Judgment

64

The man from the CIA gave her his mobile number, scrawled on a torn piece of newspaper. He didn’t have any business cards.

On the street she hailed a cab to the airport. Sitting in the back seat of the taxi, she looked at her watch. She would make the last flight back to Boston in plenty of time. She had a number of voice mails — from Martie, from Kaitlyn Hemming, from Hersh. Nothing from Duncan. Kaitlyn was just checking in. Martie wanted to know how her meeting with Paul Ashmont had gone.

At the airport, waiting at the gate, she listened to Hersh’s voice mail. “I have a file for you,” he said. “I don’t want to e-mail it — I don’t trust your e-mail, frankly. So it’s a paper file. I’d be happy to drop it off wherever you are. Happy to bring it to your office. Maybe I’ll do that. Or you can stop by my office and pick it up, if that’s on the way. But I think you need to see this. Okay?”

I think you need to see this.

She wondered. The businessman sitting next to her caught her eye. “Heading back to Boston?” he said.

She nodded, smiled vaguely. “Yep.”

“Looks like your meetings weren’t all that successful, were they?”

She looked at him. A business traveler, a generic road warrior, like a thousand others at the airport, with their Mophie chargers and their noise-canceling headphones and their non-iron shirts.

The only thing that was off was the man’s fingernails. They were overgrown and a little grubby. Not a road warrior at all. She remembered her father always said you can tell everything about a guy from his fingernails and his shoes.

“What do you want?” she said coldly.

“You’re very interested in a friend of mine,” he said. “Mr. Protasov.”

It was the way he pronounced the name that gave away he wasn’t an American. His American English accent had been nearly perfect. But he spoke Russian like a Russian.

“Yeah?” Her heart was thudding.

“Why such an interest?”

“That’s my business.”

“Well, that’s the thing. I’m afraid it’s not just your business. My friend, he’s a very private person. He doesn’t like it when people start asking all kinds of questions about him. Live and let live, he says. You know? Everyone’s entitled to their own zone of privacy.”

“Even me?” she said.

The man’s bland smile faded. “Tomorrow you have a deadline, I believe. On a motion for summary judgment, I think it’s called. Maybe you shouldn’t be so casual about it. Things can happen. Actions have consequences.” The more he talked, the more he flattened his As, exaggerating his American accent, too much now.

She took a breath. “I’m sorry, what’s your name?”

The man shrugged, as if to say, It’s not important.

She went on, “You know, I’m actually not so interested in talking to you. Mister Protasov sent a flunky? Not for me. Pardon my bluntness. But I’d be very interested in talking to your boss. See if you can set that up, will you?”

Her phone rang. She turned away to answer it. The caller ID gave a number in the Boston area code, 617.

“Yes?”

“Hello, my name is Doctor Kapoor calling from the emergency room at Boston Medical Center. Who am I speaking to?”

“Oh, my God,” she said. “This is Juliana Brody.”

“The reason I’m calling you is that this number came in with a patient who’s critically ill.”

“Who is it?” she nearly whispered.

“That’s what we’re trying to find out. There’s no wallet. No ID. Just—”

“How did you get my number?” Her heart was racing wildly.

“It’s on a piece of paper, a little sticky note. Just this number.”

She closed her eyes. Please not Jake, please not Duncan.

“Male or female?”

“Male.”

“How... how old is this person?”

Not Jake, not Duncan, please God.

For a moment it felt as if her life was balancing on a precipice, in absolute stillness, poised to turn into a tragedy.

“It’s... it’s hard to say. Forty or fifty, I’d say?”

She swallowed. “Hair?”

“Ma’am, this patient is critically ill. You need to come to the hospital so we can speak in person. Please get here as quickly as possible.”

And then the caller hung up.

The man who’d been sitting next to her was gone.