"There's not much we can do about it."
"The hell there isn't. Stephano's behind it. Put pressure on him. Tell him my co-counsel is not about to be sucked into his trap, and that she's preparing to go to the Brazilian authorities with the name of Jack Stephano."
"I'll see what I can do." Cutter had not forgotten the fact that Sandy McDermott had filed a multi-million-dollar lawsuit against the Bureau for crimes it did not commit. Nothing would be gained by discussing the lawsuit at this point. Maybe later.
"Stephano cares about nothing but the money," Sandy said. "If the old man gets hurt, he'll never see a dime."
"Are you implying there's room for negotiation here?"
"What do you think? You're facing death row or life in prison, wouldn't you be willing to negotiate?"
"So what do we tell Stephano?"
"Tell him to release the old man, and then we might talk about the money."
STEPHANO'S DAY began early. The meeting, his fourth, was scheduled to last all day and bring to an end his tales of adventure in the search for Patrick. His lawyer was absent, away in court with an unavoidable conflict. Stephano didn't need a lawyer to hold his hand, and, frankly, he was tired of paying $450 an hour. The interrogator was a new one. Oliver something or other. It didn't matter. They were all from the same school.
"You were talking about the plastic surgeon," Oliver said, as if the two men had simply been interrupted by a phone call. The two men had never met, and it had been thirteen hours since Jack had spoken to anyone about Patrick.
"Yes."
"And that was April of '94?"
"Correct."
"Continue, then."
Stephano settled into his chair and got himself comfortable. "The trail ran cold for a while. For a long time, actually. We worked hard, but months passed with nothing, absolutely nothing. Not a clue. Then, late in '94, we were contacted by an investigative firm in Atlanta, the Pluto Group."
"Pluto?"
"Yes, the Pluto Group. We referred to them as the boys from Pluto. Good boys. Some of your ex-agents. They asked questions about the search for Patrick Lanigan, said they might have some information. I met with them a couple of times here in Washington. They had a mysterious client who claimed to know something about Lanigan. Obviously, I was interested. They were in no hurry because their client seemed quite patient. The client, not surprisingly, wanted lots of money. Oddly enough, this was encouraging."
"How so?"
"If their client knew enough to expect a fat reward, then the client had to know that Lanigan still had plenty of money. In July of '95, the boys from Pluto approached me with a scheme. What if, they said, their client could lead us to a place in Brazil where Lanigan had recently lived? I said sure. They said, how much? And we agreed on the sum of fifty thousand dollars. I was desperate. The money changed hands by way of a wire transfer to a bank in Panama. I was then told to go to the small city of Itajai in the state of Santa Catarina, in die deep south of Brazil. The address they gave us led to a small apartment building in a nice part of town. The manager was cordial, especially after we greased his palm. We showed him our pictures of Lanigan post-op, and he said maybe. More grease in the palm, and he made a definite I.D. Jan Horst was the man's name, a German, he thought, with good Portuguese. He had rented a three-room apartment for two months, paid in cash, kept to himself, and spent little time there. He was friendly, and liked to drink coffee with the manager and his wife. She also made a positive I.D. Horst said he was a travel writer who was working on a book about the immigration of Germans and Italians to Brazil. When he left, he said he was going to the city of Blumenau to study the Bavarian architecture there."
"Did you go to Blumenau?"
"Of course we did. And quickly. We covered the town, but after two months gave it up. After the initial excitement, we settled back into the tedium of hanging around hotels and markets, showing the photos and offering small bribes."
"What about the boys from Pluto, as you called them?"
"They cooled off considerably. I was anxious to talk to them, but they had little to say. I think their client got scared, or maybe was happy just to get the fifty grand. Anyway, six months passed with little word from Pluto. Then, in late January of this year, they came back in a rush. Their client needed money, and was finally ready to sell out. We shadowboxed for a few days, then they dropped the bomb that for a million dollars we could learn the exact location of our man. I said no. It wasn't that I didn't have the money, it was just too risky. Their client was not willing to talk until the money was paid, and I was not willing to pay until their client talked. There was no way whatsoever to ascertain whether their client knew anything. In fact, for all I knew there wasn't a client anymore. Tempers flared and talks broke down."
"But you kept talking?"
"Yes, eventually. We had to. Their client had to have the money. We had to have Lanigan. Another deal was proposed whereby we would, for another fifty thousand bucks, get the name and location of a place Lanigan had lived after he left Itajai. We agreed, because from our point of view the fifty thousand was cheap and there was always the chance of getting lucky and stumbling over another tip. From their point of view, it was smart because it strengthened their client's credibility. And, of course, it was another step toward the million bucks. There was a brain at work behind Pluto, and I was desperate to play ball. I would gladly pay the million bucks. I just needed some reassurance."
"Where was the second town?"
"Sao Mateus, in the state of Espirito Santo, north of Rio on the coast. It's a small town of sixty thousand, a pretty place with friendly people, and we spent a month there mingling and showing our photos. The apartment arrangement was similar to the one in Itajai -two months' cash paid by a man named Derrick Boone, a Brit. Without being bribed, the owner positively identified Boone as our man. Seems as if Boone stayed over for a week without paying, so there was a bit of a grudge. Unlike Itajai, though, Boone kept to himself and the owner knew nothing about his doings. Nothing else turned up, and we left Sao Mateus in early March of this year. We regrouped in Sao Paulo and Rio, and made new plans."
"What were the new plans?"
"We withdrew from the north and concentrated on the smaller towns in the states near Rio and Sao Paulo. Here in Washington, I got more aggressive with the boys from Pluto. Their client was stuck on a million. My client was unwilling to pay without verification. It was a logjam, with both sides playing hardball but willing to keep talking."
"Did you ever learn how their client knew so much about Lanigan's movements?"
"No. We speculated for hours. One theory was that their client was also chasing Lanigan, for some unknown reason. It could've been someone in the FBI who needed cash. That, of course, was a longshot, but we thought of everything. The second theory, and the most likely, was that their client was someone Lanigan knew and trusted, who was willing to sell him out. Regardless, my client and I decided we could not allow the opportunity to escape. The search was now almost four years old, and going nowhere. As we had learned, there are a million wonderful places to hide in Brazil, and Lanigan seemed to know what he was do-ing."
"Did you break the logjam?"
"They did. In August of this year, they ambushed us with another offer: current photos of Lanigan, in exchange for another fifty grand. We said yes. The money was wired offshore. They handed me the photos in my office here in Washington. There were three, black-and-white eight-by-tens."