John Grisham - The Associate

He slid the briefcase closer under the table, directly under the computer now, then he flipped the switch.

No alarms. No virus warnings screaming from the screen. No sudden entry by Gant with armed guards. Nothing. Kyle the hacker was downloading files, stealing at a dizzying rate of speed. In nine minutes, he transferred all Category A documents — letters, memos, a hundred different varieties of harmless information that had already been submitted to APE and Bartin. When he was finished with the Category A documents, he repeated the process and downloaded them again. And again, and again.

An hour after he entered the room, he again went through the charade of searching for lost pens, and while bumbling about, he plucked the transmitter from the USB port. Then he cleaned up his mess and left. He hurried to his office, got his jacket and trench coat, and made it to the elevators without seeing another person. As he rode down without a single stop, he realized that this was the moment he had always feared. He was leaving the office as a thief, with enough stolen files in his briefcase to get him convicted of numerous crimes and disbarred for life.

As he stepped into the raw December night, he immediately called Bennie. “Mission accomplished!” he said proudly.

“Great, Kyle. Oxford Hotel, corner of Lex and Thirty-fifth. Room 551, fifteen minutes away.”

“I’m on the way.” Kyle walked to a black sedan, one duly registered to a well-known car company in Brooklyn, and jumped into the backseat. The small Asian driver said, “Where to?”

“And your name is?”

“Al Capone.”

“Where were you born, Al?”

“Tutwiler, Texas.”

“You’re the man, Al. Oxford Hotel, room 551.”

Al the Agent immediately called someone and repeated the information. He listened for a few minutes, drove very slowly, then said, “Here’s the plan, Mr. McAvoy. We have a team on the move, and they should be at the hotel in ten minutes. We’ll take our time here. When the supervisor is in the hotel, he will call me with more instructions. Would you like a vest?”

“A what?”

“A vest, bulletproof. There’s one in the trunk if you’d like.”

Kyle had been too preoccupied with his thievery to contemplate the actual events surrounding the arrest of Bennie, and hopefully Nigel, too. He was sure he would lead the FBI to his handler, but he had not given much thought to the details of his betrayal. Why, exactly, might he need a bulletproof vest?

To stop bullets, of course. Baxter flashed through his overheated brain.

“I’ll pass,” Kyle said, realizing how ill equipped he was to make such decisions.

“Yes, sir.”

Al looked for traffic, for detours, anything to burn some clock. His cell phone rang and he listened, then said, “Okay, Mr. McAvoy. I’ll stop in front of the hotel, and you’ll walk into the lobby alone. Go to the elevators to the right, and punch the button for the fourth floor. Get off on the fourth, turn left, walk to the door leading to the stairs. In the stairwell, you will meet Mr. Bullington and several other agents. They will take over from there.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“Good luck, Mr. McAvoy.”

Five minutes later Kyle walked into the lobby of the Oxford Hotel and followed his instructions. In the stairwell between the fourth and the fifth floors, he met Joe Bullington and two other agents, all dressed exactly like the ones who’d snatched him some ten months earlier after a youth basketball game in New Haven. Except these were real, and he had no desire to inspect their credentials. Tensions were high, and Kyle’s weary heart was pounding furiously.

“I’m Agent Booth, this is Agent Hardy,” one said, and Kyle was impressed with how large they were.

“Go to the door of 551,” Booth said. “The second it starts to open, kick it very hard, then jump back out of the way. We’ll be right behind you. We do not anticipate gunfire. We assume they’re armed, but they’re not expecting trouble. Once we’re inside, you’ll be removed from the scene.”

What! No gunfire! Kyle started to crack a funny, but his knees were suddenly weak.

“Got it?” Booth growled at him.

“Got it. Let’s go.”

Kyle entered the hall and walked with as much confidence as possible to room 551. He pressed the button, took a deep breath, and glanced around. Booth and Hardy were fifteen feet away, ready to spring, shiny black pistols drawn. From the other end of the hall, two other agents were approaching, also with guns visible.

Maybe I should’ve opted for the vest, Kyle thought.

He pressed the button again. Nothing. Not a voice from within, not a sound.

His lungs had ceased working, and his stomach was a mess. The briefcase weighed a ton, much heavier now that it contained the stolen files.

He frowned at Booth, who looked perplexed as well. Kyle pressed the button for the third time, then tapped on the door and yelled, “Hey, Bennie. It’s Kyle.”

Nothing. He rang the doorbell for the fourth time, then fifth.

“It’s a single room,” Booth whispered. Then he motioned for some type of well-rehearsed formation and said to Kyle, “Please step aside. Go right down there and wait.” Hardy whipped out an electronic room key and inserted it. The green light came on, and the four FBI agents stormed in, high and low, right and left, barking, guns aimed in all directions. Joe Bullington was running toward them, and behind him were more agents.

The room was empty, of suspects anyway, and if anyone had been there recently, he’d left nothing behind. Bullington reappeared in the hall and commanded “Lock the building!” into a phone or walkie-talkie. He shot Kyle a look of complete astonishment, and Kyle began to fade. Agents hustled about, frantic with indecision and confusion. Some ran to the stairs, others to the elevators.

An old woman in 562 stepped into the hall and shouted, “Quiet!” but quickly lost her spunk when two frowning agents spun around with weapons. She retreated quickly, unharmed but awake for the night.

“Kyle, here please,” Bullington said, waving him into room 551. Kyle clutched the briefcase and entered the room. “Stay here for a few minutes,” Bullington said. “These two will remain with you.”

Kyle sat on the edge of the bed, briefcase between his feet, as his two guards closed the door and put away their guns. Minutes passed as he thought of a hundred scenes and scenarios, none particularly appealing. He thought of Roy, and called him. He was still at his office, waiting for the news.

“They got away,” Kyle said, his voice slow and weak.

“Whatta you mean?”

“We’re in the hotel room, and it’s empty. They’re gone, Roy.”

“Where are you?”

“Room 551, Oxford Hotel, under guard, I guess. The FBI is searching the hotel, but they won’t find anybody.”

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

WHILE THE HOTEL was being searched, three FBI agents entered Kyle’s apartment in Chelsea. Using his key, they entered quietly and began a sweep that would take four hours and produce three hidden cameras, a wiretap on his wall phone, and six other eavesdropping devices. Plenty of evidence to support indictments. A strong case for the feds, but what they really needed was some suspects.

Roy arrived at 11:00 p.m. He was met by Joe Bullington at the front door and escorted through the lobby. The hotel was still locked down, a room-by-room search under way with lots of unhappy guests, and the front desk was chaos.

Roy’s first question was “How’s Kyle?”

“Pretty rattled,” Bullington said. “Let’s take the stairs. The elevators have been stopped. Hell, we’re all rattled.”