The Pandora Key aka The Hostage Room

18

THE CAMBRIDGE CYBER CAFÉ LOOKED LIKE A SHOPPING bazaar in India. The plaster walls were painted the color of Georgia clay. On the floor were baskets full of magazines and throw pillows. If people hadn’t been there to use computers, they probably would have all been sitting cross-legged on the floor and drinking organic ginger beer.

I pulled up to the counter and signed in. The pierced, plaited, and tattooed desk jockey looked down at my name and asked to see a picture ID.

“Just to be sure,” he said. “You’re alone, right?”

I told him I was, and he took me over to a computer in a secluded alcove. A tent card perched on top of the monitor announced that the machine was reserved.

“How did you know I was coming?”

“Dude called.” He leaned across the back of the chair to slap at the keys. “Said you’d be coming and wanted you to sit here.”

I looked around at the other tables and desks. It wasn’t crowded, and the people who were there seemed to be deep into whatever they were doing. “Why here?”

“This one has encryption software on it. You’re set.”

He walked away, and I sat down. He had signed on to a site, clicked on a link to a messaging service, and typed in, “She’s here.” I waited, feeling naked in that situation without Felix either at my side or on the phone, but my instructions had been specific: “Come alone, and stay alone.”

Now there was a response, with the cursor blinking next to it: “alex shanahan?” It was weird. It was as if the monitor were a one-way mirror and whoever was at the other end could see me, but I couldn’t see him.

I typed in my response. “Roger Fratello?”

“answer the question. is this you?” The cursor blinked, and then this appeared: “ ‘…representing Rachel Ruffielo. We are in receipt of your last communication but need positive identification. Who are you, and can you prove it? Please contact ASAP. We want to make a deal.’ ”

I recognized it as an excerpt from the reply I had made in response to Roger’s message, the one Rachel had reluctantly produced after it turned out to be in her best interest. The communication had arrived in Rachel’s in-box several days earlier, and had been the trigger for almost everything else that had happened, including her midnight move and the visit to Harvey. It had been short, blunt, and very intriguing. “Tell me,” it said, “where Vladi is buried or the video goes to Drazen.” Rachel had no idea why Roger would want Vladi’s body, especially after all this time. Harvey had refused to tell her where he buried it. He didn’t want to incriminate her.

“Yes,” I typed. “I am Alex Shanahan, Boston PI representing Rachel. Why do you want location of the body?”

“this is not roger”

I read it, then I read it again. It was a hard sentence to misinterpret. I typed, “My message was response to blackmail threat. Did you send it?”

“message was sitting in out-box. sent automatically when I signed on”

“Who are you?”

“not important”

“Why do you have Roger’s laptop?”

“no comment”

I sat back to contemplate. An e-mail message sits in Roger’s out-box and goes out automatically the next time someone-but not Roger-opens the program. I hadn’t seen that one coming. “If you’re not Roger, how did you sign on?”

“hacked in”

“The account is still active?”

“is that rhetorical?”

Good point. Obviously, it was. I wasn’t sure what to say. I hadn’t prepared for this particular scenario. “Where is Roger?”

“don’t know”

“Just to be clear, you’re not blackmailing my client?”

“not for money but watched an interesting video. explanation?”

Now things were getting tricky. I hadn’t mentioned any video, so he must have found it on Roger’s hard drive. But I had to know his intentions before giving him information. “Hard to give info when I can’t get any in return. Who are you? Why do you have Roger’s computer?”

I hit enter and waited. I didn’t like exchanging information this way. I didn’t even like talking on the phone. I liked seeing the face of the person I was speaking to.

“investigative journalist working on story. came into possession of computer by legitimate means. whom did rachel kill?”

Yep, he had definitely seen the video, and he was another reporter, probably looking for a story. “Have answers to all questions. Makes for a great story. Will trade for laptop with video.”

“who is fratello?”

“Former CEO of Betelco, embezzler, and accused conspirator in a murder. Missing for four years. Possibly hijacked.” That should get his attention.

“hijacked?”

“Can tell you more, but would like to meet and get file back.”

“no way. not even in the country”

Here was the problem with written communication. Did that comment mean “No way will I even consider meeting with you,” or “There is no way I can arrange a meeting with you or anyone else because I’m not even in the country”? I craved inflection.

“Telephone?”

“this is the only way i’ll talk to you. spew or get off”

That took care of the inflection problem. I sat for a long time with my hands resting on the keyboard, long enough that another entry came up from him, one that simply said “?????????????????”

“I’m thinking,” I typed. “Don’t bother me.” It’s amazing how e-mail as a communication medium removes the rules that make us generally civil to one another. I was trying to think of a way to make sure that if I gave him anything, I got what I needed, too. I wanted to be interesting but not informative. I pulled out my notepad and paged through it. I finally went with the obvious.

“The man in the video is a Ukrainian mobster. I’m trying to keep the video out of the wrong hands. It’s a good story for a reporter. Will be in Paris within the next 24 hours. Would like to meet.” I hit enter. Another long delay. I didn’t know how to interpret the silence. Was he thinking, or had he left the building? I got tired of waiting.

“You have my contact info,” I typed. “Let me know when and if you want to talk.”

I reached down and was about to turn off the computer when his response came back.

“i’m an investigative journalist, not a reporter…are you working with blackthorne?”

Blackthorne? My pulse rate jumped. “Working independently, but have information on Blackthorne.”

The answer came fast. “what information?”

My heart sped up to about two beats for every blink of the cursor. “Will trade for video.”

I waited. This was it. Finally, his answer came. “will meet you in paris”

I used a self-serve kiosk at the Majestic Airlines counter to check in. The security line moved quickly because the Paris flight was the last of the evening. After clearing the checkpoint, I went straight for the gate where the LA trip was boarding. The second the agent opened the door, I handed over my boarding pass, rolled down the bridge, onto the aircraft, and all the way to the aft galley. Dan was waiting with a ramper’s hat and jacket.

“See anybody?”

“No,” I said, slipping the gear on over my jeans. “But that doesn’t mean they’re not back there.”

“Who?”

“Russians…paramilitary storm troopers…FBI.”

“Since when did you get so paranoid?”

“Since this case.” I put on my ramper’s hat. “How do I look?”

“Like I should be reaming your ass for dogging it. Get out of here.”

The cabin services crew was just finishing. I joined in and went down the aft stairs. I walked across the ramp to the Paris-bound B767 and climbed the outside jet-bridge stairs. Using Dan’s key, I unlocked the door and went inside.

Passengers were already boarding, so I stood to the side and waited. Dan arrived moments later, strolling down the jetway with my bag. He traded it for the hat, the coat, and the boarding pass to LA.

“Here.” He put a ticket jacket in my hand. “Don’t say I never did anything for you.”

Inside, I found a first-class boarding pass to Orly. He had already waived the sixty-day advance purchase requirement on my ticket. I was flying to Paris in style, or at least as much style as airlines provided these days, for the grand total of three hundred dollars. That was damn good news.

“Wow. I didn’t expect this.”

“You don’t deserve it, either. I just didn’t want to hear you bitch and moan.” He turned to help a stooped woman with long gray hair who had caught her rolling bag on the lip of the aircraft door. “Here you go, ma’am. Have a nice flight.”

She thanked him, and so did I.

“Remember the story,” he said. “I don’t want you embarrassing me with my contacts over there.”

“I’ve got it. Don’t worry.”

Dan had told a tiny white lie to get me onto the very tightly controlled guest list for the hostage reunion. I was enhancing the customer-care section of Majestic’s disaster manual, the one that gets pulled out when you have to turn your maintenance hangar into a morgue or make arrangements for your hijacked passengers, or their bodies, to get home. I was to interview passengers about how they had been treated in the wake of the flight 809 hijacking to find out what had worked and what hadn’t, what they had needed and not gotten.

“What do you think you’ll find over there, anyway?”

“Someone who can tell me they’ve seen or heard from Roger lately, or his alter ego, Gilbert Bernays.”

“That reminds me.” He pulled some folded pages from the pocket of his suit jacket. “Take this with you.”

“What is it?”

“It’s the 809 manifest and as much updated contact information as I could find. I was going to throw it away, but I thought you might need it.”

Like Felix, Dan had a way of coming through with all the things I didn’t even know I needed. I gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for the first-class seat.”

“Get your ass onboard. I’m not taking a delay for you.”