The End Game (29 page)

Gigi smiled. “That’s my Snake.”

I tried to let it all sink in. “You really think it’s worth a shot?”

“You want to find rats like that,” Gigi said, “where better than to look in the sewer?”

“OK, maybe,” I said, “but you seem to have forgotten a tiny detail.”

She deliberately played dumb. The girl really was enjoying this.

“Slight inconvenience,” I said. “Daland might not be able to meet us here for a latté as he’s currently in residence at the MCC while awaiting trial.”

The Metropolitan Correctional Center is New York City’s Federal jail, where prisoners are held pending, and during, trial, usually at the US District Court, which is directly opposite it. It’s been home to some of the worst criminals the country’s seen, some of whom have been there for years, awaiting a trial that would probably never happen.

Gigi leaned forward toward me. “So we go talk to him there.”

I had to laugh. “Great idea. Shouldn’t be a problem whatsoever that I’m a wanted man and that I’m not exactly a stranger to that building or that it’s a literal stone’s throw from FBI headquarters.”

“So?” she pressed.

“So there are guards in there who might recognize me. Lawyers. Judges. FBI agents going in and out of there. Not to mention maybe a dozen guys that I put there.”

“Fine. So we change your look.”

I shook my head. “What did you have in mind? One of the Avengers? How about Thor? I think I’d look cool with blond locks.”

I thought I was doing well by talking their lingo, but she wasn’t laughing. “We go in. Together. In disguise. You’re his ultra-slick defense attorney. You’re brash, brilliant and you tell it like it is, no matter who gets hurt. I’m the sexy paralegal who won’t let you get inside her panties.”

She was a couple of minutes from pitching the pilot.

Kurt’s voice was unusually forceful. “No fucking way.”

Gigi smiled, her voice gentle. “Down, tiger. Yes, way. And, in fact, only way.”

Kurt was glaring at me, willing me to shoot the idea down, eyes already filling with dread for a decision made without him.

Problem was, we had nothing else.

I sent Kurt a sideways look of apologetic resignation.

“OK. Tell me how we do it.”

WEDNESDAY

49

Park Row, New York City

The brown wig and goatee that Kurt and Gigi’s favorite costumier had selected in order to make me look like a fictional attorney from a genuine law practice were so itchy I had to keep reminding myself not to mess with them. Still, and despite the fact that I knew the MCC far better than was healthy right now, we survived the signing-in procedure, the ID checks, the scan and search and the roving eyes of several guards.

Gigi—who seemed to spend far more of her life in costume than she did as herself—looked alluringly sexy. Transformed in a long black wig set against blood-red lips, white blouse, coal-black pencil skirt, burgundy jacket, black stockings and high heels, she looked like a
femme fatale
from a 40s noir brought to life and selectively colored in.

Unlike the sirens from those films, though, I knew I could trust her.

Yet again, I had to hand it to Kurt. And to the universe in general. Maybe good things really could happen to good people.

Gigi had kindly admitted my fictional alter ego to the New York State Bar Association last night and first thing this morning Kurt had hacked into the law firm’s phone system and, posing as one of the practice’s senior law clerks, cleared my security permission with the MCC’s legal department, which meant I required only the fake driver’s license we’d procured late last night and not a Federal Bureau of Prisons Secure Pass Identification card, which would have been harder to get hold of.

I had filled out the Notification to Visitor form and we’d both walked through the metal detector. A young guard had been about to tell Gigi that he needed to search her—it was tough to argue with his obvious appreciation—when an older guard had waved him away. We’d had our hands stamped and signed the old-style bound logbook.

In the face of some pretty forceful objections from Kurt, we’d decided to leave our smartphones in Gigi’s car—we wouldn’t be allowed to use them, and that made them just one more thing to worry about. Kurt had prepared a stack of authentic-looking legal papers, half of which were the sole contents of a battered leather briefcase Gigi had found at a thrift store, while the other half
was in a leather document wallet held by Gigi. Nothing more than props, but necessary ones. Both briefcase and wallet had been searched and passed through the fluoroscope.

I glanced at my watch. Forty minutes after two. We needed to start by three o’clock, which would give us half an hour before Daland had to return to his cell for the four o’clock count. We’d decided not to request that Daland be put on the “out count,” which, although it would mean we could all remain in the interview room during the count, would also mean that Gigi and I would be subjected to an additional layer of scrutiny in addition to having to stress our way through the count itself without the right to leave till it was done.

We were admitted to Eleven North, the self-contained unit where Daland was being held, and led along a corridor toward an interview room.

Twenty yards up ahead, I tensed up at the sight of a couple of guards who were walking a detainee back to his cell. I knew exactly who it was: Vince Northwood, a white supremacist and homegrown terrorist who’d posted several death threats against African-American politicians before trying to blow up a community health center in Queens simply because it received federal funding. He’d failed—luckily—and the only reason he wasn’t going to get a second chance was because we’d arrested him. He’d been here almost three years, the trial date having been put back so many times he probably now considered the MCC his home.

My blood turned to ice as the distance quickly closed between us. If he recognized me, we were screwed. Gigi must have noticed my body tense up because she immediately accentuated the swing of her hips and lasered a killer of a seductive curled lip on Northwood, giving him something he couldn’t afford not to look at.

When they were within touching distance, Northwood gave Gigi a leer acidic enough to dissolve Kevlar. We drew level, which meant I was in Northwood’s direct line of sight, even though Gigi was between us. His eyes flicked up from Gigi’s ass and landed on my face. There was a moment of almost-recognition, then the guards nudged him forward. The three of them turned a corner before Northwood could look back.

We really couldn’t afford another moment like that.

I gave Gigi a pointed, relieved glance as our guard unlocked the interview room and showed us inside. Gigi turned to the guard. “I’ll give you a shout when we’re done with our client.”

The guard eyed her with bored indifference, then nodded and stepped out of the room, shutting the door behind him. It gave a disturbingly clean click.

She turned to me. “You OK, G-boy?”

“Loving every second,” I said.

Barely a minute later, Daland—his silk kimono replaced by an orange jumpsuit—was led into the room by another guard, who walked the detainee to the far side of the table, then stepped back toward the wall. If Daland had noticed anything unusual about Gigi or me, he was keeping it to himself—for now.

I held out my hand. “Mr. Daland, Ben Burnham. And this is my paralegal, Polly Harris. I’ll be representing you going forward. As you know, Simon had to move to another case, but we’re fully briefed and up to speed on everything.”

He took my hand in a firm grip, his eyes boring into mine. I could tell he
had
recognized me—and that he was using the time to decide how to react. I could see his thought processes so clearly it was obvious that he wanted me to. If he ratted us out, then he’d never find out what was going on. If he played along, then he might discover what was happening, but by the time he’d come up with his own plan, it might well be too late to save the deep network beneath Maxiplenty.

After a nerve-melting few seconds, he let go of my hand. “Sure. Simon told me about it. He says you’re a cybercrime specialist.”

I kept my immense relief in check and indicated for him to sit. “I have some experience that should be relevant, yes.”

Gigi and I sat down opposite him.

I gestured to the guard. “Could you please make sure all the cameras and recording devices are switched off?”

He nodded. “I’ll be outside.”

The door snapped shut behind him.

Daland leant back in his chair, waiting for us to make the first move.

“Polly” opened her leather document wallet, took out a single sheet of paper and laid it on the table.

Daland pretended not to look at it, but I could see he was quickly scrutinizing every inch. After a moment, he looked at Gigi.

“You look familiar.”

This threw me. I’d expected him to tell me he knew exactly who
I
was.

Daland kept looking at Gigi. “Wonder Woman. New York Comic-Con.”

Gigi smiled. “Wow. I’m impressed. But still, keep your paws to yourself.”

He grinned and relaxed back in his seat. “How could I possibly forget that body?” He closed his eyes, enjoying the moment. “You made a damn fine Diana of Themyscira.”

After savoring the memory, he finally turned to me, and all delight drained off his face. “What is this? You posing as a rogue agent to trick me into telling you more than I should? Seriously, dude. You Feds need to get over this infatuation you have for stings. Even if it did help you nab Ulbricht—a total fucking amateur, by the way—doesn’t mean it’ll work with me.”

I knew all about Dread Pirate Roberts and Silk Road. Even if the FBI’s Cyber Division hadn’t found a backdoor into the Silk Road servers, Ulbricht—the man accused of creating it—had been so lax with his personal online security it was only a matter of time before the Bureau caught him.

Daland was a whole different order of pirate.

I tried a different tack. “Think about it. Would I really go to these lengths and risk you not hearing about me?”

“You could easily have paid someone in here to tell me you’re a wanted man. Or threatened them. Northwood, for example. He and I shared some fond memories of you.”

What was that I said about him being smart? He was so damn keyed-in it was scary.

Daland must have noticed my unease. He could have made me suffer for longer, but instead he gave another signature shrug.

“It wasn’t him.”

“But that’s really what it hinges on,” I said. “Who told you—outside or in here—and how much you trust them.”

His face was completely impassive. I had no clue whether I was getting through to him or not.

I could hear the desperation seep into my voice as I continued. “And Polly, here. You must know how talented she is. I’m sure you’re aware of her unequivocal respect for the law, and it’s not like she needs money either, right? So how did I get her here, unless it’s down to trust?” I paused, gauging his reaction, then leaned in. “Look, you have all the power here, no question. I’m suspected of killing a CIA analyst and there’s a missing FBI agent out there they probably think I’m good for too. But you already know all that. Probably even more. But I still walked into the MCC like a lamb to the slaughterhouse.”

I stopped for a moment and dialed down the anger. It was hot in there, and the back of my shirt was soaked. The edges of my moustache were also starting to peel back as the glue was assailed by a stream of sweat. I tried to regulate my breathing.

I could tell Daland was now reveling in my misery.

“Here’s the thing, Jake. We all know you could have given us up when you first saw us. But you didn’t, which means you’re intrigued enough to hear us out. So hear us out.”

He shrugged again. “Shoot.”

“I’ve got two head shots. Drawings, to be precise. Like by a police sketch artist. They’re black ops guys. Seriously nasty. I think they’re behind a whole bunch of deaths over the years. Assassinations. Reporters, you name it. I need to ID them. I only know them by their codenames—their Agency legends.”

I waited to judge his reaction. He pursed his lips in a small whistle. “‘Agency?’”

I nodded.

He shrugged. “Heavy. So what’s this got to do with me?”

“I want to post their mugs on Erebus and see if anyone knows who they are.”

I paused, studying his expression, looking for his reaction to the magic word.

He was good. More than good. He gave away nothing. I could see him cleaning up in Vegas with that poker face without resorting to the black sunglasses and baseball caps.

“Never heard of it,” he said.

“Look, I know what I’m asking you for here, OK? But you have my word, in front of a witness, that I’m not here as a cop and that this isn’t some elaborate sting. This is just between you and me and no one else. I wouldn’t be here if I had any other way of doing this. You consider yourself a crusader for openness and truth and justice, right? Well, something bad is going on here, something seriously nasty that’s been going on for years and these guys are behind it. And if you get me into Erebus and someone gives me their names, I’ll be able to do something about it.”

He still sat there, dead-eyed, staring at me.

“Jake,” Gigi added, “this in on the level. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t.”

“I need the real names of these scumbags,” I pressed. “All we need is for one user to have as good a memory as yours.”

He remained Sphinx-like for a moment, then he smirked, his gaze panning across to Gigi. “When you want to get into someone’s pants, you always remember.” He let his subtle, seductive line linger for a moment before adding, “Hiring someone to pull a trigger? Or being paid to be the one who does it? I suppose you remember that too.”

“It doesn’t bother you?” Gigi asked him, her tone genuinely curious and not accusatory. “That people use your sites for stuff like that?”

I shot her a surprised look—I mean, I liked her blunt directness and all, but this was borderline Aspergeresque and it really wasn’t the time for her to be bringing it up—but the damage was already done. Fortunately, it didn’t seem to phase Daland.

“Do you blame Tim Berners-Lee for Internet porn? How’s that any different? Sure, he advocates regulation; I’ve read the manifestos. But it was always going to be too late once he opened Pandora’s browser. So should we blame him for an entire generation of teenagers who think a spit roast is perfectly normal sexual behavior? Or hold him accountable for cannibals grooming their next meal on Facebook or for ISIS recruitment videos? I just gave people a way to communicate without being spied on. By people like him.” He jabbed a forceful finger in my direction. “What people choose to do with it is up to them.”

I shook my head. I didn’t have the time or the headspace for a philosophical debate.

“OK, well, that’s exactly what I need . . . to communicate without anyone listening in, because the guys I’m after are part of the listeners.”

Gigi smiled and leaned in closer to him. “If you knew even ten percent of it, you’d help us.” She gestured toward me. “He’s about as far out on a limb as it’s possible to be without dropping into an abyss of serious suffering.”

Daland went quiet for a moment, his eyes tracking back and forth between Gigi to me.

“I get what
you
need, but what do
I
get? Are you going to stop the traffic on Pearl, drill down through thirty feet and spring me from the tunnel while I’m shuffling off to court shackled at the ankles, chained and cuffed at the wrists and sandwiched between four US Marshals, trapped between the remotely activated electronic doors at either end?”