James Patterson - Truth or Die

“A decision was made to kill my boss... then Claire... then me... then you,” he said. “And if you can make a decision like that, you’re not worried about the law. You’re above the law.”

Attorneys, especially former prosecutors, generally bristle at the idea of anyone being above the law. Then again, I’d been disbarred.

“What exactly do you have in mind?” I asked.

“The only way to smoke them out is to remain their target,” he said. “Think about it. As long as they’re coming for us...”

“It’s a path right back to them,” I said.

Owen nodded — bingo — before glancing back at the screen. “Now we just need a little background information,” he said. “Always get to know better the people who want you dead.”

Words to live by.

So there you had it. Why we were standing in the middle of an Apple store playing match-dot-com with the personnel files of the CIA. Let them come after us, Owen was saying. Let’s be foolish.

“Can I borrow your phone for a minute?” I asked. “I seem to have lost mine.”

Owen ignored my sarcasm. “Who are you calling?”

“No one.”

He still wasn’t sure, but he handed it to me anyway. Then he watched as I made a beeline to the accessories section, pulling an i-FlashDrive off the shelf.

As I began to open the package, a female blue-shirt with a ponytail and geek-chic glasses came over in a panic. She looked as if I’d just defaced the Mona Lisa.

“Sir! You can’t just—”

“How much is it?” I asked, reaching for my wallet.

She craned her neck to check the price. “Forty-four ninety-five,” she said. “Plus tax.”

I gave her fifty. Then, before she could tell me she needed to scan the bar code, I removed the drive and handed over the packaging. “I think I’ll pass on the extended warranty,” I said, walking away.

I returned to Owen while plugging the drive into his phone. “What are the file names of the two recordings you showed me at the Oak Tavern?” I asked.

He gave me the names and I transferred them to the drive. I handed him back his phone. “Thanks,” I said.

He motioned to the drive as I put it in my pocket. “What’s that for?”

“Just tell me where I can meet you in an hour,” I said, taking a couple of steps back.

“Wait. Where are you going?”

I reached for my sunglasses, sliding them on. “Margin of error,” I said. “Just in case you get us both killed.”

I quickly wrote everything down on the only blank piece of paper I could get my hands on in the back of the cab taking me across town to Eighth Avenue. It was the flip side of a log sheet the driver was using to keep track of fares. He was fine letting me have it, although when I also asked for his pen and clipboard it was clear I was pushing my luck.

“You want to drive, too?” he asked.

After he dropped me off in front of the New York Times Building, it dawned on me how long it had been since I’d last set foot in Claire’s office. One reason was that she didn’t actually have an office, just a desk out in the open in the very crowded national affairs section. Visiting Claire was like being on the wrong side of the bars at the zoo. No privacy. You were essentially on display.

The other reason was the guy sitting twenty feet from her desk who actually did have an office, a Brit by the name of Sebastian Cole. Before I first met Claire, she and Sebastian had a brief, hush-hush office romance that, according to Claire, “was the second-best-kept secret after Deep Throat.”

“You might want to go with a different analogy,” I suggested after she told me that, on one of our early dates. “At least for my benefit.”

I remembered we both cracked up over that.

Anyway, as Claire described it, she was young and he was her boss, a surefire way to jeopardize your career even before you really have one. After four months, she ended it.

In the grand tradition of the British stiff upper lip, Sebastian handled her breaking up with him with aplomb, sparing her any retaliation such as reassigning her to the obituary department. Good for him. Even better for Claire. As for me, that was a different story.

The true extent of Sebastian’s coping abilities was put to the test a couple of years later at cocktail party thrown by another editor in national affairs. The test consisted of seven simple words spoken by Claire. Sebastian, I’d like you to meet Trevor...

So much for the British stiff upper lip. Instead, I got the stink eye along with all the bloody attitude that an Oxford-educated, bow-tie-wearing chap hailing from Stoke d’Abernon could throw my way. Sebastian hated American lawyers and hated even more the idea that Claire would be with one. At least, that was how she explained it later. I was more partial to the adage that guys will be guys, especially when it comes to girls. Jealousy rules the day, and at the end of it we’re all just a lyric in a Joe Jackson song. Is she really going out with him?

But that was then. This was now. Claire was suddenly gone, and neither of us would ever be with her again. That was certainly the subtext as I sat down with Sebastian. Let bygones be bygones.

“I’m in shock,” he said from behind his desk, slowly twisting a paper clip in his hands. I could tell he’d been crying, as had everyone else I’d passed en route to his office.

“ Shock is a good word,” I said.

We discussed the details of how he’d heard the news, an early-morning phone call at home from the executive editor.

“Where was she going?” Sebastian asked.

“Seeing a source,” I said.

I watched his face carefully, looking for a tell. If he knew anything about Owen and his recordings, he’d never admit it. Not verbally. While I was 99.9 percent sure Claire hadn’t said anything to him or anyone else at the paper yet, the.1 percent chance that she had would certainly grow with a slight twitch or flinch from Sebastian. But there was nothing.

Nor, I was sure, would there be anything to be found on the computer at her desk. Ever since some Chinese hackers infiltrated the Gray Lady’s computer systems back in the fall of 2012, Claire kept all her sensitive files on her personal laptop and nowhere else.

Of course, maybe those “Chinese hackers” were really just Owen showing off from an Apple store in Beijing. Anything was possible at this point, I figured...

“I don’t mean to be rude,” Sebastian said finally after an awkward silence. We were simply staring at each other across his desk. “But I’m fairly certain you didn’t come here just to commiserate with me, Trevor.”

“You’re right,” I said. “I need to ask you to do something.”

“You mean, like a favor?”

“Sort of. Although depending how things play out, I might actually be the one doing you a favor,” I said. “Confused yet?”

“Intrigued is more like it.”

“That’s good,” I said. “Now tell me, on a scale of one to ten, how strong is your willpower?”

“ My willpower? Is this a trick question?”

“No, I’m simply looking for the truth.”

“In that case... nine-point-five,” he answered. “How’s that?”

“I’m not sure,” I said.

“Why? What number were you looking for?”

I folded my arms. “On a scale of one to ten? Eleven. ”

I’d piqued his interest. Sebastian was a newsman, after all. He was actually leaning in a bit over his desk, waiting for me to explain.

“First, can I borrow an envelope and a pen for a moment?” I asked.

“What for?”

I cocked an eyebrow. “Really?” The cabdriver on the way over here — a complete stranger — had given me less of a hard time.