After Death(4)

“I didn’t come here to hurt anyone,” Michael reminds him, and he submits to Santana’s quick but thorough search for a weapon.

“Clean,” Santana tells Woodbine. “And no ID.”

Having remained just inside the door, Michael now moves to the island. “Mr. Harris, I’d be more relaxed if you would lower the gun. Your tremor makes me nervous.”

“What’ll be more nervous makin’,” Harris says, “is a forty-five full metal jacket point-blank in your face.”

Woodbine motions for Harris to lower the weapon and says to Michael, “This conversation is between you and me.”

“Seems best.”

“Who are you?”

“I said.”

“Nobody.”

“That’s right.”

“I can ink your hands and have your prints run.”

“Won’t do you any good.”

“I’m serious. I can get a report from the FBI in an hour. No one but my contact there will know I asked for it or that it was ever sent to me.”

“I know you can do that. There’s a lot of rot in the system, and you have a nose for rot. But nobody has my prints.”

“You’ve got a past.”

“Erased.”

“Not possible.”

“Not for you maybe.”

“There will be photographs and files you missed.”

“None.”

“We can hold you here while we search.”

“Only if you kill me.”

“Why wouldn’t we do that?”

“I won’t let you.”

Harris mutters a curse, and Santana makes a noise of derision.

Woodbine appears more amused than concerned. He is a supremely confident guy. “What’re you angling for?”

“I already said.”

“Half a million dollars.”

“Glad to see Alzheimer’s hasn’t gotten you.”

“Why would I give you half a million?”

“You don’t have a choice.”

“To keep you from hurting me.”

“Exactly.”

“Do you realize how you sound?”

“Insane?”

“Totally.”

“Just put my money in the duffel bag and keep the rest.”

“Your money?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t really need it.”

Santana and Harris are restless. They want to commit a little violence to settle their nerves.

When Woodbine takes his hands out of the pockets of his robe, they are neither work-worn nor marked by age spots. His nails are manicured and finished with a clear polish.

“How did you learn the truth?” he asks.

“About you? I’m a research wizard.”

“I’m discreet. I take every precaution.”

“May I explain with a metaphor? Let’s say the internet is a dense jungle of information, with trillions of clues to billions of secrets. Each of you leaves a trail whether you try to cover your tracks or not. I’m right out of Kipling.”

“Rudyard Kipling.”

“So you learned something at Harvard. See, I know the internet jungle better than Mowgli knows the real one. To my eye, you left a trail as wide as a herd of elephants.”

“Drop the metaphor. Give me an example.”

Indicating Santana and Harris, Michael says, “You use burner phones with these two feebs and others.”

“I go through a couple hundred disposables a year. I destroy them all. And I don’t buy them myself.”

“I know. Mr. Santana’s uncle Ignacio, the priest, buys them for him, and Santana gives your share to you.”

Santana is incensed. “My uncle is a holy man of God. Don’t screw with Tio Ignacio, you piece of shit.”

Quieting Santana with a gesture, Woodbine asks Michael, “How could you know this?”

“You use your limited-function burner phones when you talk to one another. But you use your smartphones for text messaging.”

“Our texts are encrypted. Profoundly encrypted.”

“Yeah. I know. The best encryption in the world, developed in Moscow, used by the Russian prime minister. Even the CIA hasn’t broken it.”

“But you have?”

“Let’s say I built a back door into the computer system of the Russian equivalent of the CIA and planted a rootkit so I can come and go undetected.”

“Rootkit?”

“Hacker talk. That’s not really how I work. I’m not a hacker, but I wanted to put it in terms you might understand.”

“So somehow you tap our phones and read through the encryption of our text messages. That’s how you knew we’d be here now.”

Michael shrugs. “So sue me.”

“You want me to believe you’ve left incriminating evidence with some friend of yours, and if you don’t come back, he’ll turn it over to the authorities, like in the movies.”

“No, not at all. What good would that do me, considering how you can buy politicians, judges, honchos in the attorney general’s office, and key journalists?”

Woodbine stares at him for a long beat. At last he says, “You fascinate me.”