“Just exactly what you think I do. You will stand trial and be convicted of murder. Or, at best, you’ll have an outstanding warrant that will keep you on the run for the rest of your life.”
“But I didn’t do anything. Somebody has to believe that because they hired you. In court—”
“Your day in court won’t matter,” Jonathan said.
“I’m innocent.”
“So what?” Boxers said. “Jails are full of innocent people.”
“That’s because all the guilty people say they’re innocent,” Becky said. “That’s cynical. David’s actually—”
“No, Becky,” Jonathan interrupted. “While everyone in prison was convicted of a crime, a good many of the people rotting in cells didn’t do what the jury believes they did. Courts aren’t about finding truth. They’re about lawyers winning and losing, based on their ability to sell a jury on their version of the facts.”
Becky made a huffing sound. “That’s paranoid bullshit.”
Boxers huffed back at her. “God, I love young people.”
“Look at what happened in your apartment today,” Jonathan said. “Men with Secret Service badges — men with the authority to step into your home — tried to kill you. If they turn out to be who I think they are, Big Guy and I are guilty of assaulting federal officers. We met all the elements of the law. If they had died, we would have committed murder upon a federal officer. Is that what you saw?”
“That’s such a specific case,” Becky said.
“All assaults are specific cases,” Jonathan pressed. “A white security guard kills a black teenager in a late-night struggle. The police decide that it was self-defense. But then the press gets ahold of it, and suddenly it’s a chargeable offense. The guy is convicted by the world before he ever stands trial. Jurors know that if they find the guy not guilty, the city will likely burn with riots. Is that a fair trial?”
“Is this really the time for a civics lesson?” Venice asked.
Jonathan paused to let some of the wind out of his sails. “Okay. My point ultimately is that whoever is behind whatever is going on is actively building whatever fiction is necessary to pull off his plan. Somehow, David, you’re a pawn, and Becky, you’re an accomplice.”
“What does that make you?” David asked.
Jonathan smiled. “I’m the problem solver.”
“Speaking of which,” Venice said. “I need to speak to you in the hallway. Big Guy too.”
They both stood. He addressed his new guests. “Okay, guys, I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll keep the doors unlocked if you promise me that you won’t leave the basement.”
“I don’t understand why we need to be treated like prisoners,” Becky said. “You tell us that we need to be here of our own free will, but then you restrict our every movement.”
Ever the optimist, Jonathan took one more shot at explaining. “It’s about keeping your location a secret,” he said. “This building is more than a home. It’s also an office, with people moving about on the floor above. Children wander in and out at times, making the presence of a stranger even more notable. Never forget that you, David, are wanted for a very serious crime. People are actively looking for you.”
“Becky, too, unfortunately,” Venice said. Then with a sheepish smile, she added, “Late breaking news. They’ve named you as an accomplice.”
Becky’s jaw dropped.
“Powerful people move with remarkable speed,” Jonathan said.
A lightbulb went on over Becky’s head. Her eyes grew wide. “There was a shooting here a few years ago,” she said. “And a kidnapping, too, right?”
Venice’s quick glance to Jonathan eliminated any chance of Jonathan bluffing his way out. “Let’s not go there,” he said. “The point is that there’s too much opportunity for you to be seen and recognized. If that happens, a lot of bad stuff follows.”
“So we just hang here?” David asked.
“Pretty much, yes,” Jonathan said. “And just to sweeten the pot, Doug Kramer, the local chief of police, is a good friend of mine, and it’s not out of the question that he might wander in upstairs, too.” He saw those words hit home.
Venice said, “My mother — you can call her Mama — will be sure that you get enough food to gain five pounds every day. Honestly, it won’t be that bad.”
Jonathan left before they could ask any more questions. He pulled the door to on his way out, but he didn’t latch it.
Back in the hallway, he asked, “What’ve you got?”
“I looked at the files you took from Albert Banks. I think I know what they’re up to.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Lover of drama that she was, Venice kept them in suspense until they wandered back to the third floor of the firehouse and gathered around the conference table.
“Good thing we’re not in a hurry,” Boxers grumped as he pulled a seat out for himself.
“I’ll do the easy stuff first,” Venice said, her fingers already pounding the keys. “Eyes on the screen, gents.”
At the far end of the room, the massive screen switched from dark to blue, and then two faces appeared. They looked vaguely familiar, but before Jonathan could process them, Venice said, “Those men in the apartment were not Secret Service agents. I found both of their fingerprints in the Interpol computers. Here are their names.”
The screen displayed Vasily Alistratov and Pyotr Zabolotny. “I’ll let you figure out how to pronounce the last names. Vasily served six years at hard labor about fifteen years ago for assaulting a police officer. He was elevated to Interpol’s list in 2002 when he disappeared from view. Nine-eleven paranoia was running at its fevered height back then, if you recall, and it was easy to move from petty criminal to public enemy without a lot of justification.
“Pyotr, on the other hand, didn’t serve any jail time that I can see, but does have some spotty history of petty crimes. Nothing serious and nothing violent.”
“So why is he listed on Interpol?” Jonathan asked.
“I have no idea. He is, however, listed as a potential terrorist.”
“Now that’s interesting,” Boxers said. “How did that happen?”
“Again, no idea. But both are listed as known to be in the company of the other, and both are on all the no-fly lists.”
“Yet here they are,” Jonathan said.
Venice chuckled. “You’ve got to love it. The TSA pokes every nook and crevice of Granny’s wheelchair, but suspected terrorists somehow get in.”
“Granny needs better handlers,” Jonathan said. “You know, people who can give her a fake identity to sneak her in and out.”
“I bet a First Lady could figure out how to pull those strings,” Boxers said. “I’m not the only one who caught the Iron Curtain connection, am I?”
“It was subtle,” Venice said, her voice dripping with irony, “but yes, I managed to catch it.”
“This is really helpful, Ven,” Jonathan said. “I’m sure Irene has our friends in custody by now. She’ll certainly have all of this. I wonder what else she’ll come up with.”
Venice shifted in her chair and gave a coy smile. “I have something else,” she said. “On the files from Banks’s computers.”
Jonathan’s jaw dropped. “You couldn’t possibly have read through all the files already. You only had them for a little over an hour.”
“It helps to be brilliant,” she said.
Her boastfulness was way out of character, prompting an exchange of glances between Jonathan and Boxers.
A subtle smile bloomed as she added, “It also helps to be really lucky. Look at the screen.”
At the far end of the room, the 106-inch screen filled with lists of files.
“After I transferred all the data from all the files on all the disks you brought in onto a single drive, I decided that the best bet to find what we’re looking for was to search the files that were accessed most recently, and then to work backwards.” She glanced over at Jonathan. “I’m extrapolating from ‘manual methods first.’ ”