these empty shells fairly frequently.” She added, “He then called the SEC and asked some contacts there if they have anything on Grand Vistas.”

“Did they?”

“They never heard of it.”

“Anything else?”

“One more thing. The SEC sent an open inquiry to their counterparts in every European country. It was marked expedite, so hopefully they’ll respond soon.”

There was a long silence, then Janet said, “Sean, it’s time to tell George about this.”

“Is he there?… With you?”

“No. He dropped me off and immediately left to attend to some business. He left me his cell phone number.”

“We will not tell him. Not yet.”

“What are you worried about?”

“Did I mention who runs the backbone of the FBI’s data and Internet needs? Morris Networks.”

“This is scary.”

She was right. It was scary.

But I was also pleased that the pieces were finally falling into place. It was all coming together-the killer, the motive, the accomplices-all the who, what, and how stuff that solves a crime. Right?

Wrong. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was missing something, something big, that in making everything fit together, I was looking the wrong way.

So we were huddled in my living room in our bulletproof vests, swapping stories, watching the big-screen tube, munching popcorn, the usual routine when you’re expecting a hit man to drop in.

The Army expends a lot of energy and money trying to understand things nobody but soldiers give a crap about. For example, the best time to attack somebody. The general theory holds this to be somewhere between 3:00 A.M. and 5:00 A.M., when sleep cycles are heaviest, alertness is dullest, moonlight is dimmest, and, in our case, TV shows are worst. After Jay Leno, it’s a bottomless pit. Sometimes, before Jay Leno.

We were reduced to infomercials after about 2:00 A.M., and I was out of gas, as was Spinelli, since we’d both spent the previous night playing masked crusader and rushing to Janet’s rescue.

Charlie kept his nose tucked inside a small cathode-ray screen that led to the tiny camera that peeked out into the hallway.

By 4:00 A.M., I began entertaining the notion that this guy would try to hit me on the way to the courtroom that morning. For a variety of reasons, moving targets are easier to take down than stationary ones. But perhaps I was just looking for an excuse to nap.

The more unsettling notion I tried not to dwell upon was that nobody was coming after me. I had guessed right about Boston, but guesses are like coin tosses: fifty-fifty every time.

At 4:05, Charlie popped his nose out of the monitor. He said, “Somebody’s out there. Near the end of the hall, too far to see clearly.”

Bill helpfully suggested, “Could be a neighbor going for a jog or leaving for work.”

Yes; could be. But they all grabbed their rifles and shotguns, we adjusted our vests, and we crouched behind the shooter’s shields. I was beginning to wish I had a weapon.

Spinelli whispered to his partners, “Shoot to kill.”

The proper advisory was “employ only reasonable force,” and as an attorney, I should have swiftly corrected and clarified this point. I let it slide. People who try to get fancy in situations like this often get dead.

A few minutes passed during which Charlie kept his face pressed into his monitor. In fact, so much time passed that we were all starting to unwind and relax, when out the blue there was this loud, awful scream on the porch. At the same instant, the TV shut off and the lights went off, apparently from the energy surge on the porch.

Spinelli immediately spun around and began pumping rounds through the glass porch door, which showered outward.

Bill was beside me and he suddenly doubled over. Then Charlie flew backward off his feet and landed with a thud. Spinelli screamed, “Shit!” and kept firing his M16 through the destroyed porch door, where three dark figures had suddenly materialized, dangling off ropes, pointing silenced weapons inside, spraying my apartment with bullets.