Truth Or Die Part 12

The other reason was the guy sitting twenty feet from her desk who actually did have an office, a Brit by the name of Sebastian Cole. Before I first met Claire, she and Sebastian had a brief, hush-hush office romance that, according to Claire, "was the second-best-kept secret after Deep Throat."

"You might want to go with a different a.n.a.logy," I suggested after she told me that, on one of our early dates. "At least for my benefit."

I remembered we both cracked up over that.

Anyway, as Claire described it, she was young and he was her boss, a surefire way to jeopardize your career even before you really have one. After four months, she ended it.

In the grand tradition of the British stiff upper lip, Sebastian handled her breaking up with him with aplomb, sparing her any retaliation such as rea.s.signing her to the obituary department. Good for him. Even better for Claire. As for me, that was a different story.

The true extent of Sebastian's coping abilities was put to the test a couple of years later at c.o.c.ktail party thrown by another editor in national affairs. The test consisted of seven simple words spoken by Claire. Sebastian, I'd like you to meet Trevor ...

So much for the British stiff upper lip. Instead, I got the stink eye along with all the b.l.o.o.d.y att.i.tude that an Oxford-educated, bow-tie-wearing chap hailing from Stoke d'Abernon could throw my way. Sebastian hated American lawyers and hated even more the idea that Claire would be with one. At least, that was how she explained it later. I was more partial to the adage that guys will be guys, especially when it comes to girls. Jealousy rules the day, and at the end of it we're all just a lyric in a Joe Jackson song. Is she really going out with him?

But that was then. This was now. Claire was suddenly gone, and neither of us would ever be with her again. That was certainly the subtext as I sat down with Sebastian. Let bygones be bygones.

"I'm in shock," he said from behind his desk, slowly twisting a paper clip in his hands. I could tell he'd been crying, as had everyone else I'd pa.s.sed en route to his office.

"Shock is a good word," I said.

We discussed the details of how he'd heard the news, an early-morning phone call at home from the executive editor.

"Where was she going?" Sebastian asked.

"Seeing a source," I said.

I watched his face carefully, looking for a tell. If he knew anything about Owen and his recordings, he'd never admit it. Not verbally. While I was 99.9 percent sure Claire hadn't said anything to him or anyone else at the paper yet, the .1 percent chance that she had would certainly grow with a slight twitch or flinch from Sebastian. But there was nothing.

Nor, I was sure, would there be anything to be found on the computer at her desk. Ever since some Chinese hackers infiltrated the Gray Lady's computer systems back in the fall of 2012, Claire kept all her sensitive files on her personal laptop and nowhere else.

Of course, maybe those "Chinese hackers" were really just Owen showing off from an Apple store in Beijing. Anything was possible at this point, I figured....

"I don't mean to be rude," Sebastian said finally after an awkward silence. We were simply staring at each other across his desk. "But I'm fairly certain you didn't come here just to commiserate with me, Trevor."

"You're right," I said. "I need to ask you to do something."

"You mean, like a favor?"

"Sort of. Although depending how things play out, I might actually be the one doing you a favor," I said. "Confused yet?"

"Intrigued is more like it."

"That's good," I said. "Now tell me, on a scale of one to ten, how strong is your willpower?"

"My willpower? Is this a trick question?"

"No, I'm simply looking for the truth."

"In that case ... nine-point-five," he answered. "How's that?"

"I'm not sure," I said.

"Why? What number were you looking for?"

I folded my arms. "On a scale of one to ten? Eleven."

CHAPTER 37.

I'D PIQUED his interest. Sebastian was a newsman, after all. He was actually leaning in a bit over his desk, waiting for me to explain.

"First, can I borrow an envelope and a pen for a moment?" I asked.

"What for?"

I c.o.c.ked an eyebrow. "Really?" The cabdriver on the way over here-a complete stranger-had given me less of a hard time.

Sebastian relented, reaching behind him to grab an envelope from his credenza before scooping up a red felt-tip pen next to his keyboard. "Here you go," he said.

He couldn't see what I began to write in my lap. That was on purpose. What I did want him to see, however, was the i-FlashDrive I took out of my pocket when I was finished.

After I placed it in front of me on the edge of his desk, it immediately became all he could look at. Even more so when I sealed it in the envelope along with the note I'd written in the cab on the ride over.

I handed him back the pen. Then the envelope. "It's all yours," I said.

Sebastian adjusted his horn-rimmed gla.s.ses as he read the front of the envelope. He looked at me, then at the envelope, and then back at me again.

"You're kidding, right?" he asked.

"Unfortunately, no," I said.

"What's this all about?"

"It's all in the note and on the flash drive."

"No, I mean the instructions."

He flipped the front of the envelope around to me, but of course I knew what I'd written. Only open in the event of Trevor Mann's death.

Admittedly, it was a bit melodramatic as far as instructions went, but I couldn't have been more concise or direct.

"And I mean it, too," I said. "The only way you open that envelope is if I'm dead."

"This has to do with Claire, doesn't it?"

"Of course."

"Why can't you share it me while you're alive?"

"Good question," I said. "But that's a flash drive for another day."

I watched as Sebastian looked at the envelope again, staring at it now. He knew exactly what was in his hands. A major story. Front page, far right column, above the fold.

"Why would you trust me?" he asked.

"Because you were the one who taught Claire," I said. " 'Never burn a source.' "

In that moment, the way Sebastian nodded while choking back a tear, it was as if Claire were suddenly in the room. Although for the very first time, she was no longer standing between us.

"You're an idiot," he said. "You realize that, don't you?"

"Yes."

"She loved you."

"I know," I said.

"I mean, she really loved you."

"I know."

The rest didn't need to be said. I had loved Claire just as much as she had loved me-that wasn't why I was an idiot.

I was an idiot because I hadn't done anything about it.

Standing, I thanked Sebastian for his time and, yes, his trust. "Keep it in a safe place," I half joked, referring to the envelope. He smiled, although I could tell there was something else on his mind.

He hesitated, falling silent. "Trevor, maybe you should sit down again," he said.

Slowly, I did. "What is it?" I asked.

"I wasn't going to tell you," he began to explain, almost as if he were disappointed in himself. "Now I realize that would be wrong."

CHAPTER 38.

THERE WASN'T a cloud in the sky when I walked out of the Times building, but I was in a complete fog. Dense. Thick. Furious.

All I could see was the next step in front of me, nothing more. I knew where I was ultimately heading, except I couldn't remember making the decision to go there. Or, for that matter, either of the two stops beforehand. It was a bit like sleepwalking. In the middle of my worst possible nightmare.

"Can I help you find something?" asked the sales clerk at the Innovation Luggage store at the intersection of Sixth Avenue and Fifty-Seventh Street. He was a blur standing right in front of me. His voice sounded like a distant radio station.

"I need a small duffel bag that comes with a lock," I said.

"A lock, huh?" he repeated, tapping his chin in thought. "Combination or key?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Will you be flying with it? The TSA folks can-"

"Really," I said. "It doesn't matter."

He led me over to a wall display of cubbyholes that looked like a tic-tac-toe board. Before he could even make a suggestion, I saw what I needed.

"The one in the middle," I said.

He took down the bag and I gave it a quick once-over. It was black, medium-sized, with a small padlock-the key for it, along with a spare, hanging from a zip tie around one of the handles.

"Yeah, I'll take it," I said.

"Do you want it in its box or would you like this one?" the clerk asked. By this point, it was abundantly clear that what I really wanted was to get the h.e.l.l out of there.

"This one's fine," I said, already reaching for my wallet.

He spun the price tag around. "You're in luck. It's on sale."

"Good," I grunted, or something to that effect, as I pulled out my Amex.

I didn't care about the price. I also didn't care about using a credit card. The charge-and my location-could be traced in an instant. Even quicker than an instant. It would be like drawing a straight line to me, then lighting it like a fuse.

So be it.

Trevor, maybe you should sit down again. There's something you need to know ...

"Are you all right?" asked the clerk. He certainly didn't think so. It was bad enough that I had all the charm and charisma of a cinder block. Now I was standing there frozen like one.

"Sorry," I said, handing over my credit card. He ran it and I signed. As he handed me back the receipt, I nodded at the zip tie holding the keys. "Do you have any scissors?"

He glanced around under the counter, finding a pair. "Here, let me," he said, cutting the tie. Then he leaned in as if he were about to whisper some nuclear codes. "Just so you know, that lock really doesn't offer much protection. It's super-easy to open without the key."

"Not if you're a cop," I said.

"Excuse me?"

But I was already halfway out the door. Me and the Fourth Amendment.