The Partner (29 page)

“What about the boys from Pluto, as you called them?”

“They cooled off considerably. I was anxious to talk to them, but they had little to say. I think their client got scared, or maybe was happy just to get the fifty grand. Anyway, six months passed with little word from Pluto. Then, in late January of this year, they came back in a rush. Their client needed money, and was finally ready to sell out. We shadowboxed for a few days, then they dropped the bomb that for a million dollars we could learn the exact location of our man. I said no. It wasn’t that I didn’t have the money, it was just too risky. Their client was not willing to talk until the money was paid, and I was not willing to pay until their client talked. There was no way whatsoever to ascertain whether their client knew anything. In fact, for all I knew there wasn’t a client anymore. Tempers flared and talks broke down.”

“But you kept talking?”

“Yes, eventually. We had to. Their client had to have the money. We had to have Lanigan. Another
deal was proposed whereby we would, for another fifty thousand bucks, get the name and location of a place Lanigan had lived after he left Itajaí. We agreed, because from our point of view the fifty thousand was cheap and there was always the chance of getting lucky and stumbling over another tip. From their point of view, it was smart because it strengthened their client’s credibility. And, of course, it was another step toward the million bucks. There was a brain at work behind Pluto, and I was desperate to play ball. I would gladly pay the million bucks. I just needed some reassurance.”

“Where was the second town?”

“São Mateus, in the state of Espirito Santo, north of Rio on the coast. It’s a small town of sixty thousand, a pretty place with friendly people, and we spent a month there mingling and showing our photos. The apartment arrangement was similar to the one in Itajaí—two months’ cash paid by a man named Derrick Boone, a Brit. Without being bribed, the owner positively identified Boone as our man. Seems as if Boone stayed over for a week without paying, so there was a bit of a grudge. Unlike Itajaí, though, Boone kept to himself and the owner knew nothing about his doings. Nothing else turned up, and we left São Mateus in early March of this year. We regrouped in São Paulo and Rio, and made new plans.”

“What were the new plans?”

“We withdrew from the north and concentrated on the smaller towns in the states near Rio and São Paulo. Here in Washington, I got more aggressive with the boys from Pluto. Their client was stuck on a million. My client was unwilling to pay without verification. It
was a logjam, with both sides playing hardball but willing to keep talking.”

“Did you ever learn how their client knew so much about Lanigan’s movements?”

“No. We speculated for hours. One theory was that their client was also chasing Lanigan, for some unknown reason. It could’ve been someone in the FBI who needed cash. That, of course, was a longshot, but we thought of everything. The second theory, and the most likely, was that their client was someone Lanigan knew and trusted, who was willing to sell him out. Regardless, my client and I decided we could not allow the opportunity to escape. The search was now almost four years old, and going nowhere. As we had learned, there are a million wonderful places to hide in Brazil, and Lanigan seemed to know what he was doing.”

“Did you break the logjam?”

“They did. In August of this year, they ambushed us with another offer: current photos of Lanigan, in exchange for another fifty grand. We said yes. The money was wired offshore. They handed me the photos in my office here in Washington. There were three, black-and-white eight-by-tens.”

“Could I see them, please?”

“Sure.” Stephano pulled them from his perfectly organized briefcase, and slid them down the table. The first was a shot of Lanigan in a crowded market, obviously taken at long range. He wore sunglasses, and was holding what appeared to be a tomato. The second was taken either a moment before or a moment after as he walked along a sidewalk with a bag of something in his hand. He wore jeans and looked no
different from any Brazilian. The third was the most telling; Patrick in shorts and a tee shirt washing the hood of his Volkswagen Beetle. The license plates could not be seen, nor could much of the house. The sunglasses were off, and it was a clear shot of his face.

“No street names, no license plates,” Oliver said.

“Nothing. We studied them for hours, but found nothing. Again, as I said, there was a brain at work.”

“So what did you do?”

“Agreed to pay the million dollars.”

“When?”

“In September. The money was placed in escrow with a trust agent in Geneva, to be held until both sides gave notice to move it. Under our deal, their client had fifteen days to give us the name of the town, and the street address where he lived. We chewed our nails for the entire fifteen days, then on the sixteenth, after verbal warfare, they came through. The town was Ponta Porã, the street was Rua Tiradentes. We raced to the town, then sneaked into it. We had great respect for Lanigan by now, and we figured he was brilliant at moving forward while watching his back. We found him, then watched him for a week just to make sure. His name was Danilo Silva.”

“A week?”

“Yeah, we had to be patient. He picked Ponta Porã for a reason. It’s a wonderful place to hide. Local officials are cooperative if the money is right. The Germans discovered it after the war. One bad move, the cops get tipped, and they step in to protect him. So we waited and schemed and finally grabbed him outside of town, on a small road with no witnesses. A clean
getaway. We sneaked him into Paraguay to a safe house.”

“And there you tortured him?”

Stephano paused, took a sip of coffee, and stared at Oliver. “Something like that,” he said.

Twenty-seven

Patrick paced and stretched at one end of the doctors’ conference room while Sandy sat and listened and doodled on a legal pad. A nurse had brought a tray of cookies, still untouched. Sandy admired the cookies and asked himself how many capital murder prisoners got cookies delivered to them? How many had their own team of bodyguards lurking nearby? How many had the Judge stopping by for pizza?

“Things are changing, Sandy,” Patrick said without looking at him. “We have to move fast.”

“Move where?”

“She won’t stay here as long as her father is miss-mg.

“As usual, I’m thoroughly confused. The gaps are getting wider and the two of you speak in tongues. But I’m just the lawyer. Why should I know anything?”

“She has the files and records, and the story. You have to go see her.”

“I just saw her last night.”

“She’s waiting on you.”

“Really? Where?”

“There’s a beach house at Perdido. She’s there.”

“Let me guess. I’m supposed to drop everything, and race over right now.”

“It’s important, Sandy.”

“So are my other clients,” he said angrily. “Why can’t you give me a little notice here?”

“I’m sorry.”

“I have court this afternoon. My daughter’s got soccer. Is it asking too much for some warning?”

“I couldn’t anticipate a kidnapping, Sandy. You’ve got to admit the circumstances are somewhat unusual. Try and understand.”

Sandy took a deep breath and scribbled something. Patrick sat on the edge of the table, very near him. “I’m sorry, Sandy.”

“What might we discuss at the beach house?”

“Aricia.”

“Aricia,” he repeated, then looked away. He knew the basics, at least what he’d read in the papers.

“It will take some time, so I’d pack for overnight.”

“Am I expected to stay at the beach house?”

“Yes.”

“With Leah?”

“Yes. It’s a big house.”

“And what exactly am I supposed to tell my wife? That I’m shacked up in a beach house with a beautiful Brazilian woman?”

“I wouldn’t. Just tell her you’re meeting with the rest of my defense team.”

“That’s nice.”

“Thanks, Sandy.”

Underhill joined Oliver after a coffee break. They sat next to each other with the video camera behind them, all eyes aimed down the table at Stephano.

“Who interrogated Patrick?” Underhill asked Stephano.

“I’m not required to give the names of my associates.”

“Did this person have any experience with physical interrogation?”

“Limited.”

“Describe the means used.”

“I’m not sure—”

“We’ve seen the photos of the burns, Mr. Stephano. And we, the FBI, have been sued for injuries inflicted by your men. Now, tell us how you did it.”

“I wasn’t there. I didn’t plan the interrogation because I have little experience in that field. I knew in general terms that a series of electrical shocks would be applied to various points on Mr. Lanigan’s body. That is what happened. I had no idea it would cause serious burns.”

There was a pause as Underhill glanced at Oliver and Oliver glanced at Underhill. Blatant disbelief. Stephano simply sneered at them.

“How long did this go on?”

“Five to six hours.”

They looked at a file and whispered something. Underhill asked him some questions about the identification
process, and Stephano described the fingerprinting. Oliver struggled with the time sequences, and spent almost an hour pinning down exactly when they grabbed him and how far they drove him and how long they interrogated him. They grilled Stephano about the trip out of the jungle to the airstrip at Concepción. They probed and fished and covered everything else, then they huddled for a moment and returned to the crucial question.

“During the interrogation of Mr. Lanigan, what did you learn about the money?”

“Not much. He told us where the money had been, but it had been moved.”

“Can we assume he told you this under extreme duress?”

“Safe assumption.”

“Are you convinced he didn’t know where the money was at that time?”

“I wasn’t there. But the man who conducted the interrogation has told me that, without a doubt, he believes that Mr. Lanigan did not know the exact location of the money.”

“The interrogation wasn’t recorded either by video or audio?”

“Of course not,” Jack said, as if he had never thought about it.

“Did Mr. Lanigan mention an accomplice?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“What does that mean?”

“Means I don’t know.”

“How about the man who conducted the interrogation? Did he hear Mr. Lanigan mention an accomplice?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“So, as far as you know, Mr. Lanigan never mentioned an accomplice?”

“That’s correct.”

They shuffled files again, and whispered between themselves, then took a long pause, one that became profoundly unsettling for Stephano. He had told two lies in a row—no recording and no accomplice—and he still felt safe with them. How could these guys know what was said in the jungles of Paraguay? But they were the FBI. So he fidgeted, and waited.

The door opened suddenly, and Hamilton Jaynes walked through it, followed by Warren, the third interrogator. “Hello, Jack,” Jaynes said loudly as he took a seat on one side of the table. Warren sat near his buddies.

“Hello, Hamilton,” Stephano said, fidgeting even more.

“Been listening in the next room,” Jaynes said with a smile. “And I’m suddenly wondering if you’re being truthful.”

“Of course I am.”

“Of course. Look, ever heard the name Eva Miranda?”

Stephano repeated it slowly, as if totally confused by it. “Don’t think so.”

“She’s a lawyer in Rio. A friend of Patrick’s.”

“Nope.”

“Well, see, that’s what bothers me, Jack, because I think you know precisely who she is.”

“I’ve never heard of her.”

“Then why are you trying to find her?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Stephano said rather weakly.

Underhill spoke first. He was looking directly at Stephano, but he spoke to Jaynes. “He’s lying.”

“He certainly is,” said Oliver.

“No question about it,” Warren added.

Stephano’s eyes darted from voice to voice. He started to say something, but Jaynes showed him his palms. The door opened, and one more comrade from the Underhill-Oliver-Warren school walked in just far enough to say, “The voice analysis shows sufficient proof of lying.” His announcement over, he withdrew immediately.

Jaynes picked up a single sheet of paper and summarized from it. “This is a story appearing in a Rio paper this morning. It tells of the kidnapping of a Mr. Paulo Miranda. His daughter is Patrick’s friend, Jack. We’ve checked with the authorities in Rio. No ransom demand. Nothing from the kidnappers.” He slid the paper in the direction of Stephano, but it stopped out of his reach.

“So where is Mr. Miranda?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Jaynes looked at the other end of the table.

“Still lying,” Underhill said. Oliver and Warren nodded their agreement.

“We had a deal, Jack. You would tell us the truth, and we would drop the charges against you. And, as I recall, we agreed not to arrest your clients. Now what I am supposed to do, Jack?”

Stephano was looking at Underhill and Oliver, who
seemed ready to pounce on his next utterance. They, in turn, stared coldly at him, missing nothing.

“She knows where the money is,” Stephano said in resignation.

“Do you know where she is?”

“No. She fled Rio when we found Patrick.”

“No sign of her?”

“No.”

Haynes looked at his truth squad. Yes, he had stopped the lying.

“I agreed to tell you everything,” Jack said. “I did not agree to do anything else. We can still look for her.”

“We didn’t know about her.”

“Too bad. If necessary, we can review our agreement. I’ll be happy to call my lawyer.”

“Yes, but we’ve already caught you lying.”

“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“Lay off the girl, Jack. And release her father.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“No. You’ll do it now.”

The beach house was a modern tri-level in a row of seemingly identical structures along a freshly developed strip of the Coast. October was off-season. Most of the houses appeared to be empty. Sandy parked behind a shiny generic four-door with Louisiana plates, a rental car, he presumed. The sun was low on the horizon, inches off the top of the flat water. The Gulf was deserted; not a boat or a ship could be seen. He climbed the steps and followed the wraparound deck until he found a door.