The Switch

56

Tanner walked home from the bar, along Boylston Street, which was noisy and crowded with frat bros and college kids and assorted barhoppers. He sneaked glances at some of the scantily dressed college girls and tried not to be creepy about it. And he thought.

He had come to some clarity, finally. For some reason he trusted this guy Earle. Even if he wouldn’t put a guarantee in writing, Earle gave off a trustworthy vibe, and Tanner relied on his own instincts. It was time to just give the damned laptop to the NSA. They wanted the files; they didn’t want him. And obviously they demanded secrecy about CHRYSALIS. If he never heard the word “chrysalis” again, he wouldn’t mind.

As he sidestepped a couple kissing right in the middle of Boylston Street, he noticed a car pull up alongside him, a black Lincoln Town Car. The rear passenger’s door flew open and someone got out.

“Michael Tanner!” said a short, powerfully built man in his late sixties.

“Do I know you?”

Tanner looked, didn’t recognize the guy getting out of the limo. He took a quick inventory of what this guy was wearing: a black dress coat that flapped open over an elegant gray three-piece suit. Blue shirt with contrasting white collar, red tie. A collar pin and heavy cuff links. He was like a bull that had wandered into Turnbull & Asser. He had the sleek look of someone used to being in charge, maybe a senior partner at a law firm or a CEO.

In a feline purr, the man said, “Oh, I know everybody. I’m Bruce Olshak. Come on, let’s have a little chin-wag. Walk with me, my friend.” He sidled up to Tanner.

Tanner had heard the name Olshak before. He was some sort of major player in legal circles. He remembered hearing the phrase “Mob lawyer” affixed to Olshak’s name.

“I’m afraid I’m in a hurry,” Tanner said and continued walking. Olshak walked alongside.

“Make haste now,” Olshak said, “and repent at leisure. I understand you’re lawyer shopping.”

“Says who?”

Olshak shrugged. “The Ethernet of whispers. I know people. Lucky for you, I’m a counselor.”

The Ethernet of whispers. Olshak probably had some connection to Batten Schechter. The kind that didn’t show up on any letterhead. Up close, Tanner caught a faint whiff of cigar, probably Romeo y Julietas.

“So?” Tanner said warily.

“Way I see it? You’re about to make the biggest mistake of your life.”

“What are you saying? What do you— What do you know?”

“I know everything I need to know. Question is whether you do. You’ve heard the old joke: NSA stands for No Such Agency, right? And our friends at the NSA — they’re trying to bully you. To panic you. To get you to turn something over to them — something that doesn’t belong to you and doesn’t belong to them.”

Tanner, alert, said, “I’m listening.”

“That would be the wrong thing to do. And when we do wrong things, Michael, there’s always a penalty. Have you noticed that?”

“A penalty.”

“Some kinda penalty. You pass a note in class, you get after-school detention. Drive through a stop sign, you get a traffic ticket. Penalties, right? So you do something stupid like hand this article over to the — the men in black? What do you think is going to happen?”

“Let me guess. Something bad.”

He lowered his voice. He was almost muttering to himself. Tanner had to listen closely as they walked along, ignoring the competing noise, the shouts and the babble. “Something bad? Nah, worse than that. Something sad. Bad is: someone chops off your finger. Sad is: something happens to your wife. To Sarah.”

“What the hell are you trying to threaten me with?”

“Girl like that, she could have decades of life ahead of her. She loses that, it’s sad. Sad for everyone.”

Tanner came to a stop in front of a bank where the inset sidewalk made a kind of plaza. He drew close to Olshak.

“You’re insane if you think—”

“Oh, we’re subtle people. Nothing’s gonna happen real soon. That would seem suspicious. That would invite questions. Nah, we let time pass. Months and months. Maybe it’s the end of the year. Christmas, New Year’s. Hell, maybe we wait longer. But one day the penalty will come due. The sad thing. A car that went too fast and jumped a curb. Who knows? And nobody’s gonna take any pleasure in this, I promise you. But, you see, this is the real decision that’s in front of you. That’s why we don’t want you to hurry and make a mistake. Because life is precious, Michael. So very precious.”

Tanner tried to control his breathing. “Who are you working for?”

“Don’t get distracted. You can’t afford it. Focus on the takeaway.”

“Meaning that if I don’t give the NSA this thing—”

“You give it to me, I’ll take care of it. Capisce? It’s really your best move. Life, you know, doesn’t always give you the best options. You just gotta make the best choices you can. And in this case, well, there’s really no choice at all.”

“Because if I give it to the NSA, my wife—”

“Sarah. A lovely girl. And smart as a whip.”

Tanner suddenly grabbed the man by the tie, yanked him close. “Listen to me,” he began.

Olshak, red in the face, said, “You don’t want to do this, Michael. You really don’t want to do this.”

“You want to go after someone, go after me. Just don’t even think of going after my wife.” Tanner let go of the tie and Olshak fell back, stumbling a bit.

He looked at Olshak, at the Town Car that was still keeping pace, inching along the street as they’d walked.

Then he cut down Clarendon Street in the direction of home.