Текст книги "Convicted"
Автор книги: Aleatha Romig
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He waited for an answer. Though it wasn’t verbal, Claire laid her head back on the pillow and looked into his eyes. Tony didn’t want to see the trust in those eyes. They were too innocent and pure. In all his research, he’d never gazed into the depth of her emerald soul, and he didn’t want to do it now. He lowered his lips to her collarbone and tasted her skin, moist from earlier “dessert”. Her body arched as he tantalized the tips of her firm breasts. The knowledge that she’d soon be his for the taking—whenever and wherever he desired—threatened to push him to the brink too soon.
Would she always be this accommodating? How would she handle her new reality? As he nibbled at the now hard nubs, he didn’t care—it didn’t matter. What mattered was how he’d handle it. She would be as accommodating as he wanted... her penance for the sins of her forefathers.
Supporting himself above her petite frame, he lingered in the aftershocks of their merger, contemplating his acquisition. Each time his hips moved, her body responded in sync. He could stay like this for hours, but that would need to wait, for another day. Smiling, he considered all the “another days” they had in their future. Not wanting to move away, Tony peered down to see her eyes part in that not quite open, not quite shut, satisfied gaze. He offered, “Can I get you a drink or something to eat?”
“I really don’t think I want you to move.”
“Oh?” he cooed, as he teased her with each gyration. “Are you sure? Maybe some more wine.”
“Now, Anthony, I think it’s pretty obvious, you don’t need to get me drunk.”
“Who said anything about drunk? I just don’t want you to dehydrate.”
Claire smiled as he slowly eased himself from the bed. Reaching for the glass, he added, “I mean—if you’re willing to stay, I’d like to make a toast.”
When he turned back around she was sitting up against the head board with the sheet wrapped tightly around her breasts. Her modesty intrigued him. Most of the women he dated were the type to flaunt their assets—not cover them. Smiling a shy smile, she reached for the glass. “By all means, I’d hate to ruin your toast.”
The drug took effect faster than Tony planned. The cooperative, pleasant woman he’d spent the night with suddenly became agitated and combative. This new behavior didn’t last long. When it ended, her entire body relaxed and her head bobbled upon her neck. For a moment, Tony feared they’d need to carry her from the hotel. Despite her appearance, Claire wasn’t unconscious, only detached. The green eyes no longer held the window to her soul; instead, they were clouded with a veil of confusion and separation, as if Claire’s body was there, but her mind was somewhere else. She followed every command. In many ways, it was like dressing a child. He told her to stand—she stood. He told her to lift her arms—she did.
Once he had her dressed, he called for Eric. As they rode the elevator down to the lobby, Claire leaned into his chest. He hoped to interested bystanders, she merely looked tired. Although she didn’t answer, he spoke softly in her ear. Tony reasoned it would appear more natural on hotel surveillance. Next, he walked her to the car, kissed her goodbye and let Eric drive away. It was all part of the plan.
A few hours later, Tony met Eric at a side door and entered the back seat of his car. Sleeping soundly on the seat, covered with a thin blanket was his acquisition. The room at the Ritz was Tony’s for a few more days. After he had Claire in Iowa, he’d return to Atlanta and attend more meetings. More of the plan, his leaving town couldn’t coincide with her departure.
Walking from the car to the plane, she stumbled with unsteady footing. Once aboard, she paced, unwilling to sit. Each time Tony got near her, she pulled away and walked toward the door. Using more physical persuasion, he steered her toward the seat. When her knees bent, she spoke for the first time since the GHB took effect, “I donnnnn’t feeel well.”
He didn’t comment as he secured her seat belt. At first, she stared at the restraint. When the plane lifted off the ground, her head fell to her chest. Tony wondered if she comprehended any of what was happening.
Suddenly, her limp head sprung upward and her slurred words filled the otherwise empty cabin, “I’mmm gonna be sicccccccccccccccc.”
Losing patience, Tony noticed Claire’s sudden pallor. He unstrapped himself and walked toward her. He saw fear within her eyes as she frantically fought her seat belt.
“Stop it,” he commanded. “You’re on an airplane. You’re not going anywhere.”
She turned away, tears streaming down her cheeks, unable to move against the latched belt. He reached for her chin and turned her toward him; before he could reprimand her on the importance of maintaining eye contact, she wrenched and vomited. It covered her dress and his slacks.
“Shit!” he barked. It was disgusting!
“I told you...I was sick!” she cried.
He looked at the mess and then at Claire as she sunk against the chair.
“Don’t get the damn chair dirty, too.”
His words only increased her tears. As he reached for the seat belt and unbuckled, revulsion at the mess was somehow interspersed with sympathy.
“Come here,” he said as he held out his hand.
Retracting further against the seat, she asked, “Why am I here? What are you doing?”
Tony tried once again for compassion, “Claire, you aren’t feeling well; let me get you some water and clean you up.”
Hesitantly, she stood, allowing him to walk her to the bathroom at the back of the plane. With each command, her compliance decreased while her defiance increased. He suspected she needed more of the drug.
“I shouldn’t be here. Where are we going?”
“You’ll feel better if you have some water.”
Apprehensively, she took the cup laced with the second vial of GHB. He watched the liquid slosh within the confines of the glass as her hands trembled. Finally, afraid she’d spill it, he helped her get the glass to her lips where she took a drink.
She spit it in the sink. “It tastes funny.”
“That’s because you were sick, you need to rinse your mouth.” He filled another cup with water and she rinsed. Next, he handed her the first cup. “Now drink.”
Claire nodded and did as he said.
“We need to get you out of these filthy clothes.”
As he tugged at her dress, she reacted violently, trying with all of her might to get away from him and out of the bathroom. Her screams echoed above the hum of the engines. It was like in the hotel when the drug first entered her system; however, this time, Tony didn’t need to worry about anyone else hearing.
Blocking the door, he let her have her tantrum. Her fight intrigued him. The blows to his chest with her tiny fists were almost comical, but when she tried to scratch, he had to make it stop. He had meetings and work. Scratches would be questioned. “That’s enough!” She didn’t stop. Her nails contacted his arm and blood trickled from their trail. Seizing her hand, he slapped her. “Stop it!”
The shock showed behind her clouded eyes as she covered her face, allowing one hand to linger on her now red cheek. In a way, it was humorous; she was naked, hysterical, and attacking him—and she seemed surprised he’d retaliate.
He leaned over her quaking body. “Get in the shower—now.” When she didn’t move, he reached for her arm and pulled her under the water. Although fully clothed, he joined her in the small cubical and held her under the streaming water until the fighting stopped.
Within minutes, the drug was once again in control, and Tony was directing her movements. With trembling hands, she obeyed, removing his wet clothes and following each command. Her fight was gone. The fire he’d momentarily seen in her eyes was now detached terror.
When he turned off the water, they were both clean. As Claire huddled against the shower wall, Tony contemplated his next move. There were so many possibilities; he told himself to take it slow. His plan had been in place for too long; he wanted to savor every moment.
Stepping into the small bathroom, he added his wet clothes to the pile containing her ruined dress and handed her a towel. Apprehensively, she took his offer and wrapped it around herself. Her long, dark hair dripped down her back as the water puddled on the floor.
Without looking up, she asked, “Are you going to hurt me?”
He’d read about the GHB. He knew these scenes would be forever erased from her memory. He could do whatever he wanted, and she’d never remember.
The sensual tone of seduction was gone; in its place was the authoritative tone of someone with an agenda. Tony refused to allow her fear or emotions to alter his plans. “That isn’t my plan. We’ll see how well you can follow directions.”
Tony pulled on the edge of Claire’s towel as she stepped back against the wall. Her clouded eyes opened wide and quickly looked away. He wondered if she could subconsciously fight the effects of the drug. He watched as she worked to form the right words. Finally, she mumbled, “Please.”
He stepped closer, his nude body still wet and his desire visible. “Please, what?”
“Please, don’t hurt me.”
“I have rules, Claire.” He gently pushed her wet hair away from her face. “Can you follow my rules?”
Avoiding eye contact, she nodded.
Abruptly, he raised her chin. “Don’t look away. I asked you a question. I expect an answer.”
“Yes, I can follow your rules.”
“Rule number one is to do as I say. I suggest you learn to follow that rule, if you want to make the best of this.”
Keeping her eyes downcast, her shoulders quaked as she silently sobbed. Once again, his hand struck her cheek.
“I told you not to look away.”
Her eyes immediately flashed toward his. Instantaneously, the clouds returned as pools of tears spilled onto her cheeks. “I’ll do as you say; please stop hitting me.”
The memories made Tony’s stomach turn. Of course, none of that was in Claire’s testimony. The GHB hid those memories from her, as well as other memories of the things he did during that flight and once they returned to Iowa.
Her testimony picked up the next day, when the drug was fully out of her system. It wasn’t until then that she started to understand the magnitude of her situation; nevertheless, the truth hit Tony between the eyes. Perspiration drenched his face and the illness he’d felt in the pit of his empty stomach erupted into full blown nausea. No matter what he did to make Claire’s life better or show her he’d changed, these memories would always linger in the recesses of his mind. For the rest of his life, he’d know what he’d done.
Tony hated himself for all of it—hell, he always had the end justifies the means argument, but even he didn’t believe that anymore. Not now. Not now that he knew Claire and loved Claire. The thought of someone doing to her what he’d done filled him with rage. If it were another person whom she described, Tony would want him dead. He’d leave no stone unturned to make him pay for his sins.
Tears coated his cheeks before he realized Brent was standing right in front of him.
“I take it you’ve read Claire’s testimony?”
Tony nodded. He didn’t want Brent knowing about this. Now Courtney would know. He should deny it and argue—but the image of Claire—not from her testimony—but from his memory—on his plane, wrapped in that towel, trembling and scared—wouldn’t let him lie.
“If the shit in that binder’s true, you’re one sick bastard”—Brent turned a circle—“I’m your personal attorney and friend. Tell me what we’re up against.”
Tony remained silent, his eyes so clouded with memories he could barely see the room around him.
“Damn it, Tony!” The table vibrated with the slap of Brent’s hand as his fury and anger filled the air. “Tell me the truth!”
The ferocity within the room grew as Tony’s anguish also began to build. Springing from the chair, he pushed past Brent and paced. “Where the hell did they get this? What the fuck does it mean? Is Claire alive? Do they know where she is? Did she press charges? Is that what this whole damn day is about?”
Brent seized Tony’s shoulders, as he demanded. “Fuck’n tell me if it’s true.”
Never had Brent spoken to Tony with that tone. Tony couldn’t help but retaliate, “Let go of me, or I swear to God I’ll punch you in the face!”
“Do it! Do it! Go ahead. Then maybe I’ll understand more of what Claire endured.”
Tony staggered backward. Brent’s words cut deeper than any knife and were more painful than a fist to the jaw. “It was before”—Tony’s fight evaporated as his knees buckled against the chair—“It was a long time ago. Things are, or were, different—this time. I didn’t have anything to do with her recent disappearance.”
Brent fell into a chair and fought to control his words. Finally, he asked, “So, you’re telling me this is true? You did this shit to a woman you claimed to love—a woman you married—a woman you charged with attempted murder and later wanted to reconcile with? You did this sick-ass-shit to the mother of your child?”
“No!” Tony stared at Brent. He felt the black fill his eyes as red filled his vision. “I’m not saying that. I’d never do that to the mother of my child or the woman I was reconciling with. Like I said—it was different.” He rubbed the stubble on his cheeks. Suddenly, his face weighed too much for his neck. Tony collapsed against the back of the chair allowing his head to rest against the cinderblock wall. “The only person, who understands—me—or any of this—is Claire.” Indignation returned and his neck strengthened. “Tell me this isn’t relevant. Tell me you can suppress this evidence”—Tony stood as the volume of his voice rose—“I paid a lot of money to have this disappear!”
Brent shook his head. “Shit! Did you just tell me, an attorney, that you paid to have evidence suppressed? Jesus, tell me you didn’t just say that!”
Tony felt the blood drain from his face as his limbs suddenly felt heavy. “I—I”—Perspiration appeared on his brow as he contemplated his answer and sunk back against the cool cement wall—“What I meant to say is that this evidence is old—things change, people change. Please...” It may have been the first time he’d ever used that word with Brent, but that didn’t make it any less heartfelt. “Please, tell me you can convince them I didn’t hurt her.”
Brent stared.
“This time”—Tony’s tone hardened as he pushed back the emotions he refused to reveal. His words slowed—“I didn’t hurt her this time”—he paused momentarily and gathered his thoughts—“This time she came to Iowa of her own free will. We were having a baby”—shaking his head he corrected himself—“No, we are having a baby. She accepted her engagement ring”—He held Brent’s gaze—“You are my friend as well as my personal attorney; tell me you believe me.”
Brent’s shoulders relaxed and he said, “We should eat.”
“No! Food doesn’t matter.”
Leaning forward, Brent steadied his tone. “Tony, listen to me—I know that’s not your forte, but shut-up and let me help you.”
The air left Tony’s lungs. “You’re still willing to help me?”
“I’ll be honest with you. We have been friends and maybe we still are, but right now I’m pissed as hell and friendship isn’t why I’m willing to do this for you.” He sat straighter while maintaining eye contact. “When this is all done, you can fire me, but going in, you should know, I’m not doing this for you—I’m doing this for Claire. If she trusted you again—after all this shit”—he pointed to the binder—“I will too.”
Tony’s neck gave way as his face fell forward. Rubbing his hand through his hair, he exhaled. “You’re not fired. What can you do?”
“I’ll make some calls. If the FBI isn’t pressing charges, I think I can get you released, at least momentarily. When we’re back in Iowa, we’re gonna talk about this...”
Only those you trust can betray you.
—Nathan Rahl
“Mr. Simmons, we believe it’s in the best interest of your client to keep him here for at least forty-eight hours.”
Brent tried to clarify an earlier statement, “You’re saying you believe Mr. Rawlings is in danger? Yet you won’t tell us what threats or evidence you have to support this claim.”
“I’m not at liberty to divulge that information.” Hearing the mechanisms of the door, everyone turned to see another agent enter. Agent Jackson introduced the newest member of their conversation, “This is Special Agent in Charge, Easton.”
SAC Easton stepped toward the table. Tony searched his expression; deep lines embedded in his forehead displaying years of concentration and stress. Though Tony looked for some sign of accommodation, Easton’s grimace, instead, warned of impending doom.
Clearing his throat, Easton began, “Agent Jackson, thank you for your diligence. Mr. Rawlings, it’s come to our attention that you’re to be released.” He straightened his stance, and added, “At this time we’re not prepared to formally charge you with any crimes.”
Tony exhaled. His gratitude quickly evaporated as irritation prevailed. Incredulously, he stood and glared at the federal officials. Before he could speak, SAC Easton continued, “Nevertheless, your safety is a concern and we want to again—”
Tony interrupted, “My safety? What about Claire? What about her safety?”
“Sir”—Easton shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot—“Your ex-wife is the informant who alerted us to this danger.”
Tony’s lungs deflated as he turned his gaze toward Brent. Sinking back into the chair, he whispered, “She’s alive. Thank God, she’s alive.” As quickly as the oxygen left, it returned, with a rush of blood to his cheeks making his face a bright shade of crimson in the poorly lit room. With each word, his volume increased and his stance straightened, “She’s alive. My fiancée, the mother of my child, is alive and you’ve had me here for hours playing some sick mind games!”
Brent silenced Tony with a touch of Tony’s sleeve. “Special Agent Easton, Agent Jackson, I believe you just said my client is free to go?”
“Yes, counselor; however, it is the recommendation of the—”
Brent continued, “Thank you, we’ll be spending the night here in Boston. You have my number. If we don’t hear from you by tomorrow morning at 9:00 AM, we plan to return to Iowa. If you need to speak with my client again, you may do so, through me.”
There was so much Tony wanted to say, so much he wanted to know, yet Brent’s slight pressure on his arm told him to leave the room—escape now before the FBI changed its mind. Momentarily, Tony’s body refused to move. What else did these men know? Trying with all his might, he swallowed his words and walked toward the door; nevertheless, before he reached the point of exodus, he turned back around. “Where is she? Is she in danger?”
SAC Easton met his eyes. “Mr. Rawlings, she’s the one who made contact with authorities. It’s our understanding that she left the country—your home—of her own free will.”
“Country? Did you say she left the country? Where is she?”
“Of—Her—Own—Free—Will, Mr. Rawlings. She doesn’t wish her whereabouts to be disclosed. The danger she’s alerting you to is still present.”
The agent’s words reverberated through Tony’s thoughts—Out of the county—own free will. Did Claire leave him? Did she leave in a way to purposely create a public scandal? Had she been playing him—some kind of sick revenge—was it all a charade to get back at him? No! Tony knew that wasn’t the case. He refused to spend another second entertaining that notion.
Brent’s tug brought Tony back to present, as his counsel addressed the assembly, “Thank you agents, we’ll collect Mr. Rawlings’ things.”
Tony glared one last time, momentarily speechless.
At a front desk, Tony signed for his belongings, which included his brief case and cell phone. He could almost taste the blood as he bit his lip, holding back the words he couldn’t bear to think much less say. When they stepped from the building, the fresh air filled his lungs as the late hour registered. The FBI had come to Tony’s hotel room almost twelve hours earlier. Turning on his phone, he managed, “I’ll call Eric and get us to a hotel.”
Brent shook his head. “No, I sent Eric back to Iowa. I didn’t know how long this would last. I’ll call for a taxi.”
Tony nodded as he saw the number of messages and missed calls mount on his screen. He tried to remember a time when he’d been unwillingly inaccessible to the world for twelve hours. While it was incomprehensible to think the FBI had removed him from his life, with total disregard for his personal or public obligations, he couldn’t shake the agent’s words. Of her own free will.
During the taxi ride to the hotel, neither man uttered more than a word or two as they both busily returned emails and text messages. The emotion of the day was finally gone—swallowed back into an unyielding hole. Unconsciously, Tony contemplated the possibility he’d been played. Of her own free will? The hairs prickled on the back of his neck.
It wasn’t until they were checked into a two bedroom suite that they began talking. “I don’t believe them.” Conviction came through Tony’s voice stronger with each word.
“You don’t believe the FBI?”
“If Claire left willingly, she was coerced.”
“Why would the FBI insinuate otherwise?”
“Why would they keep me for the entire damn day and then drop that bomb at the end?”
Brent shrugged, so many thoughts bombarding his head.
The strength and concern in Tony’s voice morphed into his familiar dominating tone. “I don’t want you to tell Courtney about what you learned today.”
Brent considered his words. Was this the time to tell Tony he’d known for years? He straightened his neck and stood taller than he had in his friend’s presence in many years. “I told you, I helped you because of Claire. She’s alive and safe. That’s what matters.”
“Apparently she is, and apparently we aren’t privy to know anything more.”
“No, we aren’t, but at least we know she isn’t in prison on trumped up charges.”
Tony spun and met Brent’s gaze. “What did you just say?”
“I said—we don’t know where she is”—Brent continued his stare—“We know where she isn’t.”
“I’m going to assume that offer to fire you is still on the table.”
Scanning the mini bar, Brent chose a bottle of whiskey, unscrewed the small lid and drank from the spout. Shaking his head, he laughed. “Sure, why not? I’m considering an early retirement anyway.”
Even with his back toward Tony, Brent could sense the darkening of Tony’s eyes and imagine his expression as Tony repeated, “Don’t say anything to Courtney.”
Brent turned back around. He was done being bullied. “Tony, I’m not promising that. I don’t keep secrets from my wife.”
“This isn’t debatable.” Tony grabbed a similar bottle from the bar. As he unscrewed the lid, Brent saw his shoulders slump. His tone was no longer full of domination; Brent heard something new as Tony said, “I care what Courtney thinks”—he kept his gaze away, as if looking out the large window and the lights of Boston—“And you.”
Brent reeled. All the accusations and declarations he’d practiced in his head were suddenly gone. Brotherly love wasn’t a comfortable gesture between the two of them. Clearing his throat, Brent managed, “You and Claire made it through this. Do you swear you never treated her like her testimony states, since her release from prison?”
Tony nodded. “I swear.”
“Courtney is pretty perceptive; I don’t think she’d be too surprised.” When Tony didn’t answer, Brent continued, “Do you want to call for a jet to come and get us in the morning, or should I?”
“I already have. It’ll be waiting by 10:00 AM.” Throwing back the rest of the small bottle, Tony said, “She can be as perceptive as she wants. I don’t want you confirming anything. Confidentiality—hell, I pay you enough to at least expect that.”
Brent’s shoulders fell—so much for brotherly love. “Yeah, Tony, you pay me. Without a doubt, within the last twelve hours—hell, twenty years, I’ve fuck’n earned it!”
Tony threw the empty bottle on the bar. “I’m going to try to get some sleep.”
“Wait!”—Brent faced his best friend’s dark eyes—it was now or never—“That early retirement—firing—whatever you want to call it—it’s still on the table, and you should know, I’m seriously considering it. I know too much shit to keep saving your ass.”
“You know too much shit to ever consider walking away. It’s not an option.” Tony turned toward one of the bedrooms. Before he shut the door he added, “I’m not accepting your offer. Good night.”
It was after midnight when the knock came to the door. It took multiple raps before anyone from within the suite budged. Brent was the first to make it to the door. He’d spent most of the day with federal officers. It didn’t take a genius to figure that the two men in dark suits were among those ranks.
“We’re looking for Anthony Rawlings.”
Before Brent could answer, Tony came up behind him. “I’m Anthony Rawlings. What the hell do you want at this time of night?”
The two officers displayed their badges and credentials. “Mr. Rawlings, may we enter?”
The last thing Tony wanted was a discussion with the FBI held in the hotel’s hallway. He and Brent took a step back allowing the agents to enter the suite.
Tony’s anger temporarily faded into concern. “Is this regarding Claire? Do you have new information?”
“There’s more information.” The men in dark suits went on to explain the threats upon Tony’s life have been verified and confirmed. The information Ms. Nichols disclosed was only the beginning. The Bureau believes it’s in everyone’s best interest to get Tony home, safe and sound, where his security team can keep him from harm.
They also explained that Tony’s activity could be currently monitored by the perpetrator and insisted Brent remain in Boston. They emphasized that in the morning Brent needed to go to the FBI office and complete legal documents regarding this transfer. Of course, then Brent and Tony would be able to meet up in Iowa tomorrow after Brent finished all the legalities.
Tony considered their concerns. Looking toward Brent, he shrugged. Honestly, he wanted to be home. It made more sense than sleeping in a hotel room. “Give me a minute to gather my things.”
As he left with the agents, Tony told Brent, “I’ll talk with you more when you get back to Iowa. Come straight to the house once you land.”
Brent agreed and watched as Tony left with the two plain-clothed agents. The feeling of foreboding lingered in Brent’s mind. He considered calling Courtney, but it was nearly 2:00 AM. She didn’t need to lose sleep just because his mind was racing. Finally, Brent fell into a restless sleep.
A mere four hours later, Brent rolled toward the vibrating phone echoing on the hard surface of the night stand. Before he could answer the call, his attention went to the loud pounding on the suite door.
Pulling on his slacks, he read the unknown number, rejected the call and pushed the phone into his pocket. In a still sleep deprived haze, Brent made his way toward the loud banging. This time, when he opened the door, Brent recognized at least one of the agents. “Agent Jackson, couldn’t you wait until I came to the office this morning?”
“So, Mr. Simmons, you were planning on coming to the FBI office today?”
“Yes, that’s what I was told.”
“And, what about Mr. Rawlings? Was he planning on coming too?”
Brent stepped back and allowed the two men entry. “He would, but now—”
“Now”—Agent Jackson completed Brent’s sentence—“Now your client is gone, disappearing in the middle of the night?”
“No.” Brent shut the door. “Well, yes—because he left with your agents.” When the FBI remained silent and exchanged quizzical looks, Brent added, “The men from your office who came here last night. He left with them.”
“I assure you, we didn’t send agents here last night.”
“What?” Brent ran his hands through his bed-messed hair, struggling with the new information. Could Claire’s threat have been real? Did someone take Tony?
“Mr. Simmons”—Brent focused as he attempted to subdue his impending fear—“A plane left Boston airspace, a private plane, contracted by one Anthony Rawlings. That same plane made an emergency landing in the Appalachian Mountains approximately an hour ago. No survivors were found.”
Brent collapsed onto the sofa. “As in dead?” The words hurt exiting his lips. Yes, there were times he hated Tony for what he’d done or said—that didn’t change the fact—the controlling asshole was his best friend.
“No, sir, as in missing. The plane was empty. A FBI forensics’ team is investigating. So far, no signs of struggle or injury have been found and”—Agent Jackson emphasized—“no signs of anyone.”
“But...the FBI took him. I saw their credentials and badges.”
“Do you remember the names of these agents?”
Brent shook his head. “No, it was late. Jesus... I didn’t really look. I assumed it was legitimate. I don’t remember.”
“Mr. Simmons, the FBI didn’t come here last night.”
“What does this mean?”
“For right now, it means you’re coming back with us to the Bureau. We’re going to review hotel footage and discuss your late night visitors.”
Sitting in the familiar office of SAC of the San Francisco FBI, Agent Baldwin listened attentively to his supervisor. “Anthony Rawlings was in FBI custody. Now he isn’t.”
“I’m sorry...what do you mean he isn’t?”
“Due to persuasion from unnamed political sources, Agent Easton, SAC in Boston, was unable to keep him detained.”
Harry’s blood boiled. “So, sir...” Although, well engrained, the title left a bad taste on his tongue. “You’re saying—he did it again? Anthony Rawlings played his political cards, flashed a little money, and got himself out of FBI custody?”
“Agent, despite the Deputy Director’s request, you clearly aren’t interested in pursuing your career in the service of—”
“I apologize. Sir, please go on. Claire Nichols. Where is she?”
“The last direct communication was from Geneva, Switzerland. That was over a week ago. We have local field agents who’ve confirmed her departure from Switzerland.”
“She left..? Where did she go?”
“This is a briefing son—I inform; you listen. Agent Baldwin, you seem to have forgotten the protocol. If you choose to honor the Deputy Director’s request and assist in this ongoing investigation—your duty is to say, Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. If that duty is too difficult for you to fulfill, I’ll gladly inform our director, and your duties can be reassigned.”
