Джозеф Файндер - The Switch

“A perfect cover. Precisely the sort of legend we’d set up. Michael Tanner, coffee guy. The perfect part to play if you’re an operative who needs to travel a lot. To countries with active insurgencies, death squads, people with long memories and deep pockets.”

“Oh, bullshit.”

“It would certainly explain how you managed to take out a highly trained ex-military specialist.” He shrugged. “Personally, I’m agnostic as to whether you’re a spy or a traitor. But certain colleagues of mine, including most notably my supervisor, have looked at your bio and have serious concerns. Give you an example. When Deborah asked if you’ve ever lived abroad, you conveniently left out the part about your junior year abroad. In Moscow. I find that interesting. It makes me wonder whether there’s a part of your life we haven’t been aware of.”

Of course: Earle had been watching through the one-way mirror on the wall. “I have no idea what I might have said on drugs.”

“I’m not making any accusations, Mr. Tanner. I’m just telling you what it looks like. I’ve been trying to assure my colleagues that you’re simply a good man who made a bad mistake. I think you’re just a guy who got lucky. Or should I say, unlucky. You somehow ended up with someone else’s laptop. You saw that it had some interesting stuff on it, maybe newsworthy, so you make a copy of the files and hand a USB drive containing the documents in question to a friend of yours you drink beers with every week, who also happens to write for The Boston Globe. ”

“Oh yeah?” Tanner said, sarcastic.

“Maybe you weren’t familiar with the laws on the mishandling of classified information. And maybe, in a more innocent time, the courts would have given that a pass. Dismissed all charges. But not these days, my friend. Not given the terrorist threat we live under. All right, look, Mr. Tanner. If I wanted to, I could have you arrested in about half an hour, and you would be prosecuted to the fullest, I promise you. But today you’ve won the lottery. Because I’m choosing to believe in your basic goodness. And I’m giving you twenty-four hours to save your life.”

Tanner just looked at him.

“I don’t care what Psych Analytics says. I think you’re exactly who you seem to be. And I think you’re in over your head. Doggy-paddling in deep waters. And I’m here to throw you a lifesaver. You only have to do one thing. Come back tomorrow with that laptop computer. And any copies you might have made, flash drives, hard drives, everything.” He handed Tanner a white business card. It was blank except for the name “Earle Laffoon,” in small type, and underneath it, a phone number with a 410 area code. “Call me or text me at this number no later than ten A.M. tomorrow, and we’ll meet you, wherever you are. You’ll have the laptop with you.”

“And in return?”

“In return you no longer have to worry about your friends from Fort Meade.”

“I want this deal in writing.”

“I’d be happy to shake your hand.”

“Handshake deals are worthless.”

“You have my word.”

“I don’t know you. I want it in writing.”

“Not going to happen. That’s not in the offing, and let’s be honest, Michael, you’re not exactly negotiating from a position of strength, now, are you?”

Tanner said nothing.

“Understand something, Mr. Tanner. By letting you go, I am putting my own career in jeopardy. You are, after all, a security risk. So I will be taking this extremely seriously. And if we don’t see you again within twenty-four hours, I will be forced to escalate. You really don’t want me to escalate. And we’ll find you anyway — we always do.”

Will waited for the scheduler, Rachel, to finish with the senator. He caught the senator’s eye, nodded to let her know he was okay with waiting. Rachel got up two minutes later and blurted out, “Sorry!” when she saw that Will had been waiting.

“No problem,” he said.

He closed the office door, turned, and folded his arms. “They’ve just released Tanner in Boston.”

“Who, NSA?”

He nodded.

“What do you mean, ‘released’ him? I didn’t even know they’d found him. Didn’t you say they’re looping you in?”

“They agreed to keep me apprised of their efforts to locate the guy, yes. But they didn’t say they’d do it in a timely fashion.”

“Damn them. I don’t understand — what’s the point of releasing him?”

“It’s a deal they made with him. He’s agreed to retrieve the laptop and bring it to them.”

“That can not be allowed to happen.”

“I know.”

“Will, when someone tells me something is handled, I expect it to be handled.”

Will didn’t answer. He just waited for her to speak again, as he knew she would.

“Did he talk to them?” Robbins said. “Do they know whose laptop it is? They’ve got to know.”

Will closed his eyes, shook his head. “If they knew, we’d know.”

“What are you—?”

“One of their legal folks would have been in touch with you already.”

“All right, then, can we — can you—?”

“Susan, this guy isn’t going to cooperate. I don’t know what he’s up to, but he refuses to admit he even has it.”

“Is it possible he doesn’t?”

“No. He has it, and NSA knows that too. Problem is, he’s got it hidden somewhere. I tried the sneaky approach; I tried the direct approach; nothing works. When—”

“Olshak,” she said abruptly.

“Bruce Olshak? The—”

“He owes me a favor.”

“Bruce Olshak does?” That was one of those names you didn’t let pass your lips casually, Will reflected. Not, at least, in this town. Bruce Olshak was a notorious, near-legendary lawyer and fixer for the New England crime family. He was involved, in some way, with the Teamsters’ East Coast operations. He was known for paying off judges. It had been said of him that he lost his moral compass when Roy Cohn died. Olshak was basically Lord Voldemort with a collar bar. What was remarkable about him was that he’d never been caught doing any of the things he was famous for doing. He had never once been indicted for anything. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be calling a guy like that.”

“We’re friends.”

“It doesn’t look good.”

“Get me his phone number,” she said.

“But you’re not talking about—”

“Desperate times,” she said. “Desperate measures.”

They gave Tanner his shoes and belt back. Then the contents of his pockets: his phone, his wallet, his keys. Then his gym bag, which he hiked over one shoulder.

They put the headphones and the blacked-out goggles on him and ushered him out of the room. Someone held each of his elbows. They’d obviously done this many times before. They had their choreography down, sidling Tanner through what he guessed was a doorway, and then straight ahead for a long time.

In a while he was brought to a stop. Walked some more. Pulled to one side and then the other. Up a flight of stairs, then straight ahead again.

It was the strangest sensation: he saw only darkness and heard just the faintest electronic buzz, feeling dislocated and disengaged, yet he was able to walk, to propel himself just fine. He remembered reading that they did this to the prisoners in Guantanamo. No more black hoods.

He said, “Now, is this really necessary, gentlemen?”

He didn’t know how loudly he’d just spoken. Could anyone hear him? He kept walking. Soon he felt cold air and smelled gasoline, the odors of a parking garage.

He was juked first one way, then another. Then he was stopped again.