The Cain File (38 page)

“So I should have just given Beltran the damn money in the first place. When Grim Harvest kidnapped him, he could have paid them out of that. Then everybody would have been happy.”

“It’s called irony, Maggs.” Ed struck the match, tried to get it up to his cigarette before it went out. He didn’t make it. “Christ.”

“You’re a sad bastard, Ed. Are you sure you should be doing that? Because the way I’m feeling right now, you’re not a candidate for the kiss of life.”

“I got your cowboy out of jail, didn’t I?”

“OK, so you come in handy now and then.”

He squinted. “Where is the two million anyway?”

“Bitcoin,” she said. “In a dark net account. It’s actually worth two point two right now.”

“Unbelievable.” Ed shook his head. “Well, it goes into Beltran’s Amazon Wildlife Restoration Fund—by tomorrow. Got it?”

“Or I face a panel, go to jail, and you lose Forensic Accounting. Maybe your job.”

“I don’t give a shit about Forensic,” Ed said. “Losing it would be a blessing. And I can always come back and contract, just like Sinclair. But I’m kind of fond of you, Maggs. You don’t need to suffer. Not for the Agency. They’re just not worth it. It’s pin money.”

“Do I keep my job?”

“Hell, yes.”

“Not sure I want it.”

“Don’t blame you, there.”

“Fine,” she said. “But I don’t have a secure laptop.”

“We’ll be home tomorrow,” Ed said. “Worse comes to worst, I’ll get you another day. But I need your promise. They’re waiting to hear.”

“Nothing really
works
, Ed. Not the way it should.”

“Tell me about it.” He finally got a paper match lit, brought his face down to it, got the cigarette going with a sizzle of beard. He came back up, smoke escaping his mouth into the breeze.

Maggie reached over, pulled the cigarette from Ed’s mouth, dropped it on the gravel of the roof, ground it out with the heel of her flat.

“That’s the only satisfaction I get anymore, Maggie.”

“I’m kind of fond of you too, Ed. And you really need to start taking better care of yourself.”

Ed’s face collapsed into a deep frown. “What for?”

Then they heard, echoing from the rafters in the Basilica below, footsteps negotiating the scaffolding going from one end of the roof to the other. A high precarious walkway.

“More than one person is coming,” Maggie said. She reached into her jacket pocket, felt the .38 for the reassurance that was in it. She had one shot and one shot only. But one could be enough. Maybe she was getting used to this life. But her nerves were still bumping together.

And then they appeared, on the roof below: John Rae, in a lightweight beige suit and sunglasses. And another man, wearing a newsboy cap, in dark slacks and a tweed jacket. He looked up.

Sinclair Michaels.

“Looks like John Rae brought backup, too,” Ed said.

When the two men had climbed the ladder to the top and caught their breath, Sinclair was the first to speak. “I think I need to know what this is all about, Maggie.”

“I believe you already have a pretty good idea,” she said, “or else you wouldn’t have taken the red-eye down from Washington to meet me with John Rae.”

“Do I?” Sinclair Michaels gave a cutting smile. “Maybe I’m just trying to show a little respect, considering everything you’ve done for us. I also need you to know that you can’t threaten my people.”

Maggie reached into her other pocket, brought out the red Motorola Talkabout. “This was in Cain’s van. Because he was in on the arrest conversation yesterday between John Rae and the agents.”

John Rae did a double take when he saw the walkie-talkie.

Maggie put it away.

Sinclair glared at her. “That doesn’t prove anything.”

Maggie looked at John Rae. “My suspicions took a radical shift when Cain first took off after the failed transfer. Sinclair wasn’t close to the action. But
you
were. And then, you instructed the backup van to follow Cain. But there was no backup van,” she said. “Just a pickup truck blocking Venezuela—making sure that Cain got away. That’s who you were alerting.”

John Rae grimaced, but kept silent. It was hard to argue with the evidence. “John Rae is protecting a terrorist,” she said to Sinclair. “Funny, because at first I thought it was you.”

Sinclair said, “I’ve had my eye on Cain since Ecuador—a long time. But I was never ordered to do anything more than have him release Beltran.”

“That was all you wanted. Even if I had to take a risk. You coaxed me along, lied to me, said John Rae was getting out—when he wasn’t. All designed to make me think it was just a milk run. You couldn’t afford a failed op. Not a contractor with a drinking problem.”

Sinclair didn’t say anything. “I am not in the habit of releasing terrorists like Cain.”

“But John Rae is,” she said. “Unbeknownst to you. He was ordered to capture Cain. During the Beltran trade. You weren’t in on it. You were just the floater agent to front it, to make it look genuine.”

“You need to learn that you play a part, Maggie,” Sinclair said drily. “Even if you don’t like the part. Even if you don’t know you’re playing it.”

“You were put in charge of the second op—a milk run—but the Agency wanted a little more for their two mil, especially after the embarrassment of the first one: They wanted Cain. You didn’t know that. They asked John Rae and he arranged it. So that no one else could take it and make it happen.” She turned to John Rae. “But you had your own agenda—covert within covert within covert. You derailed Cain’s capture, faking your own arrest. You needed Cain to stay free. You urged me to run if anything went wrong. Your team was told to back off if that happened as well.” She zeroed in on John Rae. “The question is:
why
? Why are you protecting Cain?”

“Let me tell you something, Maggie,” John Rae said. “Cain is mine—make no mistake. And he will pay for his transgressions. But not until the time is right, not until I’m done with him. Not until he’s got
all
the info we need. ISIS? The Islamic State? Cain has connections to people who fund those boys.
That’s
who I want. Grim Harvest are the Keystone Kops in comparison.”

Sinclair pursed his lips, pulled his hat off, brushed his thinning hair over, put his hat back on. “John Rae explained everything to me, Maggie. As he said, he does have his reasons. Reasons you don’t need to concern yourself with.”

“Beltran is willing to set up the Yasuni rainforest for Commerce Oil. Commerce Oil is going to get what they want. Cain’s not going to be able to do much about that now.”

John Rae spoke. “Rest assured that our relationship with Cain is going to play out much better than you think.”

“I’m not assured about anything you guys do anymore,” Maggie said. “But I will be guaranteed one thing.”

“Ah,” Sinclair said. “Here it comes, John Rae, my boy. What does she want? Recognition? A promotion? A ‘bonus’ of some sort, funneled into an offshore account?” Sinclair shook his head. “The idealistic ones are the most hypocritical.”

“No,” John Rae said, staring at Maggie. “I don’t think she wants any of those things, Sinclair. I think you’re reading her all wrong.”

“Tica,” Maggie said. “The Yasuni Seven. Out. Now.” She held up the walkie-talkie, wiggled it. “Or I go to the
New York Times
. And the
Manchester Guardian
. And
Der Spiegel
. And whoever else likes to keep tabs on the American intelligence machine. It does sell newspapers.”

John Rae said, “You’d do that? Compromise national security?”

She put the walkie-talkie back in her pocket. “If I have to.”

John Rae nodded, serious now, his accent all but gone. “I don’t blame you for being upset, Maggie. I thought it was going to work out a little differently, though. I thought the Beltran trade was going to happen that first night in Bogotá. That you were going to see it through, then be on the next flight out and it
would
be a milk run.” He laughed sardonically. “Everyone was going to be fat, dumb and happy. But Cain got jumpy when I didn’t show. Took off, gave you a wild goose to chase. But you didn’t stop chasing! Well, that’s to your credit, I suppose. But I’m sorry. Sorry as hell.”

Maggie said, “Then you can make it up to me.”

“Tica.”

“And the rest of the Yasuni Seven.”

“How on earth are you going to do that?” Sinclair said, turning to John Rae. “Beltran will never agree to such a thing. Never.”

“Beltran.” John Rae laughed. “Talk about the tail wagging the dog, Sincs. Beltran owes us his damn life. Or Maggie, rather. Cain is a loose cannon and she played him like a pro. And yet Beltran still calls the shots. What’s wrong with the picture you painted, Sinclair? All the years you spent down here, making ‘friends.’ Beltran was the best you could do?” He shook his head. “Now I hear that he’s going to get the two million after all.”

“Commerce Oil paints the pictures, John Rae,” Sinclair said. “Better get used to it. Or find another line of work.”

“I’m not sure I’ll be doing either one of those things, Sinclair,” John Rae said, eyeing Maggie now. “I’ll see that Tica’s taken care of, Maggie. It’s time to call in an IOU.”

“How?” she said.

“I got this covered. Don’t sweat it.”

Somehow she knew John Rae would deliver.

She patted Ed’s arm again. He’d finally caught his breath and was frowning as he took everything in.

“Come on, boss,” she said. “It’s a long way down. And we’ve got a flight to catch.”

Maggie’s door buzzer rang just as she was slipping into her black jacket, half of a stylish new two-piece by Akris Punto she’d picked up for a song at Dimitri’s illegal emporium on Capp Street. By invitation only. Don’t tell your friends. Carefully, she pulled the cuff of her crisp blouse over the minor bandage on her wrist. Not too noticeable. Her bruised nose was faded now too. She walked over to the window of her living room on Valencia Street in her new Lanvin pumps, pulled the curtain aside.

Her limo was here. Delta Financials was doing its best to woo her. Two hundred K a year. Stock options. A parking spot out front with her name on it. Free coffee.

Big deal, she thought. The money meant nothing to her, especially in the face of letting everyone down. Tica. Her cohorts, still in prison. The woman who’d sent her the Commerce Oil video. Ed. And Kacha. A few hundred-dollar bills for her trouble. Maggie was still fighting with Western Union to free up the couple grand she’d sent. Beatriz and Gabby weighed heavily on her as well. Even the driver who’d died in Quito. The only one she’d helped was the pig, Beltran. How was
that
for consolation?

Her cell phone chirped with an arriving text. She pressed a button and saw, first, a previous message from Seb:
Rehearsing all day, gig tonight.
Wanna come? If only to talk?
She deleted it.

Then she saw the message from John Rae:
Is your TV on? Check out CNN.

She grabbed the remote, tuned in, and was startled to see a very familiar face.

Comrade Cain. Wearing jungle fatigues and looking like the world could get out of his way or die. She popped up the volume.

“A daring prison break outside of Quito, Ecuador, early this morning resulted in the escape of seven prisoners, all from a group called the Yasuni Seven, members of the Kichwa tribe who live in a part of the Amazon being taken over in a controversial play by Commerce Oil. The escapees, all of whom belong to the Save the Yasuni Movement, are believed to have been arrested and incarcerated in the clandestine women’s prison months ago. One of the prisoners is a sixteen-year-old Indian woman named Tica Tuanama, who has risen to notice as the front person for the Save the Yasuni Movement. A statement released afterwards by a rebel group known as Grim Harvest has taken responsibility for the breakout. Several of the prisoners were near death and it is reported that various surgical procedures were performed, including the harvesting of organs.”

A grainy photo showed a defiant Tica, zigzag tattoos on each cheek.

“The leader of the rebel group, who calls himself Comrade Cain and has long been wanted by the international community for crimes of terrorism, is reported to have led the attack. More news to follow as we get it.”

Maggie saw rough photos of Grim Harvest, taken from surveillance-camera feeds, in the streets of Quito, weapons raised as they shepherded prisoners into two vans. There was Yalu, with a stunning smile as she held an assault rifle in one hand, shaking a fist at a camera.

And off to one side, John Rae. Maggie took a quick second look. Sunglasses and Chullo cap with the ear flaps down and a bandana tied around his face. But it was him all right. The pointed toes of his cowboy boots were a giveaway. Holding a wicked-looking machine gun.

Well, boys will be boys.

But delivering on his promise after all.

Maggie turned off the television. And felt just a little better.

And stopped worrying about the mysterious driver who picked her up that day in Quito, and who might have ordered it. And who might have been tracking her. And the woman who exposed the corruption and violence in the Amazon. And what Commerce Oil was doing to the Yasuni and how the Agency and half the world condoned it. Soon it would all be behind her. Wouldn’t it?

The door buzzer rang again, three successive bursts this time.

She gulped the last of her espresso, put the demitasse cup in the sink along with the saucer. Picked up the red Motorola Talkabout sitting by the coffee maker, tossed it in the trash under the sink.

Her MacBook on the countertop was soon open to the account belonging to Beltran’s bogus Amazon Wildlife Restoration Fund. One point nine five million still left.

So trusting. To leave it there. He thought she was toothless now. In the end, it really
was
pin money to the Agency.

She transferred all of it to the Save the Yasuni Movement fund after first converting it back to Bitcoin. Untraceable.

Tough luck, Beltran. It’s probably chump change to you too—with the number of people paying you off.

She pressed Enter, completed the anonymous transfer, watched it go through, logged off.