She notices me looking and glances down at her bag. “Ah. I see. You don’t trust me. You’re a careful man,” she says. “That’s good. Here.” She opens the briefcase, pulls out a file, two pens, a yellow notepad, and a small case for eyeglasses. When she opens the case, a pair of glasses fall out and clatter onto the top of the desk. She drops the strap from her shoulder and turns the briefcase upside down, shaking it to show me that it’s empty. Then she slides it across the desk toward me. “Go ahead, check it yourself. I want you to be comfortable. And I’m not wearing any electronics if that’s what you think. You can pat me down. I’ll even take my clothes off if you like.”
“What then? Scream rape? No thanks. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I don’t trust you. I’m a criminal lawyer after all. I’m used to being lied to. People lie to me all the time. Some of my best clients lie to me. But then, that’s all part of the lawyer-client thing. You expect a client to lie, at least from time to time. It’s like the husband-wife thing, when one of them tells the other they’re not having an affair. But we’re not married and you’re not a client, so we don’t have a thing. We’re strangers, so it’s much trickier trying to figure out when I’m being lied to and why. Do you understand? I know it’s confusing, but trust me on this.”
“You haven’t answered my question,” she says.
“You noticed. I’m sorry to tell you this, but if you keep asking I’m afraid you’re gonna have to get used to it. I am better at asking questions.”
“Go ahead. What do you want to know?” she says.
“Who sent you here?”
“No one.”
“What makes you think I know anything?” I ask.
“Now who’s lying?” she says. “Okay, I’ll tell you. We don’t think. We know,” she says. “Your name, along with all the details, was given to me.”
“By whom?”
“That I can’t tell you. But I can guarantee you that the information I have is solid-direct from God’s lips to my ear,” she says. “You wouldn’t be revealing any secrets to me if that’s what you’re afraid of. In fact, I suspect we know things you don’t. We know that you were on the truck, along with Mr. Diggs and a woman from Costa Rica whose name we have. We know that the device was of Russian design, gun type, using highly enriched uranium, and that it dated to the Cuban missile crisis, 1962 to be exact. At some point it became a loose nuke in the hands of Middle Eastern terrorists. We know that a defector from the Russian military with technical skills armed the device either when, or before, it was delivered to Coronado and that this man was shot and killed on the street outside the naval base. We know that you were there when he was shot and that you witnessed it. How am I doing so far?”
“If you know so much, why don’t you go to the press?” I ask her.
“Because we can’t. It would jeopardize our source of information. This is a valuable and continuing asset that we cannot afford to lose. The source is irreplaceable, not just with regard to weapons of mass destruction, but other weapons systems as well. Precision-targeted high-tech stuff that we believe presents unacceptable risks to civilized societies in the future. If we said anything, they would know where the information came from. And even if they didn’t, the source would never talk to us again. But you have independent knowledge. You were there. That’s why we need you and Mr. Diggs to come forward.”
“It’s an interesting story,” I tell her. “But I can’t help you.”
“My god, what did they do to you?” She reaches for her briefcase and pulls it back across the desk. “I mean, to put the fear of federal wrath into you so deeply that you’re willing to cooperate in covering up a major nuclear incident? They must have done something horrible. You poor man,” she says. She starts to load her stuff back into the briefcase.
“Appealing to my sense of manhood will get you nowhere.”
“Obviously,” she says. “Contrary to popular belief, they don’t kill all the lawyers, they just neuter them. That’s funny, they must have missed me,” she says.
“You’re a lawyer?”
“I don’t practice any longer.”
“That’s good, because going around passing yourself off as an investigator with the state bar could probably get your ticket punched.”
“I’m licensed in another state,” she says.
“For your sake I hope it’s the state of grace, because there’s a good chance you’re gonna find yourself up to your high heels in some serious doo-doo if you continue pursuing this line of inquiry.”
“You won’t say anything,” she says. “Not about what I told you. Not about our source.”
“Why not? If I’ve been as emasculated as you suspect, maybe there’s something I want that they can give me in return.”
“Like what? Courage?” She’s up out of her chair. “You’re no lion and this ain’t no yellow brick road. Just the same, you won’t tell them.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because refusing to help me is not the same as helping them. And you know as well as I do that they can’t be trusted.”
“And I thought I was a skeptic.”
“Every government in the world thinks it owns the cartel on virtue,” she says. “Of course, none of them would use the bomb. Those that have it would love to get rid of it, but they can’t. They need it to keep other less noble and more warlike pricks from using it on them. And the angels who don’t have it would never pursue it, unless of course they have an excess of spent fuel rods that need to be put to some useful purpose, wasted resources being a terrible sin. In the meantime, bombs like the one on your truck have become war surplus, like old canteens and frayed fatigue jackets. I used to ask how long before some nutcase on a crusade got his hands on one. Now I guess I’m gonna have to come up with a new question, because we both know the answer to that one, don’t we?”
I don’t answer.
“Have it your way.” She slings the briefcase over her shoulder, stands up, and heads for the door. As she gets there, hand on the knob, she stops to look at me one more time. “You’re a hard sell,” she says. “You’re sure there’s no way I can persuade you? Make no mistake. It’s a watershed event. News of this would flash around the world before you could blink. It would force people to wake up. It would produce a backlash that those in power would not be able to ignore. Right now they’re asleep. What is it going to take to get their attention? Do you have any idea how many people would have died if that device had detonated? This office probably wouldn’t be here,” she says. “And we must be at least two miles away.”
“You know a lot. It was nice meeting you. And thanks for the stage direction. I’ll try to keep the dogs from humping my leg.”
She smiles. “You do that.”
“One piece of advice. I’d stay away from Mr. Diggs. He’s not as understanding as I am.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes. If you try to lie your way into his office, he won’t have any difficulty at all ginning up anger. And as for his body language, you may find yourself suspended by your panty hose from the flag-pole in front of his office.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“I’ll be sure to wear pants,” she says. “I’m pretty good at it.”
I make a mental note to call Herman and warn him.
TEN
Dad, what is your problem? I’m just going out with a friend for the evening. I’m not running away. Though the thought has occurred to me.” Sarah stands near the foot of the stairs in the entryway, her arms folded as she taps her toe nervously on the hardwood floor. She looks at me with a twinkle in her eye and a maternal smile on her face, like flashing neon that says, “Poor Dad’s slipping around the bend.”
“I know, but it seems like I never get a chance to see you anymore.” I’m just getting in from the office and Sarah’s getting ready to go out.
