"Where? I thought there were no printers."
"There's a machine in a room next door with a paralegal who monitors the printing. Every sheet of paper that's printed is coded and duplicated. It's impossible to print anything without leaving a trail."
"Quite nice, really." With that, Nigel took a sharp step back and relaxed. Bennie took over. "Kyle, how many times have you entered the room?"
"Once a day for the last five days."
"And how many people are normally in the room?"
"It varies. Sunday afternoon I was alone for about an hour. This morning there were five or six others."
"Have you been there late at night when they close the room?"
"No, not yet."
"Do it, okay. Be there at ten one night."
"I can't go there just to hang out, Bennie. It's not a coffee room. Surveillance is constant, cameras watching and all that. There has to be a reason to be there, other than casing the joint."
"Does anyone notice when you come and go?"
"There's not a guard at the door. The key makes a record of each entry and exit, and I'm sure it's all recorded by closed circuit."
"Do you take your briefcase in with you?"
"No."
"Are briefcases forbidden?"
"No."
"Do you wear your jacket?"
"No. Jackets are not required around the office."
Bennie and Nigel studied each other for a minute or so, both minds hard at work.
"Will you go there tomorrow?" Bennie asked.
"Maybe. I'm not sure right now. It depends on what I'm asked to do in the morning."
"I want you to enter the room tomorrow, carrying your briefcase and wearing your jacket. As soon as you're settled in, take off your jacket. Keep the briefcase under the table."
"Will this work, Kyle?" Nigel piled on quickly.
"Oh, sure. Why not? Anything else? And what if I haul in a box of tacos and drop cheddar crumbs on the keyboard? Where is this going?"
"Just trust us here, Kyle," Nigel said gently. "We know what we're doing."
"You're the last person I'd trust."
"Now, Kyle."
"Look, I'm tired. I'd really like to go - "
"What are your plans for the next few days?" Bennie asked.
"I'll work tomorrow, leave the office around five, take the train to Philly, rent a car, and drive to York. I'm having Thanksgiving dinner with my father on Thursday. I'll be back in the city late Friday afternoon, and back at the office early Saturday. Good enough?"
"We'll meet Sunday night," Bennie said.
"Your place or mine?"
"I'll pass along the details."
"Happy Thanksgiving, boys," Kyle said as he left the room.
ON HIS NEW office door, Kyle hung two waterproof, all-purpose trench coats, one black and the other one a light brown. The black one he wore every day, to and from work and when moving around the city. The brown one was used rarely, only on those occasions when Kyle really didn't want to be followed. At 2:30 on Wednesday, he draped it over his arm and rode the elevator to the second floor. From there, he took a service elevator to the basement, put on the trench coat, and ducked through the rows of thick plumbing pipes and electrical cables and heating units until he came to a metal stairway. He spoke to a technician, one he'd spoken to on several occasions. He saw daylight in a narrow alley that barely separated his building from the fifty story edifice next door. Ten minutes later, he walked into the office of Roy Benedict.
They had chatted briefly on the phone, and Kyle was uneasy about the plan.
Roy was not at all uneasy. He had studied the file, analyzed the facts and issues, weighed the predicament, and was ready to move. "I have a friend with the FBI," he began. "A friend I trust completely. We worked together years ago before I became a lawyer, and even though we are now on opposite sides of the street, I trust him even more. He's a heavyweight here in the New York office."
Kyle flashed back to his last encounter with the FBI. Fake names, fake badges, a long night in a hotel room with Bennie. "I'm listening," Kyle said with skepticism.
"I want to meet with him and lay everything on the table. Everything."
"What will he do?"
"Crimes have been committed. Crimes are in process. Crimes are being planned. And not small crimes. I suspect he will be as shocked as I am. I suspect the FBI will get involved."
"So Bennie gets nabbed by the feds?"
"Sure. Don't you want him locked up?"
"For life. But he has a vast network out there in the shadows."
"The FBI knows how to lay its traps. They screw up occasionally, but their record is very good. I deal with them all the time, Kyle. I know how smart these guys are. If I talk to them now, they'll move in quietly and lay the groundwork. When they want to, they can throw a whole army at the enemy. Right now you need an army."
"Thanks."
"I need your permission to talk to the FBI."
"Is there a chance they'll take a look and let it pass?"
"Yes, but I doubt it."
"When will you talk to your friend?"
"Maybe as early as this afternoon."
Kyle barely hesitated. "Let's do it," he said.
Chapter 33
It was almost midnight when Kyle quietly slipped through the unlocked kitchen door of his family home in York. All lights were off. His father knew he would be arriving late, but John McAvoy let nothing interfere with a night's sleep. Zack, the ancient border collie who'd never met an intruder he didn't like, managed to rouse himself from his pillow in the breakfast nook and say hello. Kyle rubbed his head, thankful to see the dog one more time. Zack's age and exact lineage had never been clear. He was a gift from a client, partial payment on a fee, and he liked to spend his days under the desk of John McAvoy, sleeping through all sorts of legal problems. He usually ate lunch in the firm's kitchen with one of the secretaries.
Kyle kicked off his loafers, sneaked up the stairs to his bedroom, and within minutes was under the covers and dreaming.
Less than five hours later, John practically kicked in the door and boomed, "Let's go, knucklehead. You can sleep when you're dead."
In a drawer, Kyle found an old set of his thermal underwear and a pair of wool socks, and in the closet, among a collection of dusty old clothes that dated back to high school, he pulled out his hunting overalls. Without a woman in the house, the dust and spiderwebs and unused garments were accumulating. His boots were precisely where he'd left them a year earlier, last Thanksgiving.
John was at the kitchen table preparing for war. Three rifles with scopes were laid out, next to several boxes of ammo. Kyle, who'd learned the art and rules of hunting as a child, knew his father had thoroughly cleaned the rifles the night before.
"Good morning," John said. "You ready?"
"Yep. Where's the coffee?"
"In the thermos. What time did you get in?"
"Just a few hours ago."
"You're young. Let's go."
They loaded the gear into the late-model Ford pickup, four-wheel drive, John's preferred means of transportation in and around York. Fifteen minutes after crawling out of bed, Kyle was riding through the darkness of a frigid Thanksgiving morning, sipping black coffee and nibbling on a granola bar. The town was soon behind them. The roads became narrower.
John was working a cigarette, the smoke drifting through a small crack in the driver's window. He usually said little in the mornings. For a man whose day was spent in the midst of a busy small-town law office, with phones ringing and clients waiting and secretaries scurrying about, John needed the solitude of the early hours.