“I’d prefer cash.”
Al gave a double-take, stroking his beard for good measure. “For the entire amount?”
Mary nodded. “You can’t trust banks these days.”
Al invited her into a private office. It took several minutes to fill out the paperwork and several more for it to be processed. The terms were straightforward enough. The watch was to act as collateral against the loan. She had sixty days to repay the full amount at 22.5 percent interest per annum. It wasn’t loan sharking, but close.
A woman entered and placed a manila envelope on the desk. Al spilled the contents on the top. Crisp packets of $100 bills, still bundled from the bank. He counted the money with care, laying it in fans of $10,000 across his desk.
“Ten…twenty…thirty…thirty-six thousand dollars.”
Mary signaled her approval and Al gathered the bills like a blackjack dealer gathering playing cards, then placed the entire stack in a smaller, more discreet envelope.
Slipping the envelope into her purse, Mary enjoyed a moment of relief. The money wasn’t hers. The watch belonged to Hal Stark’s family, and she’d return it as soon she’d gotten Jessie home and Tank had published his article.
Somehow, she prayed, she’d have gotten her savings back by then, too.
“Will there be anything else?” asked Al once they’d returned to the showroom.
Mary ambled toward a nearby display case. It did not contain necklaces, earrings, bracelets, or other wristwatches.
“Yes,” she said, pointing at the item that had caught her fancy. “I’d like that one there. It is for sale, isn’t it?”
89
Tank pulled the sheet of foolscap from his old Underwood typewriter and read the final paragraph of his article.
“The Titan supercomputer developed by John Merriweather and perfected by Ian Prince is said to be the cornerstone of the NSA’s next-generation surveillance system, designed to decrypt even the most strenuously guarded messages of allies and enemies alike. Schematic data provided by ONE engineers show that ‘backdoors’ built into Titan (and nearly all machines designed and manufactured by ONE Technologies) allow unfettered access to these messages and to all information passing through it to anyone possessing the proper pass codes. Calls to the FBI and ONE Technologies have not been returned at this time.”
He grabbed a pen and wrote 30 at the bottom: old-school newspaper shorthand for “The end. Take this to the typesetter.”
With a groan, he stood and walked to the sink. He hadn’t figured that a bullet passing through his side could cause so much pain. His torso ached as if he really had been in that car accident he’d lied about to Al Soletano. He drank a glass of water but, despite some momentary refreshment, felt no better.
Leaning against the counter, he looked across the cabin at the ancient Underwood typewriter. The machine was heavy, cumbersome, arthritic, and altogether a relic. It reminded him of someone he knew.
He returned to the desk and gathered up his papers. Running to some two thousand words, the article stated that Ian Prince had overseen a campaign of extortion and intimidation against Merriweather Systems’ shareholders to convince them to vote in favor of a sale to ONE Technologies, that he had overseen the hacking of the FBI’s mainframe in Washington, D.C., resulting in the theft of over one thousand confidential files, and that he had paid Edward Mason $10 million to end the FBI’s investigation into ONE, all of it in a quest to take de facto control of the National Security Agency’s Utah Data Center.
There was no need to speculate to what end Ian Prince would abuse his access. His track record spoke eloquently of his past deeds. Intimidation, theft, sabotage, and murder were only the beginning.
Finally there was the matter of the malware that Hal Stark had posited Ian Prince had introduced into the avionics system of John Merriweather’s plane, which had led to Merriweather flying his aircraft into a mountainside. Short of getting into Prince’s computers, there was no way of corroborating the speculation. He would give the evidence to the FBI and let them handle it.
The irony, he thought.
Even without accusations of murder, the article was enough to bag him a big prize. A Pulitzer at the least. Once it ran, all hell would break loose. Tank could count on being busy for months on end, years possibly, covering all the stories sure to fall out. He felt like a hero in a World War II movie, the intrepid soldier who finds a detonation cord hidden in the sand and, with no care for his welfare, laboriously pulls it clear and follows wherever it might lead.
He could already hear Al Soletano apologizing: “You know, Tank, I was out of line when I called you a has-been. You weren’t ever just a decent reporter. You were a great one. Let’s forget all this nonsense about downsizing. The paper wants you back.”
Tank enjoyed the thought. Frankly, he wasn’t so sure he wanted his job back. He might just freelance, pull down a hefty book contract, and hang out his shingle as a roving investigative journalist.
He limped to the closet and dug around for some clean clothes, settling for a pair of Wranglers with mud on the cuffs and a flannel shirt that smelled of mothballs. He splashed some water on his face and combed his hair. It had been a long couple of days. Even so, he was shocked at his appearance. He looked as if he’d been pulled through a cotton gin one inch at a time.
Averting his gaze, he finished buttoning up his shirt and picked up the article and his notes and laid them on the tablet. With care, he yanked the flash drive clear, popped it back into the key. Without the key, it was all hearsay. Without the key, Tank Potter was a dead man.
Still thirsty, he opened a cabinet hoping to find a Coke or a root beer. Something to pep him up. There were no soft drinks, but there on the top shelf, pushed almost out of his sight, rested two small wooden crates. He stood on his tiptoes, his heart racing. Tequila. And not the Cuervo Gold he kept in the Jeep as his backstop, but Jose Cuervo Reserva de la Familia, a royal elixir that went for over $100 a bottle.
Tank sank down to his feet. Suddenly the pain in his side was unbearable. The past days’ travails weighed down on him. He thought of confronting Edward Mason at the airport, of discovering Carlos Cantu’s disfigured body, and of firing two shells into McNair’s chest. Any man would need a drink after going through all that.
Just one shot to steady his nerves and kill the pain in his gut.
And yet…He hesitated. As much as he desired a sip-just one-he knew he should walk out the door this second, climb into the Ferrari, and drive like hell into Austin. It was his job to get proof to the authorities. His life depended on it, and so did Mary’s.
Go. Now.
Strangely, his feet had turned into lead weights.
He reminded himself that he was a journalist. He had an obligation to the truth.
Even so, his hand reached high and took hold of one of the wooden boxes. He lowered it carefully…$100 a bottle…and carried it to the sink. He was on autopilot now. He didn’t think about getting proof to the authorities or about Mary. The fact that he was a journalist-and a damned good one-meant nothing to him.
He needed a few minutes to pry open the crate, free the bottle, and pop the cork. The smell nearly drove him to his knees. He found a glass and poured a sip, and then more than a sip, licking his lips greedily as the amber fluid filled the glass.
Reverently he raised the glass to his mouth. “Salud,” he said, to Mary and Al Soletano and even Pedro. “We got ’em.”
Only then did he hear a car driving across the scattered gravel. The engine quit. A car door slammed. Footsteps on the porch. A knock on the door.