Honeymoon

Chapter 113

THE FOLLOWING FRIDAY I was in Susan’s office in New York. I had been summoned. She’d just gotten off the phone with Frank Walsh.

“O’Hara, I don’t even know how to tell you this.”

“Straight up, I guess. I made my own bed, didn’t I?”

“It’s not that, John. It’s… they’re dropping the charges against Nora Sinclair.”

The news hit me like a sucker punch. Hard, painful, and completely unexpected. It took me a few seconds before I could even string together a sentence.

“What do you mean, they’re dropping the charges?”

Susan stared at me from across her desk, unblinking. I could see in her eyes how upset she was, but it was a very controlled anger.

Unlike mine.

I started to pace and curse and threaten everything I could think of, beginning with going to the New York Times.

“Sit down, John,” she said.

I couldn’t sit. “I don’t understand. How could they? She’s a cold-blooded murderer.”

“I know she is. She’s an incredible snake. She’s psycho.”

“Then, why would we let her walk?!”

“It’s complicated.”

“Complicated? It’s bullshit. It’s unacceptable.”

“I don’t disagree,” Susan said in a measured tone. “And if yelling and screaming now is going to make you feel better, be my guest. But when you’re finished, it’s not going to change a damn thing. It’s a done deal upstairs.”

I hated it when she was right. Like the time Susan told me I was too self-involved to salvage our marriage. Bull’s-eye.

I finally took a seat and drew a deep breath. “Okay, why?”

“Actually, if you think about it, you already know.”

She was right again. Call it denial, or wishful thinking, but I was always aware that Nora’s indictment could present a serious problem for the Good Guys. My behavior would come out during the trial, and the powers that be at the Bureau were none too pleased at the prospect of suffering through the embarrassment. Still, suffer they would, if that were the only problem.

But I knew there was more—much more.

Hell, I’d been involved in it when I went undercover as the Tourist.

The suitcase was part of it. The list of names and accounts inside was part of it.

My dalliance with the suspect paled in comparison to a larger concern. Something far more sensitive and, potentially, more embarrassing. That is, if ever it became public.

Frank Walsh had alluded to it during my disciplinary hearing—the monitoring of money being trafficked in and out of the country. Needless to say, it wasn’t being done through voluntary surveys at the local bank. It was being accomplished with private agreements among Homeland Security, the Bureau, and several multinational banks. The rationale? The only thing more dangerous than a terrorist group is a terrorist group with solid financial backing. The logic was supposed to be simple. Stop their money and you stop them. Or, even better, find their money.

And find them.

The only rules were that there weren’t any. Which is to say that a lot of this was, well, illegal. No one was considered safe or above reproach. Casinos to charities, big corporations to day traders. Anywhere and everywhere in the world. We hacked them all. If money was moving, we were watching. And if money was moving in apparent secrecy, we were really watching. Suddenly, private numbered accounts were anything but.

Hello, Connor Brown.

And hello, Nora.

“So, that’s it, huh?” I said to Susan.

“What else can I tell you? Nora represents the lesser of two evils to them.” She smirked. “I mean, what’s a few dead rich guys compared to keeping the world safe for democracy, or whatever. They’re going to set her free, O’Hara. For all I know, she might be out already.”