The Obsidian Chamber

23

At Goderre’s Downeaster in Cutler, Maine, Dwayne Smith sat on the bed, eyeing the four burner phones arranged on the coverlet. Even with the window open and the heat turned down, he was sweating and anxious. Dalca had made contact with the FBI via email. The reaction had been surprising and gratifying. It was just as Filipov had predicted: the FBI seemed to be acceding to their demands, with only token threats and resistance. They would do just about anything to keep their man alive. This special agent was, clearly, a high-value asset.

Filipov had said the FBI would insist on talking to someone. They had. And that someone was Smith. It had all been arranged: he was to call this man named Longstreet at the New York FBI headquarters in five minutes on one of the burner phones. The thing that made him most nervous was the timing. The FBI, Filipov had explained, could triangulate a call in as little as thirty seconds. So he had twenty seconds to conduct this conversation. And then he had to hang up, disable and destroy the phone. Four phones: four twenty-second conversations.

Using his watch, he readied the timer for twenty seconds. As soon as its alarm went off, he’d pull the battery from the back of the burner phone, terminating the call. He picked up one of the burners — one was as good as another — and removed the battery cover. He opened his penknife and laid it on the coverlet, ready to jerk the battery out. Even a few seconds’ delay in killing the phone might be fatal.

The appointed time had arrived. He dialed, at the same time starting the timer.

The call was answered immediately. “Longstreet,” came the terse voice, and before Smith could even respond, the man went into his script. “We’re going to do everything you want. But it’s going to take us a couple of days to process and transfer Arsenault from Sing Sing to the Metropolitan Correctional Center, so we can get him to JFK airport for the flight to Caracas.”

The Metropolitan Correctional Center. Ten fucking seconds left. “When are you moving him?”

“None of your business.”

“Well it is my fucking business. You demanded that we talk. Now I have a demand of my own. Exactly when are you moving him? I want details or we kill Pendergast now.”

A pause. Five seconds left.

“Tomorrow at—” a pause— “three thirty PM, the transport van from Sing Sing will be pulling into MCC, Cardinal Hayes entrance.”

“Put Arsenault in the right-hand window.”

“In return I want—”

The alarm went off. Smith shut off the phone, wedged the knife in, flipped out the battery. Then, working methodically, he opened the SIM card case, pulled out the card, and held it over an ashtray while he used a lighter to melt it into a small puddle of plastic and metal contacts. The room had a charming brick fireplace, where, later that evening, he would burn the phone as well, just to be safe.

He felt elated. This guy Longstreet had caved — and fast. Filipov was right: they really had the FBI by the balls. Amazing how easy it was, when you had one of their top guys. If it was some other schmuck, they wouldn’t be playing so nice. And now, with the transfer to Manhattan, Dalca would be able to confirm with his own eyes if the FBI was just jerking their chain or serious about doing the deal.