That's the nature of the game. We dazzle with the research, they just steal it."
"But using a law firm?"
"The law firm is probably just one piece of the puzzle. They have spies in other places, and there are more people like Bennie, who have no name and no home and ten passports. He's probably a well-trained former intelligence pro who now hires himself out for a zillion dollars to do exactly what he's doing."
"He killed Baxter."
Roy shrugged. "Killing doesn't bother this guy."
"Great. Just when I was starting to feel better."
Roy smiled, but the wrinkles never left his forehead. "Look, give me a few days to digest this."
"We need to move fast. I now have access to the documents, and Bennie's much more excited."
"You'll see him tomorrow night?"
"Yes. At the Four Seasons Hotel on Fifty-seventh. Care to join the party?"
"Thanks. How long do these little meetings last?"
"Ten minutes if I'm lucky. We bitch and bark, and then I slam the door on the way out. I act tough, but the whole time I'm scared to death. I need help, Roy."
"You've come to the right place."
"Thanks. I gotta go. Doofus is waiting."
"Doofus?"
Kyle stood and reached across the desk. He picked out a composite and laid it on top of the pile. "Meet Doofus, probably the worst of the street crawlers who've shadowed me for the past nine months. His buddy there is Rufus. He's bad, too, but not as bad as Doofus. I have become so adept at appearing to be so clueless that these clowns think they can follow me in their sleep. They make a lot of mistakes."
They shook hands and said goodbye, and long after Kyle was gone,
Roy stared at his window and tried to absorb it all. A twenty-five-year-old former editor in chief of the Yale Law Journal being stalked on the streets of New York City by a deadly group of professional operatives who are blackmailing him into spying on his own law firm.
Roy was awestruck by the scenario. He smiled and reminded himself of how much he loved his job.
THERE WERE A few bright spots in the ugly split among the firm's litigators. More partners would be needed, and sooner. Advancement opportunities were created with all those gaps to fill. And, most crucial to the first-year associates, offices had been emptied. The jockeying began as soon as the malcontents fled. Over the weekend, Tabor nailed down a place of his own and had moved his junk by Sunday night.
Kyle gave little thought to a move. He'd grown accustomed to his little cubicle, and he enjoyed having Dale close by. They groped occasionally when they were completely safe. He looked forward to her daily appearance and expected a full rundown on what she was wearing and who designed it. Discussing her clothes was almost as much fun as removing them.
He was surprised when Sherry Abney dropped by late Monday afternoon and asked him to follow her. They took the stairs one floor up to the thirty-fourth, and, after walking past a dozen doors, she stopped, stepped in, and said, "This is yours."
It was a twelve-by-twelve square room, with a glass desk, leather chairs, handsome rug, and a window that faced south and allowed real sunlight to pass through. Kyle was overwhelmed. Why me? he wanted to ask. But he pretended to take it in stride.
"Compliments of Wilson Rush," she said.
"Nice," Kyle said, stepping to the window.
"You share a secretary with Cunningham next door. I'm just down the hall if you need anything. I'd get myself moved in because Mr. Rush might stop by for a quick inspection."
Moving took fifteen minutes. Kyle made four trips back and forth, and during his last one Dale carried his sleeping bag and laptop. She was genuinely happy for him, and even passed along a few decorating ideas. "Too bad you don't have a sofa," she said.
"Not at the office, dear."
"Then where and when?"
"I take it you're in the mood."
"I need to be loved, or at least lusted after."
"How about dinner, then a quickie?"
"How about a marathon, then a quick dinner?"
"Oh, boy."
They sneaked out of the building at 7:00 p.m. and took a cab to her apartment. Kyle was unbuttoning his shirt when his FirmFone buzzed with an e-mail sent by an unknown partner to about a dozen grunts. All hands were needed on deck immediately for an urgent orgy of work that was absolutely critical to the future of the firm. Kyle ignored it and turned off the lights.
Chapter 32
For no reason other than sheer obstinacy, Kyle arrived forty-five minutes late for the Tuesday night meeting at the Four Seasons. He expected to see Nigel, so he was not surprised when Bennie's sidekick met him at the door and pretended to be pleased to see him. "Kyle, old boy, how have you been?" he chirped with a fake smile.
"Marvelous. And your name is?"
"Nigel."
"Oh, yeah, I forgot. Last name?"
"Sorry, old boy."
"Do you have a last name, or do you have so many you can't remember which one fits right now?"
"Good evening, Kyle," Bennie said, rising to his feet, folding a newspaper.
"So nice to see you, Bennie." Kyle placed his briefcase on the bed but did not remove his trench coat. "Now, who called this meeting?" he asked.
"Tell us about the room on the eighteenth floor," Bennie said, abandoning any more preliminaries.
"I've already described it."
Nigel fired away: "Ten monitors on ten tables, right, Kyle?"
"Yes."
"And where are the computers themselves?"
"On the tables, next to the monitors."
"The computers, Kyle, tall and thin, short and fat? Give us a hint here!"
"More of a square box, to the right of each monitor."
On the dresser next to the television there was a thin notebook, already opened. Nigel lunged for it and said, "Take a look at these computers, Kyle. All shapes and sizes, various makes from around the world. See anything remotely similar?"
Kyle methodically flipped through it. Each page had color photos of eight computers, ten pages in all, eighty machines that varied wildly in design and construction. He settled on one that looked more like a color jet printer than a computer.
"Yes, rather square," Nigel observed. "How many disc drives?"
"None."
"None? Are you certain, Kyle?"
"Yes. These were custom built for maximum security. There are no disc drives, no ports, no way to transfer the data."
"Control panel? Switches, buttons, lights, anything, Kyle?"
"Nothing. Plain-vanilla box."
"And the server?"
"Locked up next door. Out of sight."
"Interesting. And the monitors, Kyle?"
"Basic LCD flat screens."
"Let's take a peek," Nigel said as he opened the notebook to another section, this one filled with an assortment of monitors. "Size, Kyle?"
"Fourteen inches."
"Full-color display I'm sure?"
"Yes." Kyle stopped on the third page and pointed. "This one is very close."
"Excellent, Kyle."
"And printers?"
"None."
"Nowhere in the room? Not a single printer?"
"None."
Nigel paused to scratch his face and ponder this. "Suppose you're working on a brief or a memo. When it's time to produce it, what happens?"
"You notify your supervisor, who then enters the room, pulls it up, reviews it, and so on. If it is to be submitted to the court, or to the opposing attorneys, it's printed."