The Anonymous Source Read online

  Tears welled in Camila’s eyes as she watched her mother feed him pills. She stood. “I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner,” she said. “I really am.”

  She went to the kitchen and made a cup of tea, then peeked into the living room, where her father was sleeping and her mother was dusting a large wooden cross on the mantle over the fireplace.

  Taking her tea outside, she sat on the ground under the white oak. She rubbed her ankle gently, thinking about Alex Vane and her father and her father’s mother. She tilted her head back and stared up at the tree. The leaves were bright yellow, illuminated by a flood light on the garage door. She picked up a couple of leaves from the grass around her, then rubbed them together. They crackled between her fingers.

  When her phone rang, she silenced it without taking it out of her pocket.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  ALEX SAT ON THE BED and stared at his phone. He was not going to call her again. After emptying a can of beer, he threw it toward the trash can in the corner. He turned on the TV and flipped channels, looking for news about the Santiago trial. Finding none, he stopped on Sunday Night Football, feeling comforted by the noise of the crowd and the warm voices of the announcers.

  He assumed that the call Martin had received on the morning of 9/11 had come from Hollinger, and the thought overwhelmed him.

  He ordered a burger and two more beers from room service, and they arrived as the fourth quarter started. He set the cans on the bedside table next to his notebook and sat on the bed with his food. A safety for the Raiders came across the middle and leveled a wide receiver. The crunch jolted Alex and he opened one of the beers and drank half of it in one long swig.

  He reached for his notebook and wrote on a blank page.

  Hollinger called Martin from WTC Plaza 9/5 and 9/11, after the planes hit. Hollinger escaped WTC. Options: 1. Walked south two blocks, died when Marriott collapsed. 2. Called Bice, Bice killed him.

  He underlined the last sentence, swigged his beer, then crumpled up the page and threw it toward the trash can.

  Bice being directly involved in Hollinger’s death was the only way he could make sense of his source’s statement that “there are three.” But was Bice the kind of person who could kill a man himself? And, if so, why did he do it on the morning of 9/11? Alex’s thinking was slow and labored.

  He looked back up at the game as the cameras scanned the crowd and the luxury boxes, showing fans holding signs and celebrities just sitting there. The shot stopped on a slight man in a gray suit sitting in a luxury box high above the field. A little graphic popped up on the screen. Alex squinted through blurred vision. He read, “Steeler’s owner Clay Tunney.” He was flanked by two men and the announcer said, “On his left, that’s Governor Mark S. Schweiker.” The camera held the shot for a few more seconds and Alex saw that the man on the right was Denver Bice. He looked crisp to Alex, clean-shaven and healthy. He wore a dark blue suit and sipped bottled water.

  “Hey you!” Alex yelled at the screen. “Did you do it?”

  He stood up and took a large step toward the screen, holding his head just a few inches from the warm glass, his eyes right on Bice’s face. He thought of Mac Hollinger, stumbling down ninety-nine flights of stairs into the cool morning air.

  He leaned back and sipped his beer, spilling some on his shirt. “You! How did you do it?” he shouted sloppily, stabbing his finger at the screen. He slammed his beer down on the bedside table then walked to the bathroom and lifted the toilet seat. It slipped from his fingers and slammed shut. He peed in the sink, walked back to the bed, and sat. When he checked the screen for Bice, the shot was back on the game.

  On a clean sheet of paper, he scribbled:

  Hollinger called Martin from WTC plaza after escaping from tower. Martin didn’t pick up. Then he called Bice? Bice drove down and killed him, then dumped body by Marriott. Timeline? When did Towers collapse? When did Marriott collapse? Bice’s phone records? Pay phone records for 9/11? How did Bice know H’s plans?

  By the end, his handwriting was illegible.

  After finishing his beer, he called Camila. When her voice mail beeped, he hung up, filled with longing and anger. He ordered two more beers and a slice of cheesecake, then turned back to the game.

  When the girl from room service knocked on the door, Balby stuck his head in and looked at Alex. “Having quite the party in here,” he said. “Don’t get too drunk. In case we have to move you or something.”

  Once the door was shut and he was alone again, he called Greta Mori. She picked up after five rings but he hung up when he heard her voice. “What the hell am I doing?” he asked the room. She called him right back. He didn’t answer.

  He collapsed on the bed and propped a beer on his belly, then turned on Survivor. As his eyes closed and his torso relaxed, the beer spilled across his shirt and onto the bed. He didn’t notice.

  * * *

  Alex awoke with a gun pressing into his forehead. The heel of a boot dug into his chest as he tried to open his eyes, which were crusted over. His head was spinning.

  “Do you have the recording?” A high voice and thick accent.

  After blinking a few times, Alex locked his eyes on the mustache. Rak. “How did you . . . why are you—”

  “Where is the recording? Where is the girl?”

  “What happened to Officer Balby?”

  “Dead, like your black friend.”

  The mention of Downton brought Alex back. He blinked a few more times and stared right at Rak, terrified but pretending not to be.

  “Vane,” Rak continued, “you have only a moment before you die.”

  “I don’t have it.”

  Rak pressed the gun harder into Alex’s forehead, then shifted it quickly to the left and shot into the pillow, just missing his ear. The gun was partially silenced, but Alex’s ear rang.

  “The next one will be in your head. If you don’t have the recording, you are of no use to me.”

  “If I give you the recording, will you leave me alone?”

  “No, I will kill you anyway.”

  “Then why would I give it to you?”

  “Because if you do, I’ll leave the girl alone.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Possibly.”

  Alex moved his hands slowly above his head, as if to say he surrendered. Rak raised the gun slightly off his forehead and Alex nodded toward the closet.

  Rak stepped down from the bed, head and gun still turned on Alex. He walked to the closet and turned on the light, which cast a faint glow across the room. “In the safe?” Rak asked.

  “Yes.”

  “What’s the code?”

  “Three-six-two-four-three-six.”

  Rak reached up but could only reach the bottom row of numbers on the keypad. “Get over here.”

  Alex stood slowly, rubbed his forehead where he could still feel the pressure from the metal, and walked to the closet. Rak stepped out of the way, gun still trained on Alex, as Alex stood in front of the safe and typed in the code.

  He reached in past the recordings of Downton and pulled out the USB drive. He turned slowly and handed it down to Rak.

  “Look at me,” Rak said. Alex looked down and met his eyes. “Does the girl have a copy?”

  Alex’s head was still spinning, his heart beating fast. “No. And she doesn’t know anything. She hasn’t even seen it. Leave her alone, please.”

  “Does anyone else have a copy?”

  “Only my newspaper, but it’s probably been disposed of.”

  “Before I kill you, I want to tell you something. You aren’t supposed to die.”

  Through his spinning head and Rak’s strange accent, Alex was barely registering the words. All he could manage was a weak, “What?”

  “I want you to know, this is not him killing you, it’s me.”

  Alex heard a click near the door and jerked his head around as it flew open.

  “Hands up!” He recognized the voice of Pono Grady. />
  Rak swiveled around and fired toward the door in one motion as Alex dropped to the floor and covered his head with his arms. He heard two more shots, then the sound of the sliding balcony door opening. He looked up to see Rak disappearing over the railing.

  Before Alex could stand up, Grady was past him, out onto the balcony. He leaned out over the railing, gun extended, but Rak was gone.

  Alex scanned the floor for the USB drive, hoping Rak had dropped it, but found nothing.

  “Officer down at the King Kamehameha Inn,” Grady shouted into his radio as he ran past Alex and back out the door of the hotel room.

  Alex sprawled on his back on the thin hotel carpet and stared at the ceiling. His whole body was rigid and, as he slowly relaxed into the floor, he began to cry.

  MEDILOGUE THREE

  CEDAR VIEW CEMETERY, ISELIN, NEW JERSEY

  Twelve Weeks After 9/11

  DENVER BICE WALKED across choked grass in a slick black overcoat, trailed by a blonde secretary who held an umbrella over his head. “I told you we’d be late,” he said. “Fucking traffic.”

  The gardens around the cemetery were bare. A few evergreens dotted the landscape, but dead leaves from the oak trees covered the flower beds, making the swatches of red berries on the dogwoods the only color. An old priest in white robes stood under a large plastic canopy that covered fewer than half of the four hundred people there. A few fat drops had fallen, but it was not yet raining hard. Bice stood at the back of the crowd as the priest finished his sermon.

  “We may mourn the way Macintosh Hollinger died, and desire vengeance against the terrorists who took him from us, but remember that only God gives, and only God can take away. Mac was a wealthy man, but he knew that wealth and power could not bring him into God’s Kingdom. Faith is required. Romans tells us that ‘A man is justified by faith apart from the works of Law.’ Faith alone is required to enter into God’s Kingdom. Mac had this simple faith, and in that faith, he is saved.

  “And Matthew tells us, ‘There is nothing covered that will not be revealed, and hidden that will not be known.’ Mac knows now what we do not, and in that knowledge, he is at peace. And just as he is now unbound in the company of God in Heaven, may this also be so for us on earth. Amen.”

  After the casket was lowered, Bice followed the crowd to a large, white tent. He saw Sonia Hollinger next to the lavish buffet accepting outstretched hands and air kisses from a long line of people. He looked at his watch. He was missing the Steelers game. Clenching his teeth, he walked to the end of the line.

  Sonia wore a neat black suit, a veiled black hat, and classic black pumps with a four-inch heel. As he approached her, he heard three different people compliment the food. “Well, given the location,” she said to each of them, “we just had to do something interesting.”

  He pecked her cheek when he reached the front of the line. “Sonia, what a lovely service. I didn’t know Mac was Lutheran.”

  She smiled. “Yes, I could not even get him to come to Latin mass with me on Christmas.”

  Bice took her hands. “‘Faith alone.’ If only it were that simple.”

  “Indeed.”

  “I’m very sorry about Mac.” He pecked her cheek again and turned to leave.

  Scanning the tent for his secretary, he caught the eye of John Martin. Martin wore a threadbare brown sweater over a wrinkled white shirt. He noticed a woman he didn’t recognize standing with Martin and wondered how such a loser could land a woman who looked like that. As they began walking toward him, Bice looked down at his watch. “Damn,” he said to himself. He was probably going to miss the second-half kickoff.

  “Den, good to see you.” Martin reached out his hand and they shook.

  “It’s Denver now. People don’t call me Den anymore. I see you’ve dressed up for the occasion.” He turned toward the woman beside Martin. “Who is this?”

  “This is my girlfriend, Camila. She teaches at NYU with me.”

  Bice reached out his hand. “Lovely to meet you. NYU has a special place in my heart—any professor there is a friend.”

  Camila took his hand and shook it. “Nice to meet you. How do you two know each other?”

  “We were Mac’s students way back at Tulane,” Martin said. “Can you believe that? Den came from Pittsburgh and I came from Alabama. We met in New Orleans and now we’re standing at a funeral in New Jersey. It’s a strange world.”

  Bice scanned the room for his driver. “Yes, well, I have an important—”

  “What was the class?” Camila asked.

  Bice smiled as he imagined her undressing in the back of his limousine. “Writing About Numbers,” he said. “It was a math class for writers. I was a reporter for a while, until, you know, all this happened.” He waved his arm in a sweeping motion toward the people in the tent.

  “Until all what happened?” Camila asked, looking around.

  Bice imagined getting a blowjob from her while watching the game in his limo as they crossed the George Washington Bridge.

  “Until he took over New York City and the world,” Martin said. “In case you haven’t noticed, dear, we’re surrounded by rich people, many of whom work for or rely on Mr. Denver Bice.”

  Bice heard a clinking sound and looked down at Martin’s pants. Martin was fingering the loose change in his pocket. Fucking loser. Camila put her hand on Martin’s shoulder and the clinking stopped.

  “No, I just meant when I moved out of the newsroom and into the corporate side of things,” Bice said, imagining dropping Camila off on the side of the road once they got across the bridge.

  The clinking began again and Camila glanced at Martin. “Hey,” she said. “Calm down.”

  Bice caught his secretary’s eye across the room. “Well, I do need to be off now.”

  “Den, one last thing,” Martin said. “You’re not funding Al Qaeda in secret, are you?”

  “What?” Bice asked.

  “I mean, you caught a helluva break with Mac dying when he did.”

  Bice felt the air leave his chest all at once.

  “I hope you’ll at least send flowers to Bin Laden’s cave in Afghanistan,” Martin continued. He laughed and the clinking started again.

  Bice flushed with anger. “What did you say to me?”

  Camila took Martin’s hand. “What kind of a joke is that?” she asked.

  “All I’m saying is that at least there was a small upside from 9/11 for you and your Standard Media folks,” Martin said, not taking his eyes off of Bice.

  Bice stammered, “I . . . what? I mean, that’s the most offensive, ridiculous . . . What are you talking about?”

  “Just joking,” Martin said. “I know you hate Arabs more than you hate losing money. I’m just saying, lucky break for you.”

  “John, stop it!” Camila said. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  Hot and red, Bice stared at Martin with cold eyes. They stood in silence as the chatter around them grew louder and then quieted. An occasional laugh echoed through the tent. Finally, Bice took three deep breaths, glanced at Camila, then looked back at Martin. “I really must be going,” he said. “I have an important meeting in the city.”

  * * *

  Bice watched from the back of his limousine as his assistant, Simon Macilroy, stood under the Manhattan Bridge. Rain trickled through the slatted iron above him onto his red umbrella. Small puddles formed around his feet.

  Macilroy tried to kick gravel into a puddle as he scanned the deserted park. Bice saw Dimitri Rak approaching from across the small field to the north and saw that Macilroy had spotted him as well. Rak paused at the edge of the field, looked around, then walked up to Macilroy. His thin, shoulder-length hair dripped beneath a black hat.

  Macilroy pulled a yellow envelope from his jacket and held it out. Rak brushed it aside and walked to the back window of the limousine. He tapped on the glass with one finger.

  Inside the car, Bice cursed Macilroy under his breath. “Stupid bumbling
fuck.”

  Rak tapped again.

  Bice took a deep breath, rolled down the window and, before Rak could speak, said, “I’ve asked my assistant to speak with you.”

  Rak held out his hand and smiled. “Dimitri Rak.”

  Bice looked at the pale, wet hand and did not want to shake it. “I know who you are. Smedveb has told me about you.”

  “I do not deal with assistants. I am here as a favor to Smedveb. He says you do business with him and has asked me to assist you.” He cocked his shoulder toward Macilroy. “Him, I do not know.”

  “Now that you see me,” Bice said, “can we get on with it?” He nodded at Macilroy, who again took out the envelope and held it out to Rak.

  Ignoring it, Rak said, “No. You must give it to me.”

  Rain was pooling in the brim of Rak’s hat and pouring over its side, causing fat drops of water to fall in front of his face every few seconds. Bice stared at him. He imagined himself opening the door swiftly, knocking the little fucker down, and smashing his face into the ground until he choked on mud and gravel.

  Again, Bice nodded at Macilroy, who came over and passed the envelope in front of Rak and through the open window. A drop of water splashed on it, leaving a ragged water stain.

  “Damn it!” Bice yelled.

  Rak and Macilroy stepped back. Bice’s heart was beating fast. He looked at Rak. “Why must I hand it to you?”

  “I said, I deal with you. I don’t know him. You give it to me.”

  “What the hell difference does it make who puts it in your hand? We all know what’s inside.”

  “What’s inside?”

  “The man. The name of the man.”

  Rak stared straight at him. “There is good reason for Smedveb to trust me. I am the best at what I do.”

  “That’s what I’ve heard,” Bice said. He held out the envelope. “And Smedveb told you about the money?”

  “Yes, it’s handled. This man must have done something very bad to you. Smedveb was quite generous.”

  “He knows something he’s not supposed to know.”