Дэвид Балдаччи - The Fix

“But he got the money and paid the debt?”

“Natalie and her family wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t. They’d be in little pieces at the bottom of a river somewhere in Europe.”

“When did the payment go through?”

“The electronic trail wasn’t totally clear. Rough guess, six weeks ago. Maybe longer.”

“Have you talked to Natalie?”

“I haven’t, no. We’re actually not that interested in her. The gambling and the Russian mob connection is not our jurisdiction. We turned that over to international authorities.”

“What secrets were sold? You said they were critical enough to trigger something worse than 9/11.”

“I was not exaggerating when I made that comparison with 9/11.”

“So if the stakes are that high, why wouldn’t you want the FBI helping?”

“Need to know is not some bullshit line you hear in the movies, Decker. It does have real purpose.”

“Meaning what?”

“If you want it straight, it means we don’t really know who to trust on this. The fewer people looped in the better.”

“And in doing so you might cut out the very people who could help you solve this and save us from another 9/11,” he shot back.

She looked uncomfortable at this, but didn’t argue the point.

“Do you know who the buyers are?”

“We’re working on it.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t the Russian mob? Maybe he just gave them the secrets in exchange for forgiving the debts.”

She shook her head. “The fact is, these mobsters wouldn’t know how to monetize stuff like that, nor would they even want to try. You don’t want to bring the U.S. military down on your head if you don’t have to. No, they got their cash from Dabney, and Dabney got that cash by selling secrets to someone else.”

“Another government?”

“Very likely.”

“Why?”

“Couple of reasons. Only another government would be willing to take this sort of risky operation. It takes resources and deep pockets. And only another government would be so wired in to the intelligence world that they would know what secrets they wanted Dabney to get them.”

“So he didn’t pick what he stole? They did?”

“Almost certainly. You’re not going to run an op like this and not get what you want as the prize. The people behind this, I’m certain, told Dabney exactly what they wanted and to which they knew he had access. This was very well planned out. Which makes me believe they had some inside help. Which is why we want to keep as many people out of the loop as possible. If we’ve been compromised, we could be doubly screwed if we read in the wrong people on this.”

“Did you trace the money?”

“On the back end. Ten million.”

Decker’s jaw went slack. “Ten million dollars! Did this Corbett guy gamble twenty-four/seven?”

“He played for high stakes, and when your creditor is charging a thousand percent interest a day, it adds up pretty quickly.”

“But if the buyer has the secrets isn’t it already too late?”

“Not how the game is played, Decker. If we find out who did it, and it is a foreign government, that’s a chit we can play later. Perfectly accepted diplomatic blackmail played out every day among allies and enemies.”

“But what if it’s a terrorist organization?”

“To execute on the information that Dabney sold takes infrastructure and lots of capital. Dabney worked on large-scale military projects: ships, tanks, and planes. That’s why we think it might be another government. ISIL is not shelling out billions to build a Zumwalt -class destroyer.”

“So you’re going to keep looking for the buyer.”

“Of course. That’s my job.”

“And we’re going to keep looking for why Dabney killed Berkshire.”

She stopped walking and looked at him. “And if there’s overlap?” she asked.

“Then we have a joint investigation. And we’d welcome the cooperation.”

“How sweet. Tell me, is that your best chess move?”

“No, I always hold something back.”

“You can keep doing what you’re doing, and so will I. How’s that sound?”

“Great, if you actually mean it.”

“You’re a smart guy. I’ll let you figure that one out on your own,” she said, and walked off down the street. “Thanks for the coffee,” she called back over her shoulder.

“We found where Dabney went on the mysterious trip.”

Todd Milligan was studying the computer screen in front of him. He, Decker, Jamison, and Bogart were sitting in a small conference room at the WFO, the Bureau’s Washington field office on Fourth Street. Decker had filled them all in on his conversation with Brown.

“Where?” asked Bogart.

“Houston. His name popped up on a passenger manifest. He went there exactly once five weeks ago today.”

“I wonder why Houston?” asked Jamison.

“Something to do with the sale of secrets?” ventured Milligan.

Decker shook his head. “According to Brown, the payment happened about six weeks ago, or maybe longer. So why take a mysterious trip to Houston after the deal was done and his daughter was safe?”

“Maybe there was some snafu or other issue?” suggested Bogart.

“Or maybe it’s because the MD Anderson Cancer Center is in Houston,” said Jamison.

They all looked at her.

She said, “Dabney might have suspected something was wrong with his health and wanted to get an expert opinion. MD Anderson is one of the best places for that.”

Milligan said, “How do you know that?”

“When I was a journalist, I did a local interest story about a woman who went there when she was diagnosed with a rare cancer. They were able to get her into remission.”

Milligan smiled and said, “I forgot you had a life prior to joining the FBI.”

Bogart said, “That’s a good idea, Alex. You might be right.”

“We can certainly check,” said Milligan. “Even with patient confidentiality, we can get his wife to contact them and see if Dabney was there.”

Bogart said, “Todd, get going on that. If he knew he was terminal over a month ago, it might provide some motivation to do what he did, meaning kill Berkshire.”

Milligan rose and hurried from the room.

“Meaning he would never be tried for the crime,” Jamison said to Bogart.

“Right.”

“But it still won’t explain why he killed Berkshire,” Decker pointed out.

“No, but it’ll fill in one more piece of the puzzle. And it may help us answer that question at some point. And the ME got back to us on the blood screens. Dabney was taking painkillers, which reinforces the notion that he knew he was sick.”

Decker rose.

“Where are you going?” asked Bogart.

“For a walk.”

He started at the café. After a full breakfast at home, Dabney had stopped here, sat at a table overlooking the street, then got up, walked out and down the street, and shot Berkshire in the head before putting a round in his own brain.

As Decker was sitting there the same female employee he had spoken to earlier came over.

“I saw you in here earlier with that woman. You guys still looking into what happened?”

“Still looking,” said Decker absently.

“I guess it doesn’t matter much.”

He shot her a look. “What doesn’t matter much?”

“Billy’s in today. I gave him the card you left, but I don’t know if he ever called you guys. He was working when that man was here. If you want to talk to him, he’s not busy right now.”

“I do want to talk to him.”

She left and came back with a tall middle-aged man with graying hair worn in a ponytail. He had on a black shirt like the woman wore, and faded jeans. A green apron was tied around his waist.