John Grisham - The Associate

Kyle was not surprised, but he was disappointed. He’d read about the supercomputers used by the intelligence services, and after a lifetime of living with Bennie, he really wanted to know who he was.

Bullington brightened a bit and went on: “Nigel might be a different story. We placed your composite of him into our system and came up empty. But the CIA got a probable hit.” Bullington opened a file, pulled out an eight-by-ten black and white, and handed it to Kyle, who immediately said, “That’s him.”

“Good. His real name is Deny Hobart, born in South Africa, raised in Liverpool, trained as a techie in the British intelligence services, got bounced ten years ago for hacking into the confidential files of some rich folks in Switzerland, generally regarded as one of the most brilliant hackers in the world. Brilliant, but a real rogue, a hired gun, warrants outstanding in at least three countries.”

“How much have you told these people?” Wingate asked. It was more of an accusation than a question. Kyle looked at his lawyer, who nodded and said, “Go ahead, Kyle. You’re not under any type of investigation. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“I’ve given them the layout of the computer room, general stuff like that. Enough to keep them happy, but no data whatsoever.”

“Anyway,” Bullington said, “the other two composites turned up nothing. If I understand things, these two boys are just part of the surveillance and not that important.”

“That’s right,” Kyle said.

“Your composite of Mr. Hobert is remarkable, Kyle,” Bullington said.

“It’s from a Web site. QuickFace.com. Anybody could do it.”

“What’s your next step?” Wingate asked.

“We meet tomorrow night for an update. The plan is for me to somehow hack into the system, either download or divert the documents, and hand them over. I have no idea how this is supposed to be done. The computer system looks completely secure.”

“When is this supposed to happen?”

“They haven’t told me, but I get the impression it will be soon. I have a question for you.”

Neither Bullington nor Wingate offered to take the question, so Kyle plunged ahead. “Who are these guys? Who are they working for?”

Bullington flashed all of his teeth and said with a boyish shrug, “We honestly don’t know, Kyle. Hobart is a whore who travels the world selling himself. We have no clue where Bennie comes from. You say he’s not American.”

“He doesn’t sound like it.”

“Without an idea as to who he is, we can’t even begin to guess who he’s working for.”

“There were at least five agents involved in the first encounter, back in February, the night I first met Bennie. All five were definitely Americans.”

Bullington was shaking his head. “Probably hired guns, Kyle, thugs brought in for the job, paid, turned loose. There’s a whole dark world out there of former cops and agents and former soldiers and intelligence types who got shoved out for a multitude of reasons. Most are misfits. They were trained in the shadows, and that’s where they work. They’ll hire on with anyone who’ll pay them. Those five probably had no idea what Bennie was up to.”

“What are the chances of catching the ones who killed Baxter Tate?”

The smile went away for a moment. Both government faces looked sad and perplexed. Bullington finally said, “First we have to catch Bennie, then we work our way up to the big boys who are paying him, then we’ll work our way down to the street thugs who do his dirty work. If he’s a pro, though, and it’s quite obvious that he is, the chances of squeezing him for names are pretty slim.”

“How do you catch Bennie?”

“That’s the easy part. You’ll lead us to him.”

“And you arrest him?”

“Oh, yes. We’ll have enough warrants to arrest him ten times — wiretapping, extortion, conspiracy, take your pick. We’ll throw him under the jail, with Hobart as well, and no federal judge in the world will bond him out. We’ll probably move him to a secured facility far away from New York so we can begin the interrogation.”

The image of Bennie chained to a chair as a couple of pit bulls screamed at him was rather pleasant.

Roy cleared his throat, glanced at his watch, and said, “If you’ll excuse us, I need to talk to Kyle. I’ll call you later.” And with that Kyle stood, shook their hands again, and followed his lawyer back to his office. Roy closed the door and said, “What do you think?”

“You trust those guys?” Kyle shot back.

“Yes. You don’t?”

“Would you trust them with your life?”

“Yes.”

“Try this scenario. Currently there are at least eighteen intelligence outfits in this country, and those are just the ones on paper. There are probably a few more we know nothing about. What if Bennie works for one of them? Suppose his project is just one of several to procure and protect all the secrets? What if the supercomputers couldn’t find his face because they weren’t supposed to?”

“That’s a pretty ridiculous scenario, Kyle. A rogue operative working for the United States, spying on a U.S. law firm, killing U.S. citizens? I don’t think so.”

“Sure it’s ridiculous, but when your skull might be the next target, it does wonders for the imagination.”

“Take it easy. This is your only way out.”

“There’s no way out.”

“Yes, there is. Let’s take it one step at a time. Don’t panic.”

“I haven’t panicked in nine months, but I’m getting close.”

“No, you’re not. Be cool. We have to trust those guys.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow.” Kyle grabbed his brown trench coat and left the office.

The Cessna 182 was owned by a retired doctor who flew it only in clear weather and never at night. He had known John McAvoy for over forty years and had flown him several times around the state for legal matters. Their little trips were as much pleasure as business, with John wearing a headset and taking the controls and thoroughly enjoying his time as the pilot. They always haggled over the rate. John wanted to pay more than just the fuel costs, and the doctor demanded less because flying was his hobby and he didn’t need the money. Once they agreed on the cost of the trip, $250, they met at the York airport early on Tuesday morning and took off in perfect weather. Seventy-one minutes later they landed in Scranton. John rented a car, and the doctor left in the Cessna to drop in on his son in Williamsport.

The law office of Michelin Chiz was on the second floor of an old building on Spruce Street in downtown Scranton. John walked in promptly at 9:00 a.m. and was greeted coolly by a secretary. He had never met Ms. Chiz, never heard of her, but that was not unusual in a state with over sixty thousand lawyers. A Scranton lawyer he did know had told him that she ran an all-woman shop with a couple of associates, a couple of paralegals, and the usual assortment of secretaries and part-time help. No men need apply. Ms. Chiz specialized in divorce, custody, sexual harrassment, and employment discrimination, all from the female side, and had a busy practice. Her reputation was solid. She was a tough advocate for her clients, a good negotiator, and not afraid of the courtroom. Not bad looking either, the lawyer had informed John.

And he was right about that. Ms. Chiz was waiting in her office when John walked in and said good morning. She was wearing a black leather skirt, not too short, with a tight purple sweater and a pair of black and purple spiked-heeled platform sling backs that most hookers would shy away from. She was in her mid-forties, with, according to John’s source, at least two divorces under her belt. She wore a lot of jewelry and makeup, far too much for John’s taste, but he wasn’t there to evaluate the talent.