The Cain File (12 page)

“Going back? To Ecuador?” Maggie asked, more than a little surprised. And more excited, even though the subject was off limits, as far as work—and her future—were concerned.

“Not exactly,” John Rae said. “But close enough. I could really use your help.”

“Help you how?”

“I can’t say exactly until you’ve been officially cleared. But it would involve your financial expertise. Working your electronic magic. Another payoff. This time, though, you can manage your end remotely—from here. No physical risks.” He gave her an encouraging smile.

A ripple of disappointment washed through her. If she wanted to have an effect on what happened to Kacha and Tica, she’d be much better served down there. And besides, she didn’t like the idea of unknown assailants trying to pick her up and get away with it.

“What’s the matter?”

“I thought you’d need me to go along.”

“Hell no.” John Rae picked up his coffee. “With your photo burned into the brain of every
poli
in the country?”

“You know, the remote computer thing looks great in the movies—but it doesn’t work that way in real life.”

“We’re getting ahead of ourselves.” John Rae checked his watch. “You need to meet my handler.”

“And who might that be?”

John Rae shook his head. “I’ve already told you too much, Agent de la Cruz. I’d like you to meet him. Tonight. Eight o’clock. I’ll even let you pick the restaurant.”

The doorbell buzzed.

“Just a minute.” The doorbell droned three more times before she could set the coffee pot on the tile counter and get to the intercom. “Who is it, already?”

“Your little
lique
, baby. Ready for round two.”

Seb. Half in the bag by the sound of his voice. Maggie let out a sigh, then saw more red—a shade darker than the pink lipstick on the rim of the wine glass in her trash. “What happened to rehearsal?”

“Hey,
chichi
, I wanted to see
you.
”

“Well,
chichi
, I wanted
you
to go to rehearsal.”

“What’s your problem? Let me in, already.”

“I’m busy.”

“Busy how? Let me in. I’ll get my ax, go to rehearsal.”

“Like they’re going to be waiting for you, after all this time? Just go away, Seb. I’m not happy with you today. Not at all.”

Then she heard Seb talking to someone downstairs over the intercom. “Can you let me in?” she heard him say. “I forgot my key.”

Jesus H. She pushed the buzzer, left the door ajar, went back into the living room.

“Bad time?” John Rae said.

“Maybe,” Maggie said.

John Rae stood up. Seb’s boots stamped up the stairs.

“What do I have to say to change your mind, Maggie?” John Rae said. “About helping out on the op?”

“Take me along.”

“Besides that?”

The front door opened.

“Hey,” Seb said, a little breathless, obviously surprised to see that Maggie had company. Male company.

“Seb, this is John Rae.”

Seb sauntered into the hallway, eyes narrowing, looking tight around the shoulders. He jammed his hands in the pockets of his beat-up leather jacket.

Maggie saw their eyes meet, a little too long. Two dogs, out on the street, one about to lose it.

“Nice guitar,” John Rae said.

“Yeah,” Seb said. “What’s it doing, leaning up against the wall like that?”

“Not much, by the looks of things.”

“It’s bad for the neck.” Sebastian slurred the
it
’
s
and
bad
.

“Sorry about that,” Maggie said, heading over to the window. “That’s my fault.”

“I’ve mentioned that before,” Seb said. “That it’s bad for the neck.”

“I guess I didn’t hear you.” Maggie picked the Les Paul up by the neck, deliberately, strings tinkling in a haphazard thrum. She brought the guitar back, still holding it by the neck. Held it out to Seb. “Here you go, sweetheart.”

Seb glared at Maggie, took the guitar, leaned it against the wall by the entryway. The guitar slid a centimeter or two to one side.

John Rae drained his coffee, plonked it on the coffee table. “I better run.”

“Where do you know Maggie from?” Seb said to John Rae.

“I’ll let Maggie explain that to you.”

“I’m not asking her.”

John Rae suppressed a smile.

“Through work,” Maggie interrupted. “Now lighten up, Seb.”

“Oh, the stuff you can’t ever talk about?”

“Seb. Enough. You’re drunk. Or whatever.”

John Rae strolled over to the doorway. Seb blocked his path.

“No, I’m not,” Seb said, not budging.

“Thanks for the coffee, Maggie,” John Rae said, obviously waiting for Seb to move aside.

“You bet,” she said, not taking her eyes off Seb.

Seb’s hands were still planted in the pockets of his leather jacket.

“I need to get by,” John Rae said.

“What do you think I am?” Seb said.

There was a moment of tense silence. Somewhere out on Valencia Street, the sounds of a truck backing up were audible by an incessant beeping.

“I don’t really know,” John Rae said to Seb, not smiling. “And it’s really none of my business.”

“Damn straight.”

“Seb,” Maggie said. “Take your damn guitar and get out. We’ll talk when you’ve had your sixth birthday.”

Seb said to John Rae, “You take me for some kind of fool, man?”

John Rae’s mouth flattened into a line. “I think you might have gotten your chain wrapped around the axle. I worked with Maggie on a project. I stopped by to ask a favor.”

“What kind of
favor
?”

“Really?” John Rae let an irritated laugh flutter from his lips. “It’s work. And it’s confidential.”

“You mean it’s pure
bullshit
. I know what kind of favor you’re after.”

John Rae rubbed his face. “If you think she would even give me the time of day, you’re crazy. Besides, she’s got class. And you’ve just insulted her about nine ways. Now, how about you move aside and let me out of here before you really do make a fool of yourself?”

Seb stood rooted to the spot, feet apart, in a ready stance. “What is that little outfit you’ve got on? Seersucker? You going to the Kentucky Derby?”

“Good one.” John Rae turned to Maggie. “You OK here?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Sorry about all this. I’ll talk to you later.”

John Rae nudged Seb gently to one side, patting him on the arm.

Seb erupted, shoved John Rae against the wall. “I asked you a question, pal.”

John Rae regained his balance, stood back up. “
Pal
?” He straightened his jacket. “I don’t think we’re quite pals yet. But want some advice? Go home, sleep off your liquid lunch, come back later and apologize. Better still, call first.”

They stood there, glaring at each other. John Rae’s stare hardened.

Seb stood to one side.

“Right.” John Rae stepped around. A few moments later, he was bounding down the stairs.

“Who the fuck was that?” Seb said to Maggie.

“Someone who could have thrown you through that wall.” Maggie stormed over to the sofa, hauled the guitar case off the floor behind it. “Here. Take your damn guitar—that you still owe me for, by the way—and get the hell out of
my
apartment.”

Seb’s tone shifted down. “Maggs—I just want to know what’s going on.”

“This is what’s going on.” She threw the case on the floor in front of Seb, where it made more than a little racket. “Take your guitar, go pawn the damn thing and buy some more nose candy, I don’t care. But I want you both out of here—
now
.”

Seb blinked. “Hey, I’m sorry,
chichi
.”

“Take it.” She picked the guitar up by the neck. “Or out it goes.” She headed to the open window.

“OK!” Seb dashed over, caught up to Maggie, put his hand on her arm. “OK!” He took the guitar, gently, went back, picked up the case, put the guitar away. “I think you might need to calm down.”

Maggie folded her arms over her chest. “You’re still here.”

Seb stood, guitar cased, now in hand. “Where am I supposed to stay?”

“Why not ask the girl with the hot-pink lipstick?”

There was a pause. Seb looked down. “I’ll call you?” he said quietly.

“Where’s my key?”

“I lost it.”

She’d have to get the damn locks changed. “Just go, then.”

Seb nodded, turned, left.

When Maggie heard the front door finally slam downstairs, she shut the door to her apartment. Leaned against it. What was the matter with her taste in men? She needed to clear her head.

In the bedroom, she threw off her jeans and sweater and donned her turquoise split-side wet-look running shorts, pink ASICS, and a cropped sleeveless foil tank top. She tucked a twenty-dollar bill and her apartment key into the shoe wallet woven into the laces of her right shoe. No socks. Didn’t need them. The shoes had been through a recent marathon and were broken in just right, which meant they were about to fall apart. The right toe box was taped over with duct tape and the seams were pulling loose. Trail dust blackened the mesh. She remembered running through the Andes as a child, barefoot, and the feeling of the earth on her bare soles. She wished she’d had these when she ran through Quito a few days back, escaping the “accident” at the U.S. embassy.

Clasping her hair back in a ponytail, she tied her lucky Rockabilly red headband and headed down, taking the stairs three at a time.

Out on Valencia, the air was full of Spanish and the honking of traffic, although the telltale signs of gentrification were everywhere: high-end German cars parked next to beat-up jalopies, young hipsters waiting outside a new sushi restaurant that had opened last month, checking their smartphones, while an old Chicano selling oranges in string bags stood out in the middle of traffic. But if she closed her eyes for just a second, it was still the old Mission and she could almost be in Madrid, Buenos Aires, or Lima. She opened her eyes and broke into an easy stride. The savory tang of the
taquería
on the corner assailed her nose as she ran by.

Two hours later, dripping with sweat, Maggie reentered her apartment building on Valencia and jogged lazily upstairs to the third floor. She’d made it to Fort Funston, a former World War II gun emplacement on the cliffs, where hang-gliders hovered over the Pacific Ocean shining off a muted sun. Their freedom above the bluffs propelled Kacha and her cousin Tica to the forefront of Maggie’s thoughts, because, unlike those hang-gliders, Tica was the opposite of what they were—free.

Before heading for the shower, she squeezed half a dozen oranges and drank a third of the pulpy juice down, set the glass on the hardwood floor in the hallway, while she got her yoga mat out and did her stretches. Long runs could turn you into a musclebound geek if you weren’t careful. First Maggie did the splits, all the way down. Yes, she was still that flexible. She savored the long stretch and let her skeleton crack into it. Then she flipped over onto her back, legs all the way up, one ankle behind her head. Relaxed into that. Then the other, both ankles crossed behind her neck. The Yoganidrasana sleep pose. It felt good to let her entire body just release, as she stared at the Edwardian curlicues on the ceiling.

Drove Seb crazy, too.

Deep breaths and she unwound from her position, back on her feet.

Standing in the hallway now, guzzling more OJ, the 5x7 padded prepaid envelope on the stand stared her in the face. She’d forgotten all about it.

Setting her glass down she picked up the envelope, ripped it open. Peered inside. A blue flash drive. She retrieved it, checked the envelope again. No note. Just the drive.

She took it, along with her juice, to her office, which had an electronic keypad on the fire door that was molded to resemble wood. She typed in a ten-digit key code. The heavy-duty deadbolt gave an electronic whirr and the lock clicked open.

Maggie’s office was a seven-by-nine room with dark burgundy walls, a high white ceiling, and hardwood floors. With escalating rents, most San Franciscans would have been ecstatic to share this room with another person who bathed once a week. But Maggie chose to keep her large flat all to herself. Even with rent control, she paid a pretty penny. Her sanity thanked her. And the need for security sanctioned it.

Maggie’s ’puter lair was cooking with two machines chugging away under the desk lid mounted to the wall under a window that faced a dismal light well. Wires snaked here and there from a 650-watt power supply plugged into a battery backup. Router lights flashed blue and green. The one wall was adorned with handbills from her travels. Bullfights, which she wasn’t crazy about. Flamenco performances, which she was.

Her cave. Sanctuary. Some might question her need for so much computational power right where she slept, but if Hillary could get away with it, what not her?

There was a photo in a silver frame on her work surface: a black and white of Seb caressing his Les Paul—
that
Les Paul—looking like a lion onstage at El Rio, ripping out a solo. Maggie considered tossing it in the trash, but settled for turning it face down and shoving it back under the window next to a JavaScript manual. She pulled a wireless keyboard onto her lap, dialed into her server. Once she got past the two-stage authentication, she plugged the flash drive into a USB port in a standalone, non-networked machine. Her sanitizer box, used to shake out any suspicious files. She used two different virus checkers on the file before she examined the contents.

A single file:
dita.mpeg.
A movie. She opened the file with a movie viewer.

It began with outdoor footage in a jungle clearing. Parrots squawked in the distance as a group of men in hardhats stood around a white mechanical drill about ten feet tall. It was in motion, pumping up and down into the earth. The shakiness of the video and the distance of the group suggested that the scene was being filmed covertly.

A crude caption across the bottom of the video read: “Yasuni site 22A” and listed a date of approximately one month ago.

The engineers were primarily Anglo, with the red Commerce Oil globe emblems visible on their hardhats. The drill stopped and one man with a substantial paunch removed a three-foot long cylinder from the drill. The video cut to an engineer in blue plastic gloves laying the same metal tube on a field worktable. He opened the tube lengthwise to reveal a column of moist dirt a few inches thick.