Nor Can I Deny

65.

Having seen enough to manufacture sufficient consent, I ask Vi to delete the files. Not just delete but erase and ensure that no one will have, gain, hack or buy access to them. I advise her that the quality and depth of this portfolio is her ticket to ride and that it needs to be protected by all necessary means and at all cost. I am reminded of her age, but still somewhat startled by her ’no duh’ response. 

After a few keystrokes - she commands the keyboard as a classical pianist does with the linear eighty-eights - she taps the laptop closed and pushes it to the center of the table. She gives me the ‘what’s next?’ look and stands to stretch, bending backwards and reaching towards the industrial formica ceiling tiles. As she does the guard stands with her to foil any Houdini-like attempt at escape. Always the ventilation ducts I recall from a hundred detective paperbacks and b-grade movies. 

“We’re done here,” I announce, “please inform the warden that I would appreciate a quick recap conversation.” 

The guard counters with “I will have to return the prisoner to her cell before we do that.” 

Not wanting to argue policy at this point I begrudgingly agree, adding in a side-note sotto voce to Vi that she should comply, be patient and that the next move shouldn’t be long in coming. 

“Should I pack my bags?” she says in what is now becoming a familiar partially sarcastic and slightly humorous tone. 

The guard outfits Vi with her aluminum security accessories and herds her towards the door as the IT guy comes in to reclaim the laptop. I glance at Vi and she gives me the reassuring ‘we’re good’ nod. 

Once the room is empty, I return to the desk and jot a few items in my pocket notebook. Satisfied with the logged details and their random initial ramifications, I take a sip of water and close my fatigued and heavy eyes. I smirk with the foreknowledge that every time I do so……..the guard returns and says the warden will see me now. 

He is a bitter, worn-out ex-army-turned-bureaucrat portly white guy in a cheap crumpled brown suit. But this is his kingdom and he is the King. I refrain from comment on the pictures hanging on his office walls of combat units, trophy fish, golfing foursomes and ex-presidents. I bite my tongue at the black and white of him shaking hands with tricky Dick Nixon. 

He stands, extends his hand, the same one that shook the hand of a president who resigned the office in humiliation because he felt he truly was above the law, and asks if I am finished with my ‘little witch hunt.’ As much as I want to break his nose I grip his hand and reply that I am. 

“If I could have access to my cell phone I think we can have this ‘little witch hunt’ wrapped up in a few minutes.” 

After an agonizing couple of seconds watching him chew his gums and make disgusting animal-like lip movements, he tells me I can go to security at the entrance and retrieve my phone and weapon. I cordially thank hm and turn to leave, ending the exchange with a curt, “I will be back shortly with instructions on the release of Ms Hayes.” His expression does not change but I can see toxic acidic gas reach critical mass at eye level. 

I claim my phone and Glock then walk the short distance through the grounds, out of the gate and into the parking lot. I sit in the Expedition and take a series of deep diaphragmatic breaths. I recheck my notes and speed-dial TOM. 

“Convince me,” he says without the curtesy of a greeting, formal or otherwise. 

“We have enough to barter, more actually, she has a gold-mine of incriminating lawyer-proof documents.” I feel no need to further embellish so I go for the win, “I recommend taking the deal. But with a small caveat.” 

TOM: “How small?”

“I think the smart play here is to offer her release to my custody. We play her back into the Axis as a mole and see how far up their chain we can climb. It’s a gamble, we could take what we have on the guy they call Mr Big, who is in a coma, or gamble on the grand prize. Nobody in their organization knows what she has, where she is or the intel she has given us. The initial goal was to plant Saunders, and then me, but this gal has a…well…the…”

TOM: “The ‘it’ factor?”

“Yes.”

TOM: “They know she was arrested in the raid. Why would they buy the fact that she is suddenly back on the street without a deal from us?”

“Because she escapes and we leak it to the press.” I say forcing false bravado, knowing full well what my part will be in that risky scenario. 

The silence on the other end of the call feels like half-an-eternity. Finally TOM breaks the aural vacuum with chilling clarity. 

TOM: “I cannot confirm this action.” 

I understand the code and terminate the call. 

I sit in the big Ford and say the words aloud as validation: “Nor can I deny.”