The Switch, page 20
“In point of fact, those classified documents are the rightful property of the National Security Agency. They concern matters of national security, and under the law, once we demand them back, you are required to give them to us. No matter whose computer it is. It’s the law. It’s really that simple.”
“You drugged me.”
Earle shrugged, said nothing.
“I’m a legal US citizen, and you—”
“Mr. Tanner, let me be clear what your situation is. By receiving and holding top secret documents pertinent to our national security, you are in violation of 18 USC section 793. Which basically says, anyone who ‘receives or obtains’ a document relating to the national defense has committed a felony and shall be sentenced to a term of not more than ten years in prison.”
“I have no idea what’s on that laptop. If you tell me there are classified documents on there, okay, sure, maybe there are, but how the hell would I know that?”
“Actually, Mr. Tanner, you passed on classified national defense information to a journalist, knowing it was classified, presumably with the intent to publish. And then a few days later you leave your home and go totally off the grid. You want to tell me that’s not suspicious behavior?”
Tanner didn’t reply. After a few seconds, Earle went on. “Look at it this way. You have a business that requires you to spend time in Guatemala, Honduras, Ecuador, and Nicaragua, countries where the CIA has historically had extensive involvement.”
“Right. Where I was buying coffee.”
“A perfect cover. Precisely the sort of legend we’d set up. Michael Tanner, coffee guy. The perfect part to play if you’re an operative who needs to travel a lot. To countries with active insurgencies, death squads, people with long memories and deep pockets.”
“Oh, bullshit.”
“It would certainly explain how you managed to take out a highly trained ex-military specialist.” He shrugged. “Personally, I’m agnostic as to whether you’re a spy or a traitor. But certain colleagues of mine, including most notably my supervisor, have looked at your bio and have serious concerns. Give you an example. When Deborah asked if you’ve ever lived abroad, you conveniently left out the part about your junior year abroad. In Moscow. I find that interesting. It makes me wonder whether there’s a part of your life we haven’t been aware of.”
Of course: Earle had been watching through the one-way mirror on the wall. “I have no idea what I might have said on drugs.”
“I’m not making any accusations, Mr. Tanner. I’m just telling you what it looks like. I’ve been trying to assure my colleagues that you’re simply a good man who made a bad mistake. I think you’re just a guy who got lucky. Or should I say, unlucky. You somehow ended up with someone else’s laptop. You saw that it had some interesting stuff on it, maybe newsworthy, so you make a copy of the files and hand a USB drive containing the documents in question to a friend of yours you drink beers with every week, who also happens to write for The Boston Globe.”
“Oh yeah?” Tanner said, sarcastic.
“Maybe you weren’t familiar with the laws on the mishandling of classified information. And maybe, in a more innocent time, the courts would have given that a pass. Dismissed all charges. But not these days, my friend. Not given the terrorist threat we live under. All right, look, Mr. Tanner. If I wanted to, I could have you arrested in about half an hour, and you would be prosecuted to the fullest, I promise you. But today you’ve won the lottery. Because I’m choosing to believe in your basic goodness. And I’m giving you twenty-four hours to save your life.”
Tanner just looked at him.
“I don’t care what Psych Analytics says. I think you’re exactly who you seem to be. And I think you’re in over your head. Doggy-paddling in deep waters. And I’m here to throw you a lifesaver. You only have to do one thing. Come back tomorrow with that laptop computer. And any copies you might have made, flash drives, hard drives, everything.” He handed Tanner a white business card. It was blank except for the name “Earle Laffoon,” in small type, and underneath it, a phone number with a 410 area code. “Call me or text me at this number no later than ten A.M. tomorrow, and we’ll meet you, wherever you are. You’ll have the laptop with you.”
“And in return?”
“In return you no longer have to worry about your friends from Fort Meade.”
“I want this deal in writing.”
“I’d be happy to shake your hand.”
“Handshake deals are worthless.”
“You have my word.”
“I don’t know you. I want it in writing.”
“Not going to happen. That’s not in the offing, and let’s be honest, Michael, you’re not exactly negotiating from a position of strength, now, are you?”
Tanner said nothing.
“Understand something, Mr. Tanner. By letting you go, I am putting my own career in jeopardy. You are, after all, a security risk. So I will be taking this extremely seriously. And if we don’t see you again within twenty-four hours, I will be forced to escalate. You really don’t want me to escalate. And we’ll find you anyway—we always do.”
52
Will waited for the scheduler, Rachel, to finish with the senator. He caught the senator’s eye, nodded to let her know he was okay with waiting. Rachel got up two minutes later and blurted out, “Sorry!” when she saw that Will had been waiting.
“No problem,” he said.
He closed the office door, turned, and folded his arms. “They’ve just released Tanner in Boston.”
“Who, NSA?”
He nodded.
“What do you mean, ‘released’ him? I didn’t even know they’d found him. Didn’t you say they’re looping you in?”
“They agreed to keep me apprised of their efforts to locate the guy, yes. But they didn’t say they’d do it in a timely fashion.”
“Damn them. I don’t understand—what’s the point of releasing him?”
“It’s a deal they made with him. He’s agreed to retrieve the laptop and bring it to them.”
“That cannot be allowed to happen.”
“I know.”
“Will, when someone tells me something is handled, I expect it to be handled.”
Will didn’t answer. He just waited for her to speak again, as he knew she would.
“Did he talk to them?” Robbins said. “Do they know whose laptop it is? They’ve got to know.”
Will closed his eyes, shook his head. “If they knew, we’d know.”
“What are you—?”
“One of their legal folks would have been in touch with you already.”
“All right, then, can we—can you—?”
“Susan, this guy isn’t going to cooperate. I don’t know what he’s up to, but he refuses to admit he even has it.”
“Is it possible he doesn’t?”
“No. He has it, and NSA knows that too. Problem is, he’s got it hidden somewhere. I tried the sneaky approach; I tried the direct approach; nothing works. When—”
“Olshak,” she said abruptly.
“Bruce Olshak? The—”
“He owes me a favor.”
“Bruce Olshak does?” That was one of those names you didn’t let pass your lips casually, Will reflected. Not, at least, in this town. Bruce Olshak was a notorious, near-legendary lawyer and fixer for the New England crime family. He was involved, in some way, with the Teamsters’ East Coast operations. He was known for paying off judges. It had been said of him that he lost his moral compass when Roy Cohn died. Olshak was basically Lord Voldemort with a collar bar. What was remarkable about him was that he’d never been caught doing any of the things he was famous for doing. He had never once been indicted for anything. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be calling a guy like that.”
“We’re friends.”
“It doesn’t look good.”
“Get me his phone number,” she said.
“But you’re not talking about—”
“Desperate times,” she said. “Desperate measures.”
53
They gave Tanner his shoes and belt back. Then the contents of his pockets: his phone, his wallet, his keys. Then his gym bag, which he hiked over one shoulder.
They put the headphones and the blacked-out goggles on him and ushered him out of the room. Someone held each of his elbows. They’d obviously done this many times before. They had their choreography down, sidling Tanner through what he guessed was a doorway, and then straight ahead for a long time.
In a while he was brought to a stop. Walked some more. Pulled to one side and then the other. Up a flight of stairs, then straight ahead again.
It was the strangest sensation: he saw only darkness and heard just the faintest electronic buzz, feeling dislocated and disengaged, yet he was able to walk, to propel himself just fine. He remembered reading that they did this to the prisoners in Guantanamo. No more black hoods.
He said, “Now, is this really necessary, gentlemen?”
He didn’t know how loudly he’d just spoken. Could anyone hear him? He kept walking. Soon he felt cold air and smelled gasoline, the odors of a parking garage.
He was juked first one way, then another. Then he was stopped again.
With considerable difficulty, he was pulled and pushed and tugged until he was seated. On a car seat, it felt like. He could smell the kind of air freshener that comes in the shape of a pine tree that people dangle from their rearview mirrors. Pretty soon he felt a rumble and a vibration and he knew the vehicle was moving.
He was driven somewhere for about ten minutes. The vehicle came to a stop.
Suddenly his goggles came off and everything around him was blindingly bright. His eyes ached at the dazzling light as shapes began to emerge. He was sitting in the same Suburban he’d been taken away in. They were parked on the side of a street at a busy city intersection. He could hear the metronomic ticking of the emergency flashers.
He knew right away where he was: at the corner of Washington and Milk Streets. They were double-parked in front of a Chipotle. All around him were the skyscrapers of Boston’s financial district. Up ahead on the left was the Georgian steeple of the Old South Meeting House.
The guy on his left, who had a shaved head, was working with a strange metal tool, snipping the flex-cuffs off of him. When he had finished, the guy on his right, with a blond buzz cut, got out and opened the car door and held it open for Tanner.
“See you in twenty-four hours,” said the guy on the right.
Tanner got out, and the blond guy got back in and swung the door closed and the Suburban gunned its engine and took off.
Standing unsteadily in front of Chipotle, he looked around, disoriented, at the lunchtime throngs. Someone jostled him out of the way. The wound on his lower back throbbed.
Now where?
He pulled a phone from his pocket. It was one of the disposable phones he’d bought. They’d taken it away from him and handed it back at the end. It indicated he had three voice messages. He listened to them. They were all from Lucy, mostly about small issues, nothing urgent.
He looked at the phone, wondered if they’d done something to it. He assumed they did, put in a bug or a tracker or something. Maybe that was why they had let him go. Because they could always find him. They were probably still surveilling him, watching where he went.
And they wanted the laptop.
He was fairly certain they didn’t know whose it was. If they did, they probably would have focused on that. Talked about it, brought it up, threatened him some more. A senator’s computer. A government big shot.
So the first order of business was to get some new disposable phones. He passed a Falafel King and Vitamin Shoppe and Subway and eventually found a CVS, where he bought an assortment of phones. Maybe the cashier figured him for a drug dealer. At the front of the store he was surprised to find a pay phone. They were getting more and more rare, used mostly by the few who didn’t have either landlines or cell phones.
This gave him an idea. He wrote down the pay phone’s number.
Since he was no longer on the run, he could now safely return home, for the first time in days. He walked—it was a crisp, clear day, Boston postcard weather—and arrived on Pembroke Street half an hour later. The alarm was still on. He entered the house carefully, looking around, sniffing like a dog. Nothing seemed, or smelled, different or unexpected, as far as he could tell.
But how did he know the place hadn’t been wired for sound and video, implanted throughout with bugs?
In his bedroom he stripped and showered and dressed in a fresh set of clothes. He examined himself in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. Bruises were starting to emerge on his chest and his upper arm. There was a small bandage on his lower back, and a bruise on the back of his arm that was really starting to hurt. Interesting that they’d bandaged up his wounds. Because they hadn’t avoided hurting him in the apprehension.
He finished dressing. Just as he was about to put on his usual leather belt, he stopped and looked at it. They’d taken this away from him, this and his shoes. He held it up and examined it. Nothing was attached to it. The buckle was brass and solid. He inspected the buckle end, where the leather strap was looped around the middle post. They might have inserted a miniature tracker or something like that in here. Possibly. He hadn’t seen anything, but it was best to assume they did. He hung the belt up in the closet, selected another one just in case, and put it on. He picked out another pair of shoes.
He assumed they intended to tail him everywhere he went in the twenty-four hours until they met him again. He didn’t intend to evade the watchers, not yet.
But the time would come.
In a closet in the basement where he stored luggage, he found an old backpack. In it he put the belt and shoes he’d been wearing when he was grabbed, along with a change of clothing and a pair of sneakers. When he left the house, he set the alarm.
Had he been followed? He wasn’t sure. But it made no difference: he was going to his office. Maybe they had watchers on the streets around Tanner Roast. He didn’t care. He’d assume they did.
By instinct he looked for his car in the alley behind the town house, then remembered that he’d left the Lexus parked on Huron Avenue in Cambridge. Definitely out of the way. So he hailed a cab and took it to his office.
On the way he called Sarah, on the burner he’d given her.
“Do you know any lawyers who do national security law?” he asked.
“National . . . is that a special practice? I can’t think of any—”
“You think Jamie might know someone?”
Jamie North was an ex-boyfriend of hers, even, for a time, an ex-fiancé, until she’d come to her senses and decided she didn’t want to spend the rest of her life with an uptight humorless lawyer. At which point she got back together with her college boyfriend, Michael Tanner, and realized she’d found a life raft. Still, the subject of Jamie would come up from time to time. He was a partner at one of Boston’s biggest firms, Batten Schechter, who was often in the paper for some pro bono case or another. He was one of the few people Tanner had met who didn’t like him, through no fault of Tanner’s, of course.
“Wait,” she said, “I think that’s what Jamie does.”
“I thought it was First Amendment stuff.”
“Yeah, and—hold on, I’m Googling him—yeah, I was right, national security is one of his specialties.”
“Let me take his phone number.”
54
Arthur Collins was an unimpressive-looking man. He didn’t appear to be someone who could kill you noiselessly, though apparently he was, or had been. At least, that was the rumor. He had a short, squat build and looked at least ten years older than his sixty years. He had a sun-reddened face, a deeply creased forehead, and large doughy ears that stuck out like a monkey’s. His hooded eyes could sometimes look sad, sometimes look dead, menacing. Underneath them was a grid of crosshatched lines. He’d grown a gray-white goatee since they’d last seen each other.
He welcomed Will unsmilingly to his neat, small brick house overlooking the Chesapeake Bay.
“Directions okay?” He was not a talkative guy.
“Perfect.”
“Okay, then,” Artie said and turned and led the way to a wood-paneled room that was probably called a “den” but was his office.
There was a burnt-orange shag carpet on the floor that looked a lot like the carpet in the den in the house Will grew up in, a small desk, its surface bare, and a couple of chairs. A window looked out on the water, the view gridded by venetian blinds.
Artie sank into a brown plaid BarcaLounger, which was clearly his usual spot, his throne, facing a large flat-screen. Tented on a side table next to his lounger was a paperback. Will sat in a swivel chair next to the BarcaLounger, turned to face Artie.
Artie wasn’t a friend, really, but they were friendly, and a few years ago Artie had taken him shooting at his local gun range. Artie gave him a lesson, using his own guns—a whole slew of them, from a Smith & Wesson .38 revolver to a nine-millimeter Glock, from a little .22 to a massive assault rifle. Artie seemed to be something of a gun nut. He was also a good teacher, though Will wasn’t necessarily a good student. He’d forgotten most of what he’d learned about guns. Guns were not a necessary part of his world.
Not long after that, Will did him a favor. When the staff director of the intelligence committee had gone on a cost-cutting jag and had decided to get rid of most outside contractors like Arthur Collins, Will had put in a word for Artie. He let the director know that his boss specifically wanted Artie kept on retainer, and so he was.
“You’re still the majordomo for Senator Robbins, right?”
