Джон Гришэм - The Partner

Patrick screamed with no restraint, a scream so fierce and horrible that Osmar and the Brazilians froze for a second on the front porch. Their conversation stopped in the darkness. One of them offered a silent prayer.

Down the road, a hundred yards away, a Brazilian with a gun sat by the dirt trail and watched for approaching cars. None were expected. The nearest dwelling was miles away. He too offered a small prayer when the screaming started again.

It was either the fourth or fifth call from the neighbors that sent Mrs. Stephano over the edge, and it also forced Jack to tell his wife the truth. The three men in dark suits loitering outside the car parked in the street directly in front of their house were FBI agents. He explained why they were there. He told her most of the Patrick story, a serious breach of professional etiquette. Mrs. Stephano never asked questions.

She didn’t care what her husband did at the office. She did, however, hold some rather strong feelings about what the neighbors might think. This was, after all, Falls Church, and, well, people would talk.

She went to bed at midnight. Jack napped on the sofa in the den, rising every half-hour to peek through the blinds and see what they were doing out there. He happened to be asleep at 3 A.M. when the doorbell rang.

He answered it in his sweatsuit. Four of them were at the door, one of whom he immediately recognized as Hamilton Jaynes, Deputy Director, FBI. The number-two man at the Bureau, who just happened to live four blocks over and belong to the same golf club, though the two had never met.

He allowed them into his spacious den. Stiff introductions were made. They sat while Mrs. Stephano wandered down in her bathrobe, then scurried back up at the sight of a room full of men in dark suits.

Jaynes did all the talking for the FBI. “We’re working nonstop on this Lanigan discovery. Our intelligence informs us that he’s in your custody. Can you confirm or deny?”

“No.” Stephano was as cool as ice.

“I’m holding a warrant for your arrest.”

The ice melted a bit. Stephano glanced at another stone-faced agent. “On what charges?”

“Harboring a federal fugitive. Interference. You name it, we’ll include it. What difference does it make? I’m not interested in convicting you. All I want is to haul your ass off to jail, then later we’ll get the rest of your firm, then we’ll lock up your clients. Take about twenty-four hours to round up everybody. We’ll get the indictments later, depending on whether or not we get Lanigan. You get the picture?”

“Yeah. I think so.”

“Where’s Lanigan?”

“Brazil.”

“I want him. And now.”

Stephano blinked a couple of times, and things fell into place. Under the circumstances, handing over Lanigan was not a bad move. The feds had ways of making him talk. Faced with life in prison, Patrick just might snap his fingers and make the money appear. There would be enormous pressure from all angles to produce it.

Later, Stephano would again ponder the incredible question of how anyone in the world knew he had captured Lanigan.

“All right, here’s the deal,” Stephano said. “Give me forty-eight hours, I’ll give you Lanigan. And you burn my warrant and drop the threats of future prosecution.”

“It’s a deal.”

There was a moment of silence as both sides savored the victory. Jaynes said, “I need to know where to pick him up.”

“Send a plane to Asunción.”

“Paraguay? What happened to Brazil?”

“He has friends in Brazil.”

“Whatever.” Jaynes whispered to an associate, who then left the house. “Is he in one piece?” he asked Stephano.

“Yeah.”

“He’d better be. One bruise on his body, and I’ll hound you to hell.”

“I need to make a phone call.”

Jaynes actually managed a grin. He scanned the walls and said, “It’s your house.”

“Are my lines tapped?”

“No.”

“You swear?”

“I said no.”

“Excuse me.” Stephano stepped into the kitchen, then to a utility room where he kept a hidden cell phone. He walked onto the rear patio where he stood in the wet grass by a gaslight. He called Guy.

The screaming had stopped for the moment when the Brazilian guarding the van heard the phone ringing. It rested on its power unit in the front seat of the van, its antenna shooting fifteen feet beyond the roof. He answered it in English, then ran to get an American.

Guy rushed from the cabin and grabbed it.

“Is he talking?” Stephano asked.

“A little. He broke about an hour ago.”

“What do you know?”

“The money still exists. He doesn’t know where. It’s controlled by a woman in Rio, a lawyer.”

“Do you have her name?”

“Yes. We’re making calls now. Osmar has people in Rio.”

“Can you get any more out of him?”

“I don’t think so. He’s half-dead, Jack.”

“Stop whatever you’re doing. Is the doctor there?”

“Sure.”

“Get the boy treated and spruced up. Drive him toward Asunción as soon as possible.”

“But why—”

“Don’t ask questions. There’s no time for it. The feds are all over us. Just do as I say, and make sure he’s not hurt.”

“Not hurt? I’ve been trying to kill him for five hours.”

“Just do as I say. Put him back together. Drug him. Start toward Asunción. Call me every hour, on the hour.”

“Whatever.”

“And find the woman.”

Patrick’s head was lifted gently and cool water was poured on his lips. The ropes were cut from his wrists and ankles, and they very slowly removed the tape and the wires and the electrodes. He jerked and twitched, moaning words no one could understand. A shot of morphine was pumped into his well-worn veins, then a light depressant, and Patrick floated away again.

At dawn, Osmar was in the airport at Ponta Porã waiting for a flight that would eventually get him to Rio by the end of the day. He had made contact with people in Rio. He had pulled them out of bed with promises of big bucks. They were supposed to be on the streets.

She called her father first, just after sunrise, a time of the day he always enjoyed on his small terrace with his newspaper and his coffee. He lived in a small apartment in Ipanema, three blocks from the shore, not far from his beloved Eva. His apartment building was over thirty years old, making it one of the oldest in the poshest section of Rio. He lived alone.

He knew from her voice something was wrong. She assured him she was safe and would remain so, that a client in Europe suddenly needed her for two weeks, and that she would call every day. She went on to explain that this particular client was perhaps a bit shady and very secretive, and therefore he might send representatives to poke around in her past. Don’t be alarmed. It was not unusual in international trade.

He had several questions, but he knew there would be no answers.

The call to her supervising partner was much more difficult. The story she had rehearsed delivered well, but there were huge gaps in it. A new client had called late yesterday, a referral from an American lawyer she went to school with, and she was needed immediately in Hamburg. She was taking an early flight. The client was in telecommunications, with plans for a large expansion in Brazil.

The partner was half-asleep. He asked her to call later with more details.

She called her secretary with the same story, and asked her to postpone all appointments and meetings until she returned.

From Curitiba, she flew to São Paulo, where she boarded an Aerolineas Argentinas flight to Buenos Aires, nonstop. For the first time, she used her new passport, one Danilo had helped her acquire a year earlier. She had kept it hidden in the apartment, along with two new credit cards and eight thousand dollars in U.S. cash.