The Associate

Chapter 38

The briefcase grew heavier during the short, sleepless night, and when Kyle lugged it out of the rear of the taxi early Wednesday morning, he half-wished the bottom would indeed fall out, the blue box would crash onto Broad Street in a thousand pieces, and Nigel’s precious home brew would be sent down the gutter. He wasn’t sure what would happen after that, but any scenario was far better than what was planned.

Twenty minutes after he rode the elevator to the thirty-fourth floor, Roy Benedict entered the same elevator with two young men who were undoubtedly associates at Scully & Pershing. The signs were obvious. They were under thirty. It was 6:35 in the morning. They appeared to be fatigued and miserable, but they wore expensive clothes and carried handsome briefcases, black. He was prepared to see a familiar face, though felt it unlikely. It was not at all unusual to see attorneys from other firms in the building. Roy knew half a dozen partners at Scully, but with fifteen hundred lawyers arriving for work, he figured the odds were slim. And he was right. The two zombies riding up with him were just a couple of faceless souls who would be gone in a year or so.

The briefcase in Roy’s hand was also a black Bally, identical to the one Kyle bought back in August, the third one required for this mission. He left the elevator alone on the thirty-fourth floor and walked past the vacant reception desk, down a hall to the right, four, five, six doors, and there was his client, sitting at his desk, sipping coffee, waiting. The exchange was brief. Roy swapped briefcases and was ready to go.

“Where are the feds?” Kyle asked, very softly, though no one was in the hall and the secretaries were just getting out of bed.

“Around the corner in a van. They’ll do a quick scan to make sure there are no tracking devices. If they find one, I’ll bring it back in a sprint and we’ll concoct a story. If not, then they’ll take it to their lab in Queens. This thing is heavy.”

“The blue box. Specially designed by some evil geniuses.”

“When do you need it?”

“Let’s say 7:00 p.m. That’s twelve hours. Should be enough, right?”

“That’s what they say. According to Bullington, they have a small army of geeks just itching to unwrap it.”

“They can’t screw it up.”

“They won’t. You good?”

“Great. Do they have arrest warrants?”

“Oh, yes. Wiretapping, extortion, conspiracy, lots of good stuff. They’re just waiting on you.”

“If Bennie is about to be arrested, then I’m a motivated young man.”

“Good luck.”

Roy was gone, leaving behind the Bally with the same scuff marks and name tag. Kyle quickly stuffed it with files and legal pads and pens and went to find more coffee.

TWELVE LONG HOURS later, Roy was back with the second briefcase. He took a seat as Kyle closed the door. “So?” he said.

“It is what it is. It’s a customized computer built along the lines of those used by the military, everything is heavy-duty. Designed for nothing but downloading. Two hard drives, with 750 gigabytes each. Basically, enough memory to store everything in this building and the three next door. Highly sophisticated software that the FBI geeks have never seen before. These guys are good, Kyle.”

“Tell me about it.”

“And there is indeed a wireless signal so they can monitor you.”

“Dammit. So I have to download something?”

“I’m afraid so. The wireless signal cannot indicate what you are downloading, or how much. It just lets them know that you’re inside and that you’ve started moving the database.”

“Shit!”

“You can do it, Kyle.”

“That seems to be the consensus.”

“Do you know where you’ll meet these guys?”

“No. It’ll be a last-second notice. Assuming I download without setting off alarms, I’ll call Bennie with the happy news, and he’ll tell me where to meet. I’m going to the room in an hour, and I plan to quit at nine, regardless of the download. So, by nine fifteen, if I’m lucky, I should be on the street.”

“I’ll stay at my office. If you get a chance, please call. Pretty exciting stuff, Kyle.”

“Exciting? How about terrifying?”

“You’re the man.” With that, Roy exchanged briefcases again and disappeared.

For sixty minutes, Kyle stared at the clock, did nothing but bill Trylon for an hour, and finally made a move. He loosened his tie, rolled up his sleeves, tried to look as casual as possible, and took the elevator to the eighteenth floor.

Sherry Abney was in the room, and he had to say hello. From the looks of her table, she’d been there for hours and the research had not gone well. Kyle chose a station as far away from her as possible. Her back was to him.

Despite his bitching and moaning, he foresaw little danger of being noticed by another member of Team Trylon. All ten chairs faced the outside walls, away from the center, so that while doing research, he could see nothing but the monitor, the computer, and the wall behind it. The danger was up above, lurking in the lenses of the video cameras. Still, he preferred to have the room to himself.

After fifteen minutes, he decided to visit the men’s room. On the way out, he asked Sherry, “Can I get you a coffee?”

“No, thanks. I’m leaving soon.”

Perfect. She left at 8:30, a nice breaking point that always made billing easier. Kyle placed a legal pad on top of the computer, then a couple of pens, things that could roll and slide and need retrieving. He scattered a couple of files beside the monitor and in general made a mess of things. At 8:40, he knocked on the locked metal door that led to the small printing room, and there was no answer. Then he tried a second metal door that led to places unknown, but he suspected it was the room where Gant hung out and secured things. He saw Gant occasionally and figured he worked close by. There was no answer. At 8:45, Kyle decided to plunge ahead before another associate arrived for one last hour of work. He walked to his table and bumped the legal pad on top of the computer, sending the pens flying against the wall. He threw up an arm, said “Shit!” as loudly as possible, then leaned over as if to retrieve things. He found one pen, couldn’t find the other, but kept searching. On the floor, behind the monitor, under the chair, then again behind the computer, where he deftly inserted the tiny transmitter into the USB port just as he found the missing pen and held it up so the cameras could see it. Settled down now, composed, not cursing, he took his seat and began clicking away at the keyboard.

He slid the briefcase closer under the table, directly under the computer now, then he flipped the switch.

No alarms. No virus warnings screaming from the screen. No sudden entry by Gant with armed guards. Nothing. Kyle the hacker was downloading files, stealing at a dizzying rate of speed. In nine minutes, he transferred all Category A documents — letters, memos, a hundred different varieties of harmless information that had already been submitted to APE and Bartin. When he was finished with the Category A documents, he repeated the process and downloaded them again. And again, and again.

An hour after he entered the room, he again went through the charade of searching for lost pens, and while bumbling about, he plucked the transmitter from the USB port. Then he cleaned up his mess and left. He hurried to his office, got his jacket and trench coat, and made it to the elevators without seeing another person. As he rode down without a single stop, he realized that this was the moment he had always feared. He was leaving the office as a thief, with enough stolen files in his briefcase to get him convicted of numerous crimes and disbarred for life.

As he stepped into the raw December night, he immediately called Bennie. “Mission accomplished!” he said proudly.

“Great, Kyle. Oxford Hotel, corner of Lex and Thirty-fifth. Room 551, fifteen minutes away.”

“I’m on the way.” Kyle walked to a black sedan, one duly registered to a well-known car company in Brooklyn, and jumped into the backseat. The small Asian driver said, “Where to?”

“And your name is?”

“Al Capone.”

“Where were you born, Al?”

“Tutwiler, Texas.”

“You’re the man, Al. Oxford Hotel, room 551.”

Al the Agent immediately called someone and repeated the information. He listened for a few minutes, drove very slowly, then said, “Here’s the plan, Mr. McAvoy. We have a team on the move, and they should be at the hotel in ten minutes. We’ll take our time here. When the supervisor is in the hotel, he will call me with more instructions. Would you like a vest?”

“A what?”

“A vest, bulletproof. There’s one in the trunk if you’d like.”

Kyle had been too preoccupied with his thievery to contemplate the actual events surrounding the arrest of Bennie, and hopefully Nigel, too. He was sure he would lead the FBI to his handler, but he had not given much thought to the details of his betrayal. Why, exactly, might he need a bulletproof vest?

To stop bullets, of course. Baxter flashed through his overheated brain.

“I’ll pass,” Kyle said, realizing how ill equipped he was to make such decisions.

“Yes, sir.”

Al looked for traffic, for detours, anything to burn some clock. His cell phone rang and he listened, then said, “Okay, Mr. McAvoy. I’ll stop in front of the hotel, and you’ll walk into the lobby alone. Go to the elevators to the right, and punch the button for the fourth floor. Get off on the fourth, turn left, walk to the door leading to the stairs. In the stairwell, you will meet Mr. Bullington and several other agents. They will take over from there.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“Good luck, Mr. McAvoy.”

Five minutes later Kyle walked into the lobby of the Oxford Hotel and followed his instructions. In the stairwell between the fourth and the fifth floors, he met Joe Bullington and two other agents, all dressed exactly like the ones who’d snatched him some ten months earlier after a youth basketball game in New Haven. Except these were real, and he had no desire to inspect their credentials. Tensions were high, and Kyle’s weary heart was pounding furiously.

“I’m Agent Booth, this is Agent Hardy,” one said, and Kyle was impressed with how large they were.

“Go to the door of 551,” Booth said. “The second it starts to open, kick it very hard, then jump back out of the way. We’ll be right behind you. We do not anticipate gunfire. We assume they’re armed, but they’re not expecting trouble. Once we’re inside, you’ll be removed from the scene.”

What! No gunfire! Kyle started to crack a funny, but his knees were suddenly weak.

“Got it?” Booth growled at him.

“Got it. Let’s go.”

Kyle entered the hall and walked with as much confidence as possible to room 551. He pressed the button, took a deep breath, and glanced around. Booth and Hardy were fifteen feet away, ready to spring, shiny black pistols drawn. From the other end of the hall, two other agents were approaching, also with guns visible.

Maybe I should’ve opted for the vest, Kyle thought.

He pressed the button again. Nothing. Not a voice from within, not a sound.

His lungs had ceased working, and his stomach was a mess. The briefcase weighed a ton, much heavier now that it contained the stolen files.

He frowned at Booth, who looked perplexed as well. Kyle pressed the button for the third time, then tapped on the door and yelled, “Hey, Bennie. It’s Kyle.”

Nothing. He rang the doorbell for the fourth time, then fifth.

“It’s a single room,” Booth whispered. Then he motioned for some type of well-rehearsed formation and said to Kyle, “Please step aside. Go right down there and wait.” Hardy whipped out an electronic room key and inserted it. The green light came on, and the four FBI agents stormed in, high and low, right and left, barking, guns aimed in all directions. Joe Bullington was running toward them, and behind him were more agents.

The room was empty, of suspects anyway, and if anyone had been there recently, he’d left nothing behind. Bullington reappeared in the hall and commanded “Lock the building!” into a phone or walkie-talkie. He shot Kyle a look of complete astonishment, and Kyle began to fade. Agents hustled about, frantic with indecision and confusion. Some ran to the stairs, others to the elevators.

An old woman in 562 stepped into the hall and shouted, “Quiet!” but quickly lost her spunk when two frowning agents spun around with weapons. She retreated quickly, unharmed but awake for the night.

“Kyle, here please,” Bullington said, waving him into room 551. Kyle clutched the briefcase and entered the room. “Stay here for a few minutes,” Bullington said. “These two will remain with you.”

Kyle sat on the edge of the bed, briefcase between his feet, as his two guards closed the door and put away their guns. Minutes passed as he thought of a hundred scenes and scenarios, none particularly appealing. He thought of Roy, and called him. He was still at his office, waiting for the news.

“They got away,” Kyle said, his voice slow and weak.

“Whatta you mean?”

“We’re in the hotel room, and it’s empty. They’re gone, Roy.”

“Where are you?”

“Room 551, Oxford Hotel, under guard, I guess. The FBI is searching the hotel, but they won’t find anybody.”

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

WHILE THE HOTEL was being searched, three FBI agents entered Kyle’s apartment in Chelsea. Using his key, they entered quietly and began a sweep that would take four hours and produce three hidden cameras, a wiretap on his wall phone, and six other eavesdropping devices. Plenty of evidence to support indictments. A strong case for the feds, but what they really needed was some suspects.