“Would you like me to forward the call again?” his assistant asked.
I had my BlackBerry with me; confronting Barber about the spyware was part of the plan I had discussed with Scully.
“Yes, please do,” said Barber. “Forward it to his BlackBerry.”
The way he’d said it confirmed in my mind that Barber was behind the spyware, or that he at least knew it was installed. But in a “family emergency” it wouldn’t have made sense to insist on using another phone, anything less expeditious.
His assistant went back to her desk. My BlackBerry vibrated in my pocket. “I can take it in the lobby,” I said.
“Please, use my study,” said Barber.
His offer of privacy was, of course, pointless, since he would hear it anyway through spyware. But after the doctor’s call, my actions were those of a son anxious for news about a family emergency that involved his father, so I stepped into the study that was adjacent to his main office and took the call. The woman on the line introduced herself as an oncologist, Dr. Alice Kern.
“I’m calling about a patient named Sam Carlson,” she said.
“Is he…”
“No. But the situation is grave. We don’t have any family information on file, but he tells us that you are his son.”
I took a deep breath. “So he’s conscious?”
“Yes.”
“How long does he have?”
“You should come immediately. Special arrangements have been made for you to stay at his bedside until it’s time.”
“Thank you for that.”
“You’re welcome.
“Does he know I’m coming?”
“Yes. He specifically asked for you.”
“He did?”
“Yes,” she said. “He indicated that there is something he wishes to tell you face-to-face.”
Enough had been said on a phone with spyware. I didn’t push the doctor to speak further. “Tell him I’m on my way.”
The call ended, and my knees felt like rubber. I knew that I had to hurry, but for a moment I couldn’t move. I was scared for my dad, for my sister, for myself. I felt sorry for Evan Hunt and his family. I wanted to call Lilly, but I didn’t dare use the BlackBerry that the Wall Street bully in the next room had essentially converted to his own use with spyware. His ego was everywhere, even in this private study, the walls of which were covered with still more glass-encased articles about him from newspapers and magazines. It was sickening-and then, suddenly, it was an epiphany.
The
But what snagged my full attention-what reached out, grabbed me by the neck, and shook me-was the subtitle in small but bold letters:
“Holy shit,” I said aloud.
I suddenly knew who Robledo’s clients were, knew why an undercover agent had duped him into investing $2 billion through Gerry Collins, knew why Treasury had ignored Evan’s thirty-eight red flags and allowed Cushman to collapse, knew what BAQ meant. I knew everything.
Most of all, I knew that I was running out of time.
I tucked away my BlackBerry and hurried out the door, apologizing to Barber on my way, though surely he didn’t deserve one. There was an express elevator from the executive suite, so I didn’t bother stopping for my overcoat. In less than sixty seconds I was in the ground-floor lobby, pushing through the revolving doors at the bank’s main entrance. The sidewalk on Seventh Avenue was bustling with nine-to-fivers headed for the subway, eager to start their weekend. The zoo’s white van was at the curb, where we had agreed last night that Connie would meet me, and I jumped into the passenger seat.
“We need to go to Lemuel Shattuck right now. It’s an emergency.”
“Is Dad okay?”
“A doctor called saying that I needed to get there as soon as possible, that there’s something Dad wants to tell me.”
“Oh, my God, he’s dying.”
I hated to see such pain in her expression, but we had to move. I took my BlackBerry from my pocket and removed the battery.
“What are you doing?
“The spyware in here could have GPS tracking. Taking out the battery disables it.”
“If there’s spyware on that phone, they already know you’re headed to the hospital.”
“Call me paranoid, but I don’t want the guy who killed Evan Hunt knowing exactly where I am on the road between here and Boston.”
“Okay, but if it’s a tracking chip, it has its own power source. Removing the main battery won’t disable it.”
I figured a scoutmaster would know. I rolled down the window and tossed the phone into the street. A passing bus ground it into the pavement.
“That will,” I said.
“If you were a scout, I’d pull your world conservation badge.”
“Drive, Connie.”
53
T hat Friday, just after dark, Mongoose’s flight touched down at Westchester County Airport, a two-runway operation that served one of the largest fleets of corporate jets in America. The other passengers on board worked for the same hedge fund in Greenwich, just across the Connecticut state line in affluent Fairfield County. Mongoose didn’t know them, didn’t care why they were flying back from Ciudad del Este before dawn, and hadn’t said a word to them since takeoff. Commercial nonstops from Ciudad del Este to New York were nonexistent. With $2 billion in the pipeline, Mongoose had jumped all over the open seat on a chartered Gulfstream jet, even if the car ride from White Plains to Midtown was over an hour.
“Your luggage will be on the tarmac,” said the flight attendant.
“Got none,” said Mongoose. No bags would naturally prompt a few questions at customs, but that was easier than trying to explain traces of blood, bone, and soft tissue on a commando wire saw.
The “enhanced interrogation” of Manu Robledo had taken about two hours. Using the nylon rope from his tool kit, Mongoose had completely immobilized his prey, flat on his back, in the bathtub. Robledo’s arms were up over his head, his wrists tied to the plumbing fixtures. The assistance rail on the wall at the other end of the tub was strong enough to secure his feet, shoes off. The drain could handle any amount of blood, but just to make sure that Robledo didn’t bleed out too soon, Mongoose had fastened a tourniquet around both wrists. Then he’d gone to work.
The left thumb had been first. Ignoring the muffled pleas for mercy, Mongoose had wrapped the wire around
