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?”
Will smiled, nodded. He glanced at the book open on the side table next to where Artie sat. It was called The Power of Now, by Eckhart Tolle.
“She’s not up for reelection this cycle, is she?”
“Not this year, no.”
“So you’re not here to pitch me oppo work.”
“Not at all.”
“Good. Because I don’t really do that kind of work anymore.”
“Nothing like that.”
Will was circumspect in what he told Artie. He certainly didn’t mention the classified documents pilfered from the committee’s computers. (Who knew if Artie maintained contact with any committee staff members?) He just told Artie about the missing laptop and the furtive guy in Boston who he was sure had it, Michael Tanner. “I need to get it back, one way or another. However you have to do it.”
In reply, Artie just gave him a blank look.
“You asked him to give it back?” He spoke slowly, as if to a child.
“Of course.”
“This would seem to be a matter for law enforcement.”
“Absolutely out of the question. We can’t risk the exposure.”
“Of the senator’s personal information on the laptop, is that it?”
Will nodded.
“Must be some pretty explosive personal information.”
Will shrugged.
“You want me to get it back however I have to. Whether it’s dealing with him directly or breaking into his workplace or his residence.”
“I mean whatever it takes to get it back,” Will said with an arched brow. “Whatever it takes.”
There was a long pause. “Why is this so important to you?”
“Because it could do real harm to my boss.”
“And to you.”
“For sure. That too.”
Another long pause. Then Artie said, “Not interested. Sorry.”
“Is it about the money? Because I’m not asking you to do this for nothing. I’d pay your normal rates, of course.” He’d wire the funds from the Susan Robbins Victory Fund again. Easily done. Artie was a consultant.
“That’s not what it’s about,” Artie said. He exhaled. “Look, anyone who tells you that nothing can go wrong is lying to himself and you. Believe me, I’ve been a field operator. I’ve had my adrenaline fix. At this point in my life, this sort of risk, I don’t need it. That’s not where I am right now. I like my life.”
“How about, if it gets risky, you just pull out? You don’t need to let it get to that point.”
Artie shook his head slowly. “You want this so much, and you don’t even realize that the wanting of it, that’s not the only way to live.”
“I don’t understand.”
“When I was a kid, my daddy used to take me to the dog track, in Tucson. Watch the greyhounds race, right? And I used to wonder, what must it be like to always be chasing that flannel rabbit doll and never ever catch the thing? But that’s just how the track works. Right? And years later, I had this realization — I’d become one of those greyhounds. Always chasing the fake rabbit and never catching it.”
Will didn’t know what to say. He was uncomfortable with self-examination anyway, and certainly wasn’t going to share with Artie. “Oh yeah?”