Cavanaugh turned toward Rutherford. "John, isn't there any way you can stop this?"
"The time for him to have stopped this was last night," Mosely interrupted. "Trusting civilians is one of the first things an agent learns not to do."
Chapter 2.
"Bankrupt?"
In a stark interview room in the New Orleans detention center, Cavanaugh and Jamie listened in disbelief to what William told them.
"You knew Global Protective Services was in precarious financial condition."
"That's why I ordered the cancellation of the planned Tokyo office and cutbacks at the others," Cavanaugh said.
"Both were good ideas, but the downsizing came too late. It's not your fault. Duncan overextended the corporation, and this is the consequence. In normal circumstances, the cash outflow and inflow might have been balanced enough for Global Protective Services to rebuild its strength. But the attack on the New York office and the tremendous resources you put into security for the conference tipped the balance. It's only a matter of weeks before GPS collapses."
"Couldn't you have waited a while longer before you gave us more bad news?" Jamie asked.
"Unfortunately, that wasn't an option. The judge set bail at a half million dollars for each of you. I tried to persuade the bail bondsman to accept GPS as equivalent value for the bond. But even a hurried examination of the corporation's finances was enough to show how wobbly its balance sheet is. If you want to be released on bail, you need to use your personal resources as collateral."
"Personal resources?" Cavanaugh seemed not to understand.
"Your Jackson Hole property," William said. "Because the government owns most of the valley and only four percent is available for private ownership, the area's land values keep surging. Even without a structure on it, your ranch is worth several million dollars."
Cavanaugh exhaled in what was nearly a gasp, not because of the worth of his home but because he suddenly realized how threatened he was. "Carl tried to kill us. He burned our home. He destroyed my business. Because of him, we'll probably go to prison, which means I'll lose my security status."
"Don't assume you're going to prison," William said. "Mosely arrested you because he's in line to be the Bureau's director. By refusing to ignore the laws you broke, he shows he can't be influenced, doesn't play favorites, or make exceptions. But a lot of people are on your side. Here are copies of as many national newspapers as I could find.
USA Today
,
The
"Hard to do an interview when we're in custody," Cavanaugh said, "not to mention, protectors shouldn't put their faces on national television programs. Removes our effectiveness, don't you think? Assuming we're ever allowed to work again."
"The point is, a lot of people understand the difficult choice you had to make."
"What matters is what the court thinks," Jamie said.
"What a jury thinks. Lester Beauchamp's on his way back from Europe. He's extremely persuasive. I believe there's a good chance you'll be exonerated."
"When? The trial might not happen for a year."
William's cell phone rang.
"One moment." He pulled the phone from his pocket and raised it to his ear. "William Faraday." He listened. "Yes." He listened further. "Yes." He concentrated. "That's very generous of you. . . . I agree--if things had gone the other way, you wouldn't have had the opportunity to be generous. You'll make the arrangements? . . . Thank you."
William lowered his phone. "In the vernacular, it looks as if you'll be sprung."
"What happened ?"
"Do you know someone named Mr. Yamato?"
"He's one of the leaders of the World Trade Organization. I tried to persuade him to stop the conference. I was with him in his hotel suite when the tear-gas and smoke bombs went off."
"He credits you with saving his life and those of the other delegates if the conference had occurred." William's smile showcased his perfectly capped teeth. "I hope it's a sign of the outcome of your legal trouble that he persuaded the World Trade Organization to post your bail."
Cavanaugh would have been speechless, except for the need to ask the most important thing on his mind.
"Has anybody figured out where the hell Carl is?"
Chapter 3.
The river was cold. Gritty. Greasy. Submerged in the weight of the muddy water, Carl heard the muffled vibrations of engines. He kept kicking with his heavy shoes, in too great a hurry to take the time to stop his momentum, unlace them, and push them off. He had no doubt that Aaron was close behind him, possibly already in the water, thrusting after him. Kick! he ordered himself. Claw at the water! Swim harder! Faster! After chasing Raoul, killing him, and rushing to get away from Aaron, Carl felt that his lungs were strained to their capacity. His chest ached with the desperate need to take in oxygen.
No! I won't give up! I won't let Aaron win!
He swept his arms with greater determination, surging through the mucky water, feeling the current add to his momentum. Fifty, fifty-one, fifty-two , he mentally counted. He had to swim as far and fast as possible. Sixty, sixty-one, sixty-two. His mind spun. Even with his eyes closed, he saw swirling spots. Seventy-one. I once swam underwater for a minute and forty-five seconds , he reminded himself. Aaron saw me do it. He knows how strong I am, how far I can . . .
Carl's body took control of his mind. No matter how fiercely he willed his lungs not to do it, they insisted on inhaling.
Frantic, the vibrations around him even louder, he propelled himself upward, taking in water, coughing as he broke the surface. A barge sped close, threatening to strike him. Instantly, he took a breath and dove, kicking, aiming toward the opposite shore. He had to surface one more time, breathe, and submerge again. Then his sweeping arms touched silt, and he raised his head slightly from the river, blinking filthy water from his eyes, wanting to cheer when he saw boats against the shore. A wharf. See, Aaron, I can still do it!