The Associate (34 page)

“You’ve come to the right place.”

“Thanks. I gotta go. Doofus is waiting.”

“Doofus?”

Kyle stood and reached across the desk. He picked out a composite and laid it on top of the pile. “Meet Doofus, probably the worst of the street crawlers who’ve shadowed me for the past nine months. His buddy there is Rufus. He’s bad, too, but not as bad as Doofus. I have become so adept at appearing to be so clueless that these clowns think they can follow me in their sleep. They make a lot of mistakes.”

They shook hands and said goodbye, and long after Kyle was gone, Roy stared at his window and tried to absorb it all. A twenty-five-year-old former editor in chief of the
Yale Law Journal
being stalked
on the streets of New York City by a deadly group of professional operatives who are blackmailing him into spying on his own law firm.

Roy was awestruck by the scenario. He smiled and reminded himself of how much he loved his job.

_________

There were a few bright spots in the ugly split among the firm’s litigators. More partners would be needed, and sooner. Advancement opportunities were created with all those gaps to fill. And, most crucial to the first-year associates, offices had been emptied. The jockeying began as soon as the malcontents fled. Over the weekend, Tabor nailed down a place of his own and had moved his junk by Sunday night.

Kyle gave little thought to a move. He’d grown accustomed to his little cubicle, and he enjoyed having Dale close by. They groped occasionally when they were completely safe. He looked forward to her daily appearance and expected a full rundown on what she was wearing and who designed it. Discussing her clothes was almost as much fun as removing them.

He was surprised when Sherry Abney dropped by late Monday afternoon and asked him to follow her. They took the stairs one floor up to the thirty-fourth, and, after walking past a dozen doors, she stopped, stepped in, and said, “This is yours.”

It was a twelve-by-twelve square room, with a glass desk, leather chairs, handsome rug, and a window that faced south and allowed real sunlight to pass through. Kyle was overwhelmed. Why me? he wanted to ask. But he pretended to take it in stride.

“Compliments of Wilson Rush,” she said.

“Nice,” Kyle said, stepping to the window.

“You share a secretary with Cunningham next door. I’m just down the hall if you need anything. I’d get myself moved in because Mr. Rush might stop by for a quick inspection.”

Moving took fifteen minutes. Kyle made four trips back and forth, and during his last one Dale carried his sleeping bag and laptop. She was genuinely happy for him, and even passed along a few decorating ideas. “Too bad you don’t have a sofa,” she said.

“Not at the office, dear.”

“Then where and when?”

“I take it you’re in the mood.”

“I need to be loved, or at least lusted after.”

“How about dinner, then a quickie?”

“How about a marathon, then a quick dinner?”

“Oh, boy.”

They sneaked out of the building at 7:00 p.m. and took a cab to her apartment. Kyle was unbuttoning his shirt when his FirmFone buzzed with an e-mail sent by an unknown partner to about a dozen grunts. All hands were needed on deck immediately for an urgent orgy of work that was absolutely critical to the future of the firm. Kyle ignored it and turned off the lights.

F
or no reason other than sheer obstinacy, Kyle arrived forty-five minutes late for the Tuesday night meeting at the Four Seasons. He expected to see Nigel, so he was not surprised when Bennie’s sidekick met him at the door and pretended to be pleased to see him. “Kyle, old boy, how have you been?” he chirped with a fake smile.

“Marvelous. And your name is?”

“Nigel.”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot. Last name?”

“Sorry, old boy.”

“Do you have a last name, or do you have so many you can’t remember which one fits right now?”

“Good evening, Kyle,” Bennie said, rising to his feet, folding a newspaper.

“So nice to see you, Bennie.” Kyle placed his briefcase on the bed but did not remove his trench coat. “Now, who called this meeting?” he asked.

“Tell us about the room on the eighteenth floor,” Bennie said, abandoning any more preliminaries.

“I’ve already described it.”

Nigel fired away: “Ten monitors on ten tables, right, Kyle?”

“Yes.”

“And where are the computers themselves?”

“On the tables, next to the monitors.”

“The computers, Kyle, tall and thin, short and fat? Give us a hint here!”

“More of a square box, to the right of each monitor.”

On the dresser next to the television there was a thin notebook, already opened. Nigel lunged for it and said, “Take a look at these computers, Kyle. All shapes and sizes, various makes from around the world. See anything remotely similar?”

Kyle methodically flipped through it. Each page had color photos of eight computers, ten pages in all, eighty machines that varied wildly in design and construction. He settled on one that looked more like a color jet printer than a computer.

“Yes, rather square,” Nigel observed. “How many disc drives?”

“None.”

“None? Are you certain, Kyle?”

“Yes. These were custom built for maximum security. There are no disc drives, no ports, no way to transfer the data.”

“Control panel? Switches, buttons, lights, anything, Kyle?”

“Nothing. Plain-vanilla box.”

“And the server?”

“Locked up next door. Out of sight.”

“Interesting. And the monitors, Kyle?”

“Basic LCD flat screens.”

“Let’s take a peek,” Nigel said as he opened the notebook to another section, this one filled with an assortment of monitors. “Size, Kyle?”

“Fourteen inches.”

“Full-color display I’m sure?”

“Yes.” Kyle stopped on the third page and pointed. “This one is very close.”

“Excellent, Kyle.”

“And printers?”

“None.”

“Nowhere in the room? Not a single printer?”

“None.”

Nigel paused to scratch his face and ponder this. “Suppose you’re working on a brief or a memo. When it’s time to produce it, what happens?”

“You notify your supervisor, who then enters the room, pulls it up, reviews it, and so on. If it is to be submitted to the court, or to the opposing attorneys, it’s printed.”

“Where? I thought there were no printers.”

“There’s a machine in a room next door with a paralegal who monitors the printing. Every sheet of paper that’s printed is coded and duplicated. It’s impossible to print anything without leaving a trail.”

“Quite nice, really.” With that, Nigel took a sharp step back and relaxed. Bennie took over. “Kyle, how many times have you entered the room?”

“Once a day for the last five days.”

“And how many people are normally in the room?”

“It varies. Sunday afternoon I was alone for about an hour. This morning there were five or six others.”

“Have you been there late at night when they close the room?”

“No, not yet.”

“Do it, okay. Be there at ten one night.”

“I can’t go there just to hang out, Bennie. It’s not a coffee room. Surveillance is constant, cameras watching and all that. There has to be a reason to be there, other than casing the joint.”

“Does anyone notice when you come and go?”

“There’s not a guard at the door. The key makes a record of each entry and exit, and I’m sure it’s all recorded by closed circuit.”

“Do you take your briefcase in with you?”

“No.”

“Are briefcases forbidden?”

“No.”

“Do you wear your jacket?”

“No. Jackets are not required around the office.”

Bennie and Nigel studied each other for a minute or so, both minds hard at work.

“Will you go there tomorrow?” Bennie asked.

“Maybe. I’m not sure right now. It depends on what I’m asked to do in the morning.”

“I want you to enter the room tomorrow, carrying your briefcase and wearing your jacket. As soon as you’re settled in, take off your jacket. Keep the briefcase under the table.”

“Will this work, Kyle?” Nigel piled on quickly.

“Oh, sure. Why not? Anything else? And what if I haul in a box of tacos and drop cheddar crumbs on the keyboard? Where is this going?”

“Just trust us here, Kyle,” Nigel said gently. “We know what we’re doing.”

“You’re the last person I’d trust.”

“Now, Kyle.”

“Look, I’m tired. I’d really like to go—”

“What are your plans for the next few days?” Bennie asked.

“I’ll work tomorrow, leave the office around five, take the train to Philly, rent a car, and drive to York. I’m having Thanksgiving dinner with my father on Thursday. I’ll be back in the city late Friday afternoon, and back at the office early Saturday. Good enough?”

“We’ll meet Sunday night,” Bennie said.

“Your place or mine?”

“I’ll pass along the details.”

“Happy Thanksgiving, boys,” Kyle said as he left the room.

_________

On his new office door, Kyle hung two waterproof, all-purpose trench coats, one black and the other one a light brown. The black one he wore every day, to and from work and when moving around the city. The brown one was used rarely, only on those occasions when Kyle really didn’t want to be followed. At 2:30 on Wednesday, he draped it over his arm and rode the elevator to the second floor. From there, he took a service elevator to the basement, put on the trench coat, and ducked through the rows of thick plumbing pipes and electrical cables and heating units until he came to a metal stairway. He spoke to a technician, one he’d spoken to on several occasions. He saw daylight in a narrow alley that barely separated his building from the fifty story edifice next door. Ten
minutes later, he walked into the office of Roy Benedict.

They had chatted briefly on the phone, and Kyle was uneasy about the plan.

Roy was not at all uneasy. He had studied the file, analyzed the facts and issues, weighed the predicament, and was ready to move. “I have a friend with the FBI,” he began. “A friend I trust completely. We worked together years ago before I became a lawyer, and even though we are now on opposite sides of the street, I trust him even more. He’s a heavyweight here in the New York office.”

Kyle flashed back to his last encounter with the FBI. Fake names, fake badges, a long night in a hotel room with Bennie. “I’m listening,” Kyle said with skepticism.

“I want to meet with him and lay everything on the table. Everything.”

“What will he do?”

“Crimes have been committed. Crimes are in process. Crimes are being planned. And not small crimes. I suspect he will be as shocked as I am. I suspect the FBI will get involved.”

“So Bennie gets nabbed by the feds?”

“Sure. Don’t you want him locked up?”

“For life. But he has a vast network out there in the shadows.”

“The FBI knows how to lay its traps. They screw up occasionally, but their record is very good. I deal with them all the time, Kyle. I know how smart these guys are. If I talk to them now, they’ll move in quietly and lay the groundwork. When they want to, they can
throw a whole army at the enemy. Right now you need an army.”

“Thanks.”

“I need your permission to talk to the FBI.”

“Is there a chance they’ll take a look and let it pass?”

“Yes, but I doubt it.”

“When will you talk to your friend?”

“Maybe as early as this afternoon.”

Kyle barely hesitated. “Let’s do it,” he said.

I
t was almost midnight when Kyle quietly slipped through the unlocked kitchen door of his family home in York. All lights were off. His father knew he would be arriving late, but John McAvoy let nothing interfere with a night’s sleep. Zack, the ancient border collie who’d never met an intruder he didn’t like, managed to rouse himself from his pillow in the breakfast nook and say hello. Kyle rubbed his head, thankful to see the dog one more time. Zack’s age and exact lineage had never been clear. He was a gift from a client, partial payment on a fee, and he liked to spend his days under the desk of John McAvoy, sleeping through all sorts of legal problems. He usually ate lunch in the firm’s kitchen with one of the secretaries.

Kyle kicked off his loafers, sneaked up the stairs to his bedroom, and within minutes was under the covers and dreaming.

Less than five hours later, John practically kicked in the door and boomed, “Let’s go, knucklehead. You can sleep when you’re dead.”

In a drawer, Kyle found an old set of his thermal underwear and a pair of wool socks, and in the closet, among a collection of dusty old clothes that dated back to high school, he pulled out his hunting overalls. Without a woman in the house, the dust and spiderwebs and unused garments were accumulating. His boots were precisely where he’d left them a year earlier, last Thanksgiving.

John was at the kitchen table preparing for war. Three rifles with scopes were laid out, next to several boxes of ammo. Kyle, who’d learned the art and rules of hunting as a child, knew his father had thoroughly cleaned the rifles the night before.

“Good morning,” John said. “You ready?”

“Yep. Where’s the coffee?”

“In the thermos. What time did you get in?”

“Just a few hours ago.”

“You’re young. Let’s go.”

They loaded the gear into the late-model Ford pickup, four-wheel drive, John’s preferred means of transportation in and around York. Fifteen minutes after crawling out of bed, Kyle was riding through the darkness of a frigid Thanksgiving morning, sipping black coffee and nibbling on a granola bar. The town was soon behind them. The roads became narrower.

John was working a cigarette, the smoke drifting through a small crack in the driver’s window. He usually said little in the mornings. For a man whose day was spent in the midst of a busy small-town law office, with phones ringing and clients waiting and secretaries scurrying about, John needed the solitude of the early hours.

Kyle, though still sleepy, was almost numb with
the shock of open spaces, empty roads, no people, the great outdoors. What, exactly, had been the attraction of a big city? They stopped at a gate. Kyle opened it and John drove through, then they continued deeper into the hills. There was still no trace of sun in the east.