Sean Chercover - The Trinity Game

Ignoring the first part of his statement, Julia said, “Tim Trinity contacted me on Saturday afternoon. I’d left several messages with his staff, requesting an interview. He called me back and we spoke for about two minutes. He didn’t agree to sit down with me, but said he’d consider it and get back to me. And that is the only time I’ve ever spoken with him.” Every word was true…she just left Daniel out of it.

“You’re not a lawyer, Ms. Rothman,” said Hillborn, “so do us a favor and stop parsing language. Frankly, you suck at it. Trinity is in way over his head on this thing. We understand he’s running scared—who wouldn’t be?—but he can’t outrun it, and he definitely can’t outrun us. If he comes in to us, helps us, we can talk to the US Marshals about getting him into the WITSEC program. We’re his best option for survival, I’m sure you can see that.”

“I do see that,” said Julia, “and I hope he takes you up on it. I’d be happy to put you on camera, help you get the offer out to him.”

Special Agent Robertson slapped the table with his right palm. “Hey, Cleopatra. Wake up. We’ve got over 140 dead bodies. Two explosions inside a week—one at a site designated critical to national security—while our nation is at war. And you are now officially wasting our time.”

Special Agent Hillborn reached inside a leather folio, pulled out a photo, and slid it across the table: Daniel and Trinity leaving the stage at the tent revival in Greenville. Hillborn pointed at the photo, stabbing Daniel with his finger. “You used your MasterCard to wire five hundred dollars to a Western Union in Gadsden, Arkansas.”

Julia’s indignation was blunted by the awareness that she was, in fact, obstructing the FBI in what was a clearly justified investigation. She felt her moral ground turning to quicksand. Better to focus on the indignation. “You’re looking at my credit card records? May I please see the warrant?”

“Don’t need one,” said Agent Robertson. “If that bothers you, call your congressman and tell him to repeal the Patriot Act. Then listen to him laugh.”

“The distance from Gadsden to Greenville,” said Agent Hillborn, “is 173 miles. The money was picked up at ten fifteen a.m. by a Mr. Daniel Byrne. Trinity showed up, with this man, at the tent revival in Greenville just under four hours later.” He shrugged. “Maybe they stopped for a sandwich.” He pushed the photo closer and spoke with exaggerated calm. “We are done fucking around, Julia. You have two choices: Continue to obstruct our investigation, in which case tomorrow will find you not in New Orleans covering the biggest story of your life, but in a jail cell while your lawyer begs a federal judge for a bail hearing sometime in the next week.” He handed Julia a printout of her own cell phone records. “Your other choice: Tell us what you know about Daniel Byrne and his business with Tim Trinity.”

“It’s Julia.”

“’Course it is.” Daniel reached over and switched the radio off. “You’re the only one with my number.”

There was a pause on the line before Julia said, “I’m sorry.”

“Who?”

“A couple of FBI agents, they leaned on me pretty hard. I couldn’t legally refuse them…and anyway, they need to investigate this. I’m sorry,” she repeated.

“It’s OK, Julia.”

“They had my cell records, they could be listening in on my calls, so I ran to a payphone as soon as they left.”

“What did they say?”

“They think Trinity’s gotten himself mixed up with some very bad people, and they’re offering to get him into witness protection if he cooperates. They knew about the money I wired you, and they asked about your role in all this. I told them the basics: You’re a Catholic priest sent by the Vatican to investigate, and you told me how to decode the tongues. I gave them your number, so—”

“So they’ll use my cell as a tracker and probably listen to my calls until they catch up with us.”

“Danny, they want you to turn yourselves in for questioning. The longer you run, the worse it’s gonna look. Think about it. At least they could keep you safe. And if Trinity is innocent, then why—”

“We’ve already been on the phone too long,” said Daniel. “I won’t answer this number again, and I’m not gonna call your cell.”

“How will I—”

“Remember our first date?”

“What?”

“Our first date, the first time we went out alone. Remember where we met?”

“Yes.”

“OK, go there. Three o’clock in the afternoon. Every day. If I don’t show up, try again the next day. I’ll meet you there at three o’clock. Oh, and I promise to be my usual punctual self.”

Julia’s laugh was worried but warm. “I remember.”

“Good. Thanks for the heads-up.” He snapped the phone shut.

“What’s the trouble,” said Tim Trinity.

“FBI.” Daniel pulled off the highway, into a truck stop.

“Lemme guess: They think I blew up the refinery and rigged the lotto.”

“At the very least, they think you know who did.”

“I do. God did. But what are my chances of convincing them of that?”

“Yeah,” said Daniel. He pulled slowly alongside a black pickup truck parked at the pumps, tossed the cell phone into its payload, and drove away.

Daniel gave New Orleans a wide berth, cutting north all the way around Lake Pontchartrain, and then south into Cajun Country, past LaPlace, past Houma, picking up a new prepaid cell phone and an LSU baseball cap at a gas station along the way. Back in the truck, he tossed the ball cap to Trinity.

“Go Tigers,” said Trinity, putting the cap on.

They continued south, deeper into the bayou. The road narrowed and foliage thickened as the world became less about land and more about water. The air was heavy with it, hot and salty and vegetal. They rode with the windows down, and Trinity chain-smoked. Daniel didn’t mind; both men were getting a little ripe, and the smoke smelled marginally better than they did.

He stopped on the shoulder and turned on the new phone.

Pat Wahlquist had given Daniel his business card four years ago, after Daniel had smuggled Pat out of Central America. “If the shit ever hits the fan harder than you can handle,” he’d said as he pressed the card into Daniel’s palm. Daniel hadn’t looked at the card since, but he’d always kept it with him, just in case.

He opened his wallet, dug behind the false flap in the billfold section, and pulled out Pat’s card. It read…

PAT WAHLQUIST

Slayer of Dragons

…and a phone number. Daniel dialed the number. Pat picked up on the second ring.

“Wahlquist.”

“Pat, it’s Daniel Byrne.”

“Daniel, my brother from another mother. Long time, long time.”

“Yeah. You said if I ever—”

Pat cut him off. “How can I help?”

“Need a safe place.”

“You called the right number. Where y’at?”

“Just north of Dulac.”

“Coming in hot?”

“No. My cell was compromised, but I got rid of it outside Slidell.”

“Awright, keep on coming south on the Grand Caillou. Number 7244—restaurant on stilts, called Schmoopy’s. I’ll be in the parking lot in twenty. You can follow me in from there.”

“Got it,” said Daniel. “And Pat…”

“Don’t you dare thank me,” said Pat Wahlquist. He broke the connection.