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“What’s Plan B?” Alexa asked.
Declan grinned. “Won’t know until we need it.”
25
Nick bit into his burger and watched warily as a seagull plucked a stray french fry off the concrete patio near his foot.
“They’ll take them right out of your hand,” Clay said.
“I know,” Nick said. “I’ve seen it happen.”
The gull wandered toward a table at the edge of the patio where a kid in a stroller was dropping at least as many fries as he could get into his tiny mouth.
“This was a good call,” Clay said, plucking a fried oyster from the box in front of him. “I’m so fucking glad to be outside.”
Nick knew what he meant. Between the long Boston winter and the last two weeks hunkered down in the hotel and the office, executing the press assault against Leland Walker, he’d almost forgotten it was summer.
Sitting outside Sullivan’s, a fast-food joint on Castle Island, he felt like his brain was waking up. The July sky shone like a sapphire overhead, sailboats dotting the water around the island. The kids were out of school, and the place teemed with parents pushing strollers, toddlers holding drippy ice cream cones, and teenagers lounging casually by the water.
He looked around and took a breath. The air was salty and clean, and he felt the mental cobwebs clearing his mind.
“Did you get that info I asked for?” Nick asked.
“Sent it before I left to meet you,” Clay said.
Clay always sent information through MIS’ encrypted network, but Nick preferred to meet him in person as well. Some things weren’t adequately communicated via email.
“Give me the basics. Anything stand out as something I should know?”
“One semi-new hire,” Clay said. “Technically he’s listed as personal security for Frederick, but I’ve got some snaps of him driving Leland, trailing him when he’s out in public.”
“Why is that something I need to know?” Getting information from Clay in an expedient way was like extracting a sore tooth from a child — it took equal parts distraction, patience, and persistence.
Hence the lunch at Sullivan’s.
“Guy’s name is Matis Juska,” Clay said.
“Let me guess: ex-military? Black-ops mercenary?”
“Actually, no.” Clay sucked from the straw in his soda. Nearby an infant started to cry and Nick thought of John Thomas. “The opposite.”
Nick refocused on Clay. “The opposite?”
“The guy is a ghost,” Clay said. “No record of him at all other than a social security number that says he was born in Kentucky, which I can tell you right now is a lie.”
“What makes you say that?” Nick asked, setting down the remains of his burger.
“Had him tailed. It wasn’t easy. Juska’s as jumpy as a cat. But we got some footage, and some audio too. His accent is thick. I’m thinking Eastern European.”
“The social security number’s a fake?”
“That would be my guess,” Clay said. “I’m working on tracing it, but I’m not there yet.”
Hacking government sites was more dangerous than hacking private companies. If caught, Clay could be held indefinitely under the Patriot Act. He always worked more carefully when dealing with them. It took longer, but Nick didn’t blame him.
“How long has he been working for the Walkers?” Nick asked.
“About a month.” Clay took a bite of his hot dog and closed his eyes while he chewed. “Jesus. I forgot how good Sully’s is.”
