And for the moment, Danilo couldn’t know where his papers were.
She rearmed the security system and made a hasty exit. No one in the cramped building had noticed her. She found a room in a small hotel downtown, near the Museum of Contemporary Arts. The Asian banks were open, and it was almost four in Zurich. She unpacked a compact fax and rigged it to the phone jack in her room. The small bed was soon covered with sheets of instructions and wire authorizations.
She was tired, but sleep was out of the question. Danilo said they’d come looking for her. She could not go home. Her thoughts were not on money, but on him. Was he alive? If so, how much was he suffering? How much had he told them, and at what price?
She wiped her eyes and began to arrange the papers. There was no time for tears.
With torture, the best results come after three days of episodic abuse. The more obstinate wills are slowly broken. The pain is dreamed of, and looms larger as the victim waits for the next session. Three days, and most people break and crumble into small pieces.
Guy didn’t have three days. His prisoner was not one taken in war, but a U.S. citizen wanted by the FBI.
Around midnight, they left Patrick alone for a few minutes to suffer and think about the next round. His body was drenched with sweat; his skin red from the voltage and the heat. Blood trickled from under the tape on his chest where the electrodes had been stuck too tightly and were burning into his flesh. He gasped for breath and licked his dry shriveled lips. The nylon ropes on his wrists and ankles had rubbed the skin raw.
Guy returned alone, and sat on a stool next to the sheet of plywood. For a minute the room was quiet, the only sound was Patrick breathing and trying to control himself. He kept his eyes closed tightly.
“You’re a very stubborn man,” Guy said finally.
No response.
The first two hours had yielded nothing. Every question had been about the money. He didn’t know where it was, he’d said a hundred times. Did it exist? No, he had said repeatedly. What happened to it? He didn’t know.
Guy’s experience with torture was extremely limited. He’d consulted an expert, a really twisted freak who seemed to actually enjoy it. He’d read a crude how-to manual, but finding practice time was difficult.
Now that Patrick knew how horrible things could get, it was important to chat him up.
“Where were you when your funeral took place?” Guy asked.
There was a slight relaxing of Patrick’s muscles. Finally, a question not about the money. He hesitated and thought about it. What was the harm? He was caught. His story was about to be told. Maybe if he cooperated they’d lay off the voltage.
“In Biloxi,” he said.
“Hiding?”
“Yes, of course.”
“And you watched your graveside service?”
“Yes.”
“From where?”
“I was in a tree, with binoculars.” He kept his eyes closed and his fists clenched.
“Where did you go after that?”
“Mobile.”
“Was that your hiding place?”
“Yes, one of them.”
“How long did you stay there?”
“Off and on, coupla months.”
“That long, huh? Where did you live in Mobile?”
“Cheap motels. I moved around a lot. Moved up and down the Gulf. Destin. Panama City Beach. Back to Mobile.”
“You changed your appearance.”
“Yeah. I shaved, colored my hair, dropped fifty pounds.”
“Did you study a language?”
“Portuguese.”
“So you knew you were headed here?”
“Where’s here?”
“Let’s say it’s Brazil.”
“Okay. Yeah, I figured this was a good place to hide.”
“After Mobile, where did you go?”
“Toronto.”
“Why Toronto?”
“I had to go somewhere. It’s a nice place.”
“Did you get new papers in Toronto?”
“Yeah.”
“You became Danilo Silva in Toronto?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you take another language course?”
“Yeah.”
“Dropped some more weight?”
“Yeah. Another thirty pounds.” He kept his eyes closed and tried to ignore the pain, or at least live with it for the moment. The electrodes on his chest were smoldering and cutting deeper into his skin.
“How long did you stay there?”
“Three months.”
“So you left there around July of ’92?”
“Something like that.”
“And where did you go next?”
“Portugal.”
“Why Portugal?”
“Had to go somewhere. It’s a nice place. Never been there.”
“How long were you there?”
“Coupla months.”
“Then where?”
“São Paulo.”
“Why São Paulo?”
“Twenty million people. A wonderful place to hide.”
“How long did you stay there?”
“A year.”
“Tell me what you did there.”
Patrick took a deep breath, then grimaced when he moved his ankles. He relaxed. “I got lost in the city. I hired a tutor and mastered the language. Lost a few more pounds. Moved from one small apartment to another.”
“What did you do with the money?”
A pause. A flinch of the muscles. Where was the wretched little chrome lever? Why couldn’t they continue chatting about the chase and lay off the money?
“What money?” he asked, with a passable effort at desperation.
“Come on, Patrick. The ninety million dollars you stole from your law firm and its client.”
“I told you. You got the wrong guy.”
Guy suddenly yelled at the door. It opened instantly and the rest of the Americans rushed in. The Brazilian doctor emptied two more syringes into Patrick’s veins, then left. Two men huddled over the device in the corner. The tape recorder was turned on. Guy hovered over Patrick with the chrome lever in an upright position, scowling and angry and even more determined to kill him if he didn’t talk.
“The money arrived by wire to your law firm’s account offshore in Nassau. The time was exactly ten-fifteen, Eastern Standard. The date was March 26, 1992, forty-five days after your death. You were there, Patrick, looking fit and tanned and posing as someone else. We have photos taken from the bank’s security
camera. You had perfect forged papers. Shortly after the money arrived it was gone, sent by wire to a bank in Malta. You stole it, Patrick. Now, where is it? Tell me, and you’ll live.”
Patrick took a last look at Guy, and a last glance at the lever, then he closed his eyes tightly, braced himself, and said, “I swear I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Patrick, Patrick—”
“Please don’t do it!” he begged. “Please!”
“This is only level three, Patrick. You’re halfway there.” Guy pushed the lever down, and watched the body bolt and straighten.
Patrick screamed with no restraint, a scream so fierce and horrible that Osmar and the Brazilians froze for a second on the front porch. Their conversation stopped in the darkness. One of them offered a silent prayer.
Down the road, a hundred yards away, a Brazilian with a gun sat by the dirt trail and watched for approaching cars. None were expected. The nearest dwelling was miles away. He too offered a small prayer when the screaming started again.
Four
It was either the fourth or fifth call from the neighbors that sent Mrs. Stephano over the edge, and it also forced Jack to tell his wife the truth. The three men in dark suits loitering outside the car parked in the street directly in front of their house were FBI agents. He explained why they were there. He told her most of the Patrick story, a serious breach of professional etiquette. Mrs. Stephano never asked questions.
She didn’t care what her husband did at the office. She did, however, hold some rather strong feelings about what the neighbors might think. This was, after all, Falls Church, and, well, people would talk.
She went to bed at midnight. Jack napped on the sofa in the den, rising every half-hour to peek through the blinds and see what they were doing out there. He happened to be asleep at 3 A.M. when the doorbell rang.
He answered it in his sweatsuit. Four of them were at the door, one of whom he immediately recognized as Hamilton Jaynes, Deputy Director, FBI. The number-two man at the Bureau, who just happened to live four blocks over and belong to the same golf club, though the two had never met.
He allowed them into his spacious den. Stiff introductions were made. They sat while Mrs. Stephano wandered down in her bathrobe, then scurried back up at the sight of a room full of men in dark suits.
Jaynes did all the talking for the FBI. “We’re working nonstop on this Lanigan discovery. Our intelligence informs us that he’s in your custody. Can you confirm or deny?”
“No.” Stephano was as cool as ice.
“I’m holding a warrant for your arrest.”
The ice melted a bit. Stephano glanced at another stone-faced agent. “On what charges?”
“Harboring a federal fugitive. Interference. You name it, we’ll include it. What difference does it make? I’m not interested in convicting you. All I want is to haul your ass off to jail, then later we’ll get the rest of your firm, then we’ll lock up your clients. Take about twenty-four hours to round up everybody. We’ll get the indictments later, depending on whether or not we get Lanigan. You get the picture?”
“Yeah. I think so.”
“Where’s Lanigan?”
“Brazil.”
“I want him. And now.”
Stephano blinked a couple of times, and things fell into place. Under the circumstances, handing over Lanigan was not a bad move. The feds had ways of
making him talk. Faced with life in prison, Patrick just might snap his fingers and make the money appear. There would be enormous pressure from all angles to produce it.
Later, Stephano would again ponder the incredible question of how anyone in the world knew he had captured Lanigan.
“All right, here’s the deal,” Stephano said. “Give me forty-eight hours, I’ll give you Lanigan. And you burn my warrant and drop the threats of future prosecution.”
“It’s a deal.”
There was a moment of silence as both sides savored the victory. Jaynes said, “I need to know where to pick him up.”
“Send a plane to Asunción.”
“Paraguay? What happened to Brazil?”
“He has friends in Brazil.”
“Whatever.” Jaynes whispered to an associate, who then left the house. “Is he in one piece?” he asked Stephano.
“Yeah.”
“He’d better be. One bruise on his body, and I’ll hound you to hell.”
“I need to make a phone call.”
Jaynes actually managed a grin. He scanned the walls and said, “It’s your house.”
“Are my lines tapped?”
“No.”
“You swear?”
“I said no.”
“Excuse me.” Stephano stepped into the kitchen, then to a utility room where he kept a hidden cell
phone. He walked onto the rear patio where he stood in the wet grass by a gaslight. He called Guy.
The screaming had stopped for the moment when the Brazilian guarding the van heard the phone ringing. It rested on its power unit in the front seat of the van, its antenna shooting fifteen feet beyond the roof. He answered it in English, then ran to get an American.
Guy rushed from the cabin and grabbed it.
“Is he talking?” Stephano asked.
“A little. He broke about an hour ago.”
“What do you know?”
“The money still exists. He doesn’t know where. It’s controlled by a woman in Rio, a lawyer.”
“Do you have her name?”
“Yes. We’re making calls now. Osmar has people in Rio.”
“Can you get any more out of him?”
“I don’t think so. He’s half-dead, Jack.”
“Stop whatever you’re doing. Is the doctor there?”
“Sure.”
“Get the boy treated and spruced up. Drive him toward Asunción as soon as possible.”
“But why—”
“Don’t ask questions. There’s no time for it. The feds are all over us. Just do as I say, and make sure he’s not hurt.”
“Not hurt? I’ve been trying to kill him for five hours.”
“Just do as I say. Put him back together. Drug him.
Start toward Asunción. Call me every hour, on the hour.”
“Whatever.”
“And find the woman.”
Patrick’s head was lifted gently and cool water was poured on his lips. The ropes were cut from his wrists and ankles, and they very slowly removed the tape and the wires and the electrodes. He jerked and twitched, moaning words no one could understand. A shot of morphine was pumped into his well-worn veins, then a light depressant, and Patrick floated away again.
At dawn, Osmar was in the airport at Ponta Porã waiting for a flight that would eventually get him to Rio by the end of the day. He had made contact with people in Rio. He had pulled them out of bed with promises of big bucks. They were supposed to be on the streets.
She called her father first, just after sunrise, a time of the day he always enjoyed on his small terrace with his newspaper and his coffee. He lived in a small apartment in Ipanema, three blocks from the shore, not far from his beloved Eva. His apartment building was over thirty years old, making it one of the oldest in the poshest section of Rio. He lived alone.
He knew from her voice something was wrong. She assured him she was safe and would remain so, that a client in Europe suddenly needed her for two weeks, and that she would call every day. She went on to explain that this particular client was perhaps a bit shady and very secretive, and therefore he might send
representatives to poke around in her past. Don’t be alarmed. It was not unusual in international trade.
He had several questions, but he knew there would be no answers.
The call to her supervising partner was much more difficult. The story she had rehearsed delivered well, but there were huge gaps in it. A new client had called late yesterday, a referral from an American lawyer she went to school with, and she was needed immediately in Hamburg. She was taking an early flight. The client was in telecommunications, with plans for a large expansion in Brazil.
The partner was half-asleep. He asked her to call later with more details.
She called her secretary with the same story, and asked her to postpone all appointments and meetings until she returned.
From Curitiba, she flew to São Paulo, where she boarded an Aerolineas Argentinas flight to Buenos Aires, nonstop. For the first time, she used her new passport, one Danilo had helped her acquire a year earlier. She had kept it hidden in the apartment, along with two new credit cards and eight thousand dollars in U.S. cash.