Free The Rule of Nine by Steve Martini Page A

case, a pair of glasses fall out and clatter onto the top of the desk. She drops the strap from her shoulder and turns the briefcase upside down, shaking it to show me that it’s empty. Then she slides it across the desk toward me. “Go ahead, check it yourself. I want you to be comfortable. And I’m not wearing any electronics if that’s what you think. You can pat me down. I’ll even take my clothes off if you like.”
    â€œWhat then? Scream rape? No thanks. Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that I don’t trust you. I’m a criminal lawyer after all. I’m used to being lied to. People lie to me all the time. Some of my best clients lie to me. But then, that’s all part of the lawyer-client thing. You expect a client to lie, at least from time to time. It’s like the husband-wife thing, when one of them tells the other they’re not having an affair. But we’re not married and you’re not a client, so we don’t have a thing. We’re strangers, so it’s much trickier trying to figure out when I’m being lied to and why. Do you understand? I know it’s confusing, but trust me on this.”
    â€œYou haven’t answered my question,” she says.
    â€œYou noticed. I’m sorry to tell you this, but if you keep asking I’m afraid you’re gonna have to get used to it. I am better at asking questions.”
    â€œGo ahead. What do you want to know?” she says.
    â€œWho sent you here?”
    â€œNo one.”
    â€œWhat makes you think I know anything?” I ask.
    â€œNow who’s lying?” she says. “Okay, I’ll tell you. We don’t think. We know,” she says. “Your name, along with all the details, was given to me.”
    â€œBy whom?”
    â€œThat I can’t tell you. But I can guarantee you that the information I have is solid—direct from God’s lips to my ear,” she says. “You wouldn’t be revealing any secrets to me if that’s what you’re afraid of. In fact, I suspect we know things you don’t. We know that you were on the truck, along with Mr. Diggs and a woman from Costa Rica whose name we have. We know that the device was of Russian design, gun type, using highly enriched uranium, and that it dated to the Cuban missile crisis, 1962 to be exact. At some point it became a loose nuke in the hands of Middle Eastern terrorists. We know that a defector from the Russian military with technical skills armed the device either when, or before, it was delivered to Coronado and that this man was shot and killed on the street outside the naval base. We know that you were there when he was shot and that you witnessed it. How am I doing so far?”
    â€œIf you know so much, why don’t you go to the press?” I ask her.
    â€œBecause we can’t. It would jeopardize our source of information. This is a valuable and continuing asset that we cannot afford to lose. The source is irreplaceable, not just with regard to weapons of mass destruction, but other weapons systems as well. Precision-targeted high-tech stuff that we believe presents unacceptable risks to civilized societies in the future. If we said anything, they would know where the information came from. Andeven if they didn’t, the source would never talk to us again. But you have independent knowledge. You were there. That’s why we need you and Mr. Diggs to come forward.”
    â€œIt’s an interesting story,” I tell her. “But I can’t help you.”
    â€œMy god, what did they do to you?” She reaches for her briefcase and pulls it back across the desk. “I mean, to put the fear of federal wrath into you so deeply that you’re willing to cooperate in covering up a major nuclear incident? They must have done something horrible. You poor man,” she says. She starts to load her stuff back into the briefcase.
    â€œAppealing to my sense of manhood