"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.</ol>
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 cocked 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 glasses 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</ol>
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 hell 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.
Without just cause and a warrant, my new duffel bag might as well have been Fort Knox with two side pockets and a shoulder strap.
Good thing.
Because I wasn't about to fill that duffel bag with jelly beans.
CHAPTER 39
WALKING INTO a bar with a gun tucked under your shirt is one thing. Doing it in a bank?
One block shy of my Chase branch on the Upper West Side, I dumped the Beretta M9 in a trash can. I didn't need it. Trust me.
"Do you have your key?" asked the safe-deposit box attendant on the lower level.
Maybe the woman picked up on my vibe, or maybe this was how she acted with everyone who came through the bank, but her monotone delivery was music to my ears. There would be no polite chitchat. No delay. In fact, she even had her guard key raised in her hand, ready to go.
Quickly, I reached for my key-sandwiched between the one for my apartment and the one for my office up at Columbia Law-and showed it to her. The irony. I never used to keep it on my key chain. Then, one day, I'd asked Claire about a certain key on hers.
"This way I don't have to remember where I put it," she'd told me.
I never knew what Claire kept in her safe-deposit box. I never asked. That was because I didn't want her asking what I kept in mine.