“Except that we do, Marc. Now. Because nothing that just happened here was an accident. And it wasn’t a one-way exchange.”
Saturday. Mid-afternoon.
THE NYLON BAG CAROLYN HAD LEFT AT THE ATM WAS ONE OF A limited edition of corporate gifts that AmeriTel had produced, six months before I’d joined the company. I’d heard people talk about them. But I’d never seen one before, because Roger LeBrock guarded them like the crown jewels, releasing them only to his most favored cronies.
It always fascinated me how the richest people were the ones who pinched their pennies the hardest. That’s what I focused on, anyway. It was better than speculating about how Carolyn had become one of the lucky recipients.
MCKENNA’S ROOM AT THE HOTEL was the same size as mine, but he’d somehow shoehorned a small table into the space at the foot of the bed. He placed Carolyn’s bag down and—having already checked it with airport-style security wands and explosive detectors before moving it from the ATM—he went ahead and opened the zips.
Inside there was a laptop computer—a high-end Toshiba I’d never seen Carolyn use before—its power supply, two memory sticks, and a handwritten note:
No copies of the data were made. The computer was used only to check the contents.
“Your wife’s handwriting?” McKenna asked.
I nodded.
“Let’s see if she’s telling the truth.”
NORMALLY, WATCHING AN AMATEUR try to find his way around a keyboard is excruciating, but I have to give McKenna his due. He fired up Carolyn’s computer, connected the memory sticks, used a DVD to load the Homeland Security virus suite, and started up the software without making any serious missteps. Then he left the diagnostic routines running in the background while he checked the computer’s recent activity.
“Looks like she was on the level,” he said. “All the data files for two twenty- four-hour periods have been deleted from both the sticks. But nothing’s been copied. And assuming it’s the AmeriTel data on the sticks, the virus check will be a formality.”
Seven minutes later we had our confirmation. The White House virus was present, as expected. McKenna read the results from the screen then nodded, closed down the machine, and pulled the memory sticks from their sockets.
“Do they look familiar?” He held the sticks out for me to see.
“I couldn’t swear to it. Probably. They’re the right brand. I’m guessing one got stolen from my house. The other, Weimann must have given to Carolyn.”
“Good enough for now. Forensics might be able to tell us more. But we have enough to wind things up here.”
“Wait. You can’t stop now. What about the deleted records? That’s obviously an attempt to hide the information leaked to AmeriTel before the auction.”
“I’m sure it is. And we know all about it now, thanks to you. We’ll put people on it. Specialists. Heads will roll, believe me. But that’s a separate investigation. It doesn’t relate to containing the virus. It’s tangential.”
“What about Carolyn?”
“What about her? She gave us what we need.”
“What if there are more copies of the virus? Or more infected machines? Shouldn’t you bring her in? Question her, at least?”
“No, Marc. As far as your wife’s involvement is concerned, I’m satisfied. The outstanding contaminated items have been recovered. We’ve done a thorough job.”
It struck me that he didn’t know the stick Weimann had given Carolyn was itself a copy, and that I still had my original in my pocket. But the way the conversation was heading, I didn’t feel it was time to show all my cards.
“I still say you’re making a mistake, letting Carolyn walk away.”
“Is this really concern for the case I’m hearing, Marc? Or the desire to punish your wife? Because it seems to me you need a marriage counselor right now more than you need a field agent.”
“So my wife walks. And what about me? If your investigation’s winding up, can I go, too?”
“Of course not. Your situation’s nowhere near the same as your wife’s. You have paper out on you for murder. She has dubious taste in friends and poor impulse control, if you’re to be believed. But listen. Keep this in perspective. We’re on your side. We’re handling the police. The charges will go away. Trust me. Now get some rest. And remember: Don’t set foot outside unless I clear it first.”
Saturday. Afternoon.
THE WOMAN SOUNDED BORED WHEN I CALLED HER, TWO MINUTES after McKenna had led me back to my room. “Reception. How can I help?”
“This is Mr. Bowman. Room 112. I can smell smoke. From the corridor.”
“Sir?” The woman’s voice was alive now. “OK. This is what I need you to do. Go to your door. Do not open it, but touch the handle and tell me how it feels.”
I counted to five, but didn’t bother to move. “Hot! Too hot to hold.”
The hotel fire alarm began to wail.
“Sir, I need you to stay where you are. And stay calm. The fire department is on its way. In the meantime, please take a towel from your bathroom. Wet it in the tub. Then lay it along the bottom edge of the door. OK? That’ll stop the smoke getting in.”
I thanked her, then turned my attention to the agent who’d been posted in the corridor. He banged on my door and yelled for me to stay put until he found out what was going on. I agreed. But I was lying to him, too.
McKenna should have known it wasn’t just the White House virus that was heuristic. I could learn from my experiences, too …
I CROSSED TO MY WINDOW, eased it up a couple of feet, and waited for the first of the guests to reach the parking lot. Get people running around like headless chickens, McKenna had said. Make them think there’s a fire nearby. Tap into their primal fear. It was good advice. So I slipped through the space I’d created, lowered myself to the ground, and dodged from group to group until I was close enough to make a break for my car.
THE LAST VILLAGE BEFORE LeBrock’s was picture-postcard perfect. I raced through at double the speed limit and could still take in the ice-cream parlors and artisanal produce stores, the vegetarian restaurants and the antiques emporia. And then, half a mile past the last pastel-painted building, I saw something less inviting. A line of police cars. Four of them, zigzagged across the road like fangs in a giant’s mouth, light bars blazing, blocking my way.
I couldn’t stop. And if I plowed into them, I’d be killed. I was certain. There was a stand of pines to my right. They’d be just as lethal, at the speed I was going. So I had to go left. There was a space to the side of the last squad car. Just a sliver. Not paved. But my only option.
My wheels left the blacktop and suddenly I was sideways. Then backwards. I locked eyes with a furious policeman as I slid past the roadblock, then he disappeared in the cloud of dust and debris thrown up by my tires.
I was sideways again. Facing the other way.
Then straight. I wrestled the steering wheel, battling to keep it that way. I was winning! Until the nose of the car dropped away and I lurched forward, the seatbelt biting into my shoulder and my chin slamming down into my chest.
Trees and bushes rushed toward me. I was off the road altogether. Plunging down a steep bank. Speeding up. My head was bouncing off the seatback and the window, rattling my teeth, blurring my vision. The brakes didn’t work. I lost my grip on the steering wheel. A branch tore my side mirror off. Something hit the windshield, blurring it into a million opaque stars. Then the shaking died away. The car leveled out. I found the brake pedal. Hit it again with all my weight.