Joseph Finder - Power Play

"Not if we're using the right authorization codes."

"Maybe," I said. "Or maybe not. Let's say the wire request goes to some pain-in-the-ass bureaucrat at the bank. Some low-level employee in the wire-transfer room who's seen too many TV shows about Ukrainian bank fraud and doesn't want to lose her job. She calls back the number on file for the Hammond treasury operations office or whatever it's called, but nobody at Hammond headquarters has a record of any transfer request."

"The top guys are all here," he said. He sounded a little less sure of himself.

"So someone at headquarters says, gosh, I don't know anything about that, but here's the phone number of the lodge where all the honchos are. The bank lady, she's thinking she's being such a good doobie, she's gonna get a promotion for sure, maybe even be made deputy assistant supervisor of the wire room, and she calls the number here. Which happens to be the only telephone in the whole place-the manager's satellite phone. Maybe you answer the phone yourself. Whatever. But she asks to speak to someone whose name's on her list."

"They'll talk to her, believe you me."

"And maybe the protocol is, she's got to talk to two senior officers. An amount that size."

"Maybe."

"So you want to have at least two of them around to answer the phone and say, yeah, it's cool."

"She's not going to know who she's talking to. Shit, Buck could pretend he's Ronald Slattery, comes to that."

I shrugged. "And if they have voiceprints? Half a billion dollars, you never know what sort of security precautions they might take."

"Still only need two of them."

"Thing is, Russell, you don't know for sure which names are on the bank's list."

"Huh?"

"Look, I don't know how this works. But what if the bank has a list of two or three names you've got to call if a request comes in for a transfer over, I don't know, fifty million or a hundred million bucks. You're not going to know who's on that list."

He was silent for five, ten seconds. Looked around the porch. Moths fluttered outside. Some big insect-a june bug, maybe-kept colliding with the screen. The crickets seemed to be chirping louder and faster, but maybe that was just my imagination. It was brighter outside than in here: I could see the glimmering of the moon on the waves, the silvery wooden dock, the boulders and rocks of the shore.

"You're pulling all this out of your ass, aren't you?" he said.

"You bet."

He nodded, smiled. Then his smile faded. "Doesn't mean you're wrong, though."

"And another thing? One of the hostages needs his insulin."

"That guy Latimer."

"He could go into a coma. He could die. You don't want that."

"I don't?"

"He's the General Counsel. He might have signing authority, too. Don't dynamite any bridges you might need to cross later on."

He nodded. "Why're you being so helpful?"

"Maybe I want to save my ass."

"If you're trying something, I'll know."

"I told you. I just want to go home."

We looked at each other for a few seconds. It felt like an hour. The roar of the ocean, the lapping of the waves against the rocks on the beach.

"Stay on my good side," he said, "and you'll make it out of here alive. But if you try anything-"

"I know."

"No," Russell said. "You don't know. You think you know what's happening here, dude, but you really have no idea."

Russell's words echoed in my head as Travis followed me out of the screened porch and through the great room.

You think you know what's happening here, dude, but you really have no idea.

He took me to another room I hadn't seen before, some kind of parlor or reading room with antlers and moose heads mounted on the walls. The floor was covered with a large Oriental carpet, where some of the hostages were stretched out or curled up, and others sat in clusters, talking quietly. For a moment it reminded me of kindergarten, when all the kids would lie down on little rugs at naptime.

A Coleman lantern on a trestle table near the door gave off a cone of greenish light. Nearby, two guards on duty, sitting near each other in railback chairs, murmuring to each other: Buck, the one with the black hair and goatee; and Verne, the ex-con with the teardrop tattoos.

Only one door, I noticed. There were windows, but they were shut and, I assumed, locked.

I wondered how long they'd keep us here. It was early Thursday morning already. I assumed that Russell would be interrogating people throughout the night: the large pot of black coffee.

Travis shoved me to the floor. Then he called Geoff Latimer's name. Latimer was lying on his side, pale and exhausted.

"You're in luck," Travis said, helping Latimer to his feet with a gentleness I didn't expect.

"Thank God," said Latimer.

Travis and Latimer left the room, and the two guards whispered. Verne, twitchy, jiggled his foot up and down. They obviously weren't worried about us-unarmed, our hands bound.

The room was mostly quiet. Bodine and his guys were speaking in low voices. A few of the hostages whispered to one another-Bodine, Barlow, and Bross, the Three Musketeers, off in one corner, conspiring. I noticed that Ron Slattery had joined them.

Others had fallen asleep already, worn out by the stress and the long day and the late hour. A few snored.

"Jesus, Landry."

Ali was sitting ten or fifteen feet away with Cheryl and Paul Fecher, the manager, and the manager's son. I looked over at the two guards at the other end of the room, their faces half washed out by the lantern's light, half in shadows. I couldn't tell how closely they were watching us, whether they were really paying much attention.

Slowly, I slid across the rug.

"We were worried about you," Ali said.

"It was fine."

"When he caught you on the other side of the fireplace-"

"It was a little tense," I said.

"What'd he want to know?" Cheryl asked.

"Well, he figured out pretty quickly I didn't know anything useful. Mostly he seemed to be sizing me up. He asked about you and…" My voice trailed off. The manager and his son were sitting near Ali, watching us talk, but no one else from Hammond was within earshot. "He knew about the investigation."

Her eyes widened for a fraction of a second, then narrowed. "How in God's name? Why would anyone tell him?"

"I'm pretty sure he has a source inside Hammond."

Cheryl nodded. "He knows too much, that's for sure. Danziger also thinks he may be a professional, in the K &R business."

She glanced over her shoulder. Danziger was lying on his side by the wall, asleep. "He also briefed all of us on the duress code."

"Much better than my original idea," I said.

"At least you had a plan," she said. "I owe you an apology."

"Why?"

"I misread them. You had them pegged. And the way you stuck up for me-I won't forget it." She seemed embarrassed. "This isn't easy."

"This isn't easy for any of us," I said.

The door opened. Travis entered with Latimer, then called out Danziger's name. Latimer sat near us. He looked much better, now that his diabetic crisis had passed.

He smiled, mouthed Thank you.

I just nodded.

Suddenly the lights in the room went on, as abruptly as they'd gone off. Lamps and wall sconces blazed to life. A number of people woke up, looked around.

"Guess the generator's fixed," Latimer said.

I nodded.

"You know, what you did before-getting over to the other side to talk to Grogan and Danziger?"

"Stupid, huh?"

"Brave, Jake. Guys with guns strutting around here. You could have gotten yourself killed."

"I don't think so."

"You're a brave guy, Jake."

"Just a survivor."

"More than that."

"Well, you know, a wise man once said that one of the great tragedies of our century is that a man can live his whole life and never know if he's a coward or not." I smiled, held up a forefinger. "Russell told me that."