Hainny turned and walked down the wide entrance hall, his slippers slapping on the floor, to the last door on the right. He disappeared inside, flipped on the light switch. Savich followed him into a long narrow room, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves reaching up into shadows. A dark brown sofa sat in front of a dark stone fireplace, and a large mahogany desk dominated the other end of the room. The window behind the desk was covered with heavy, closed draperies. It was a dark room, a room with no color, perfectly suited to Hainny. Savich could picture him hunkering down in this silent, brooding room, weaving his plans in the shadows, deciding how and when to use secrets he had no right to know without compunction to get what he wanted.
Hainny walked to the sideboard, poured himself a glass of whiskey, drank it down, and slowly turned to stare, not at Savich, but at the small, gun-metal steel box he held. “Well, what’s in the box?”
“Saxon’s bloody shirt and T-shirt, several letters from Mia Prevost to Cortina Alvarez, a supposed friend of hers, detailing how Saxon’s behavior had changed, how he was becoming violent, ranting at her, trying to cut her off from her friends, that she was afraid of him, and didn’t know what to do. And of course the pièce de résistance—the knife used to kill her, her dried blood still on the blade, Saxon’s fingerprints no doubt on the handle. In short, more evidence than a prosecutor would need to convict Saxon of murder and send him to prison for life. And naturally, destroy your career as well.”
“There is no such person as Cortina Alvarez!” Finally, a spark of rage.
Savich nodded. “Of course there isn’t. It’s a near-perfect legend created for Sergei Petrov’s bodyguard and longtime lover, Elena Orlov. Are you ready to tell me your side of it now, Mr. Hainny? Ready to tell me the truth?”
Hainny poured himself more whiskey, then walked slowly, like an old man, to the dark brown sofa. He sat down, motioned Savich to sit beside him. He said nothing for a very long time. He sipped at his whiskey, raised the glass to study it. “This is Glenfiddich, not the most expensive, but it’s my favorite. My father introduced me to it on my eighteenth birthday, as I did Saxon.” He laughed. “Saxon hates it.” He paused, rolled the glass around between his palms. “Petrov called me the day after Mia Prevost was murdered, told me he’d done me a favor and taken away all the evidence that Saxon had murdered Mia Prevost from her apartment, as you said, more than enough to send Saxon to prison for life. He sent me photographs of the bloody shirt and T-shirt, the letters, and the knife. He said he’d hide them from the police if I cooperated with him—that was the word he used, cooperated. I asked him what he wanted and he told me what he wanted wasn’t beyond someone in my position, someone with my abilities and reach. He even assured me it was nothing treasonous. He was going to ask me to do only what was necessary to keep my beloved son from prison. And now he was sure I had the motivation I needed.” Hainny fell silent.
Savich waited for him to continue, but he didn’t, merely rolled the glass of whiskey in his palms. “Mr. Hainny, we know his father, Boris Petrov, and his Transvolga investment firm were sanctioned by presidential executive order and lost hundreds of millions of dollars, and that most of what was left was frozen. That’s what he wanted of you, wasn’t it? To arrange to overturn that order, and, in return, he would give you the evidence against Saxon, the evidence in this box.”
Hainny drew a deep breath. “I don’t know how you found out about it, and so quickly, but yes, that’s what he wanted. As you know, these sanctions were retaliation for the Russian invasion of Crimea and the Ukraine. They worked admirably. Not only did they cause great damage to the Russian economy, they drained billions of dollars, bringing capital investment to a standstill. Of course, the sanctions levied against specific individuals, their banks and financial assets, were designed to hit Putin directly in his pocketbook, to pressure him to withdraw from Crimea and the Ukraine. Will Putin withdraw? Or at least keep a lid on the hostilities?” Hainny shrugged. “Things are very bad in Russia but only time will tell.
“When Petrov told me he wanted the sanctions removed from his father and the Transvolga Group, that he wanted billions of dollars unfrozen, I told him I didn’t have that power, he should have picked a ranking official in the Treasury Department. They were the ones who set the sanctions, they would be the ones to remove them. And technically, that’s true. But he laughed at me. He said my talents are well-known and that I had one week to make progress on lifting the sanctions or my son would find himself on trial for murder.”
He fell silent again, then said in surprise, “Petrov is Russian, but do you know, he’s perfectly fluent, speaks with a British accent? And now he’s dead.” He raised his whiskey and toasted Savich. “Will you tell me what happened?”
“When FBI agents went to his home to arrest him, he and another man opened fire. They were both killed. Mr. Hainny, you said Petrov gave you a week. You could have called us then, but you didn’t. Did you arrange anything on Petrov’s behalf?”
“No, I didn’t consider that an option at first. Actually he called me a couple of days later for a progress report and I lied to him, told him I’d spoken to the undersecretary for financial intelligence, that a review was under way, but it would take more time. I believed I could handle the—situation—myself and I almost succeeded, until everything went sideways.” He drew a deep breath. “But of course you already know what happened.”
Savich said, “You acted, you hired Manta Ray to steal the safe-deposit box from the Second National Bank of Alexandria. How did you know the evidence against Saxon was there?”
“Petrov would have preferred to stay anonymous, but of course he couldn’t, he had to give me his father’s name and the name of his firm if I was going to act on the sanctions. It was easy for me to find out that Petrov’s son was in the United States. The father couldn’t be, naturally, since the sanctions banned him from traveling here or to Europe.”
Hainny rolled the whiskey glass around between his palms out of habit. “I realized Mia Prevost had been working for Petrov, that it had all been a setup. I decided I wouldn’t tell Saxon. I’m a man with considerable power, Agent Savich, and I used some of it to neutralize this man. I knew he wouldn’t have the items at his house, he’d have to know I could locate that quickly enough, and of course I did. He has no ties to the Russian Embassy, so he couldn’t use their premises to hide the blackmail items.
“I decided a bank deposit box was an intelligent choice, perhaps one it would be hard to trace to him. But if so, which bank? I had an analyst whose name I cannot tell you investigate Sergei Petrov, his activities, his connections. He found Elena Orlov for me quickly, Petrov’s closest contact. He even unearthed the name Cortina Alvarez, the alias she uses when it suits her. A search of her bank records showed me she had opened a safe-deposit box at her bank, the Second National Bank of Alexandria, the day after Mia Prevost was murdered. I didn’t know for sure, but that safe-deposit box seemed the only way forward.
“I hired Liam Hennessey through an intermediary, an acquaintance from twenty years back, a man far enough removed so he wouldn’t be linked to me. I paid him fifty thousand dollars to remove Cortina Alvarez’s safe-deposit box and five other boxes around it, to confuse the issue. That’s when it all went sideways.
“As you know, Hennessey’s partner—a man he hired without telling my intermediary—killed a bank teller, and Hennessey got himself shot and ended up caught in a deserted warehouse in Alexandria. It was a tragedy, that poor woman murdered, and it was my fault, I was culpable.” He raised incredibly weary eyes to Savich’s face. “I was prepared to admit everything to President Gilbert when the FBI reported they couldn’t find the contents of the safe-deposit boxes, that somehow Liam Hennessey, even grievously wounded, had managed to hide them before the FBI found him. Perhaps if he’d died or didn’t tell them, there was still a chance for Saxon.” He gave a laugh. “And for me.”
“When Hennessey survived, I didn’t dare contact him to arrange a deal for th
e whereabouts of Cortina Alvarez’s safe-deposit box. I would have had to borrow a great deal of money, and it might have exposed me. When it came down to it, it didn’t matter because Petrov outbid me. I’m sure he offered this criminal more than I ever could have, and he managed to pull off an amazing escape for him.
“You’re right about Petrov calling me today. He said I had cost him a great deal of trouble and money, but no more. He gave me seventy-two hours to get the sanctions lifted from his father and the Transvolga Group or he would give all the evidence against Saxon to the police. He told me I’d end up in jail also, next to my son. I was a murderer, after all. Petrov has—had—a very ugly laugh.
“I will be honest with you, Agent Savich. I hadn’t decided what I would do tomorrow. I like to think I would have confessed all of it to the president, but it was tempting to try to get those sanctions lifted from Petrov Senior and his company. And now you’ve made that moot.
“I cannot tell you how very sorry I am that bank teller was killed. I never intended—” He shook his head. “I know that I am legally guilty of murder, I know I have lost everything, my position with the president, my freedom. If you will allow me, Agent Savich, I would like to tell President Gilbert in the morning.”
Savich nodded.
“What will you do with the box?”
“I’ve given it a lot of thought, Mr. Hainny. The man who murdered Mia Prevost is dead, so he can’t be prosecuted for that crime. I would prefer to destroy it, put all of this mess as far behind Saxon as I can, but if you are brought to trial for your part in the murder of that bank teller, then it would be considered evidence. I intend to keep the box until a determination is made about your future. I will not tell Detective Raven about the plot against you, or about the box. The murder of Mia Prevost will officially remain unsolved, I see no way around that. In the end, she did have justice. I will explain what happened to Saxon, if you would like me to.”
“I will speak to Saxon. I’m his father. He’ll hate me, Agent Savich, and who could blame him? I lied to him and left him nothing but my shame to face.”
A tear slowly fell down his cheek. “At least my son will be safe.”
“Mr. Hainny, don’t underestimate your son. He might choose to stand with you.”
Savich rose and walked to the study door, turned and asked, “Could you have gotten those sanctions lifted?”
Hainny laughed. “Very probably. You wouldn’t believe what I can get done in this town.”
61
SAVICH HOUSE
GEORGETOWN
THURSDAY EVENING
Savich looked around his living room at the agents he and Sherlock had invited to their house for an evening to decompress and chow down pizza and Sherlock’s amazing apple pie. It was still bubbling it was so hot, and the smell of cinnamon filled the air. No one broke the reverent silence as Sherlock carefully cut the slices the same size and divvied up the entire pie, sliding a slice onto each waiting plate. She said, smiling, “This has been quite a wild ride for all of us, guys, so sit back and enjoy. I’ve got to remember to wash the pan and put it away tonight so Sean doesn’t see it. He wouldn’t let up until I made another one.” She lifted her own plate and breathed in the wonderful smell before she settled into her chair.
There were occasional moans of pleasure, and finally, the scraping of forks on empty plates. Cam looked at her empty pie plate, sighed, and set it on the coffee table. She started up again, telling the CARD agents about the melee at Sergei Petrov’s house the previous night, lightly patting Jack’s wounded arm for effect, and waving her own right arm to show she no longer needed a sling. “The boy here was the only casualty. He and I agree we can both handle getting small nicks from time to time.”
Jack said, “That’s right, Wittier. You and I, we’ve covered a lot of territory since Monday, first our memorable hike into the Daniel Boone National Forest and finally that shoot-out on the Potomac with Petrov last night. Quite a ride.” He nodded to Ruth and Ollie, raised his beer bottle and toasted everyone. “Here’s to small nicks.”
Sherlock began stacking the empty plates. “And Eric Hainny, chief of staff to the president, was at the root of it all. I find I feel sorry for him, even though the one time I met him, I wanted to smack him in the chops. He’s had to resign and now he’ll probably be indicted for the bank teller’s murder.”
Ollie said, “And it was all set into motion by Petrov. I wonder if Hainny ever considered killing him.”
“I wouldn’t doubt it,” Savich said, “but the fact is, he’s not a killer, despite what happened at the bank. He did what he did to save his son, the single most important person to him in the world, and the rest of the world be damned.”
Sherlock said, “That’s why I feel sorry for him, Dillon. I know I’d sign over the galaxy to keep Sean safe, as I bet all of you would for your kids.”
There was no disagreement.
Cam poured herself another cup of coffee. “And Sherlock, what you and Connie and Bolt have been through. I understand this Dr. Maddox wanted people with a specific DNA, but I don’t understand what he was looking for.”
Sherlock said, “Near as we understand for now from his records, Maddox looked through the DNA of laboratory mice first, identified the few that could tolerate his drug, discovered how they were genetically different. Then he looked through the thousands of genomes housed at Gen-Core to find the people with the same variant of the human gene, and he found Thomas Denham, his first victim, or as Dr. Maddox would insist, his first test subject. He only lived three months. Dr. Maddox went looking again and found another, more useful, variant, and he kidnapped Dr. Arthur Childers, his second victim, and put him under lock and key. He’s the young man still in a coma at Washington Memorial. Both Enigma One and Enigma Two, as Maddox labeled Denham and Childers, metabolized the drug differently from everyone else, and the metabolites in their blood, and in their plasma, were no longer toxic. So he took plasma regularly from Arthur Childers while giving him the drug, and it’s that plasma he gave to others, and to his father, along with whatever else he thought might be helpful. When he impregnated Kara Moody with Arthur Childers’s sperm, he was trying to combine both those genetic variants in one person, trying to create someone who could tolerate his drug without any toxicity at all.
“And that someone was Alex Moody, or Enigma Three, his wonder source.”
Connie said, “It appalls me to think what he would have done to that baby.” She took Bolt’s hand. “But it didn’t happen.”
Bolt said, “When you think about it, DNA is a big part of what makes each of us unique, right? Scary to think Kara Moody and Arthur Childers were victimized because of their DNA.”
Sherlock said, “It makes me worry for the rest of us. There might not be many lunatics like Lister Maddox out there, but what about all the businesses and governments that might want to make use of our DNA information? The abuses could be endless. We could be denied insurance, a good credit rating, certain jobs, for example. They could even use our DNA to predict how to advertise to us.”
Bolt took a sip of Savich’s sinfully rich coffee and sighed. “Savich, your coffee is as good as Sherlock’s pie. You’re right, Sherlock, and more and more people are getting their DNA tested, to evaluate their health risks or find out where their families are from. It’s getting cheaper and faster all the time. I was tempted myself, but when I picture Lister Maddox in my mind, I’m not so sure anymore.”
Ruth said, “I’m sure they have guidelines, some precautions in place, but we all know computers can be hacked.”
Jack sat forward in his chair, put down his coffee cup, and clasped his hands between his knees. “I find it amazing we might be able to extend life by slowing or reversing aging with some kind of medical procedures, or even a simple pill. To think of living, say, two hundred years, now that’s mind-blowing.”
Savich said, “Sherlock and I were talking about that earlier, about mortality, and what it means, and we find we dis
agree. I guess I come down on the side of things as they are. Most everything we human beings value, everything we call wisdom and experience, is a consequence of our being mortal and knowing it. We are granted a finite number of years and everything we strive for is shaped by the inevitable fact of death.
“Everyone whose words you’ve read who came before us, all those thoughts you’ve shared, all of them lived knowing their lives would end. I wonder what the world would be like where no one died except by accident?” He paused, smiled. “I wonder if after a while, we’d all get bored.”
“Accident or murder,” Ruth said. “We’ve got to keep our jobs.”
Cam said, “I don’t think that would be good news for the planet. We’d all have longer to keep destroying it, and there would be more and more of us to do just that.”
Jack said, “Living as long as, say, vampires. Now there’s a thought.”
Savich said, “Even most of the vampires you read about, they all say they see everything happen over and over, and people being people, or vampires, the same things would drive them, millennium after millennium: Greed, war, love, repeating itself into eternity.”
Jack said, “Yeah, sounds like term limits would be better. But seriously, what about the effects on society? Especially if only the rich could afford the magic pill? What would happen to everyone else? The possible consequences are inconceivable.”
Sherlock said, “Back up, guys. Forget forever, say if we could all live a couple of hundred years. Don’t forget we now live twice as long as people who lived two hundred years ago, and we seem to be managing. I think it would be incredibly exciting. Think of what we could make of ourselves, learn about ourselves and the world, the time we’d have to recognize and right our mistakes, travel new roads, goodness, we could travel the universe, all of this if only our own mortality didn’t hover over our shoulders. I hope, Cam, we’d gain enough wisdom, not to continue trashing the planet. Oh, and I think of the video games Sean could come up with if he had two hundred years.” She grinned. “I asked MAX to tell me about what he thought and he gave me geneticist Francis Collins’s quote that ‘one man’s longevity is another man’s immortality.’ ”