Money for Nothing (3 page)

What had brought these defendants from the "federal facility" where they were being held into this courtroom was not the trial, but a hearing as to whether a trial was even possible. The defense argued, and Josh could see the justice in the argument, that it was impossible for a person to defend himself against evidence he wasn't permitted to see or even hear described. The prosecution, speaking for the government, essentially argued that the defendants would get a fair trial because the government could be trusted — would they lie?

Mr. Nimrin appeared by name only the one time, under that photo, but the story itself took up space in the
Post
for ten days, that space becoming briefer and briefer toward the end, then petering out before the judge had given his decision as to whether or not they could all, in a phrase Josh had grown used to in the coverage, "proceed to trial," which made it sound like, after the cocktails, they would go in to dinner.

Nothing else about the trial, or the case, or the defendants ever appeared again, so far as Josh could tell from the
Post's
records. So it seemed unlikely there had actually been a trial. Still, this was clearly what had ended Mr. Nimrin's career, whatever that career had been.

What else had Levrin said about Mr. Nimrin? That he had not been tortured, and that he was not dead. "Just… away. You could say, in retirement."

By the time Josh had gone this far, it was time for lunch; today, an important one. Not in the world of Levrin and Mr. Nimrin, but in the somewhat more real world of Sewell-McConnell. A representative of Amalgamated Pulp, manufacturers of Cloudbank toilet paper, in objecting last week to a mock-up of a print ad, had described the clouds pictured there as looking "like white turds," which, given the nature of the account, had led to some unfortunate wordplay, ruffling the rep's dignity before maturity was reimposed.

As Josh had not himself been guilty of ribaldry on that occasion, and had spearheaded the forces of seriousness, so it had fallen to him to take the rep to lunch and smooth his feathers. It was a thing he was good at, which was one of the reasons he'd been hired by Sewell-McConnell in the first place, and he handled it as well as usual, though in fact he was distracted throughout the lunch by the questions to which he had no answers.

What was the United States Agent? If Mr. Nimrin and Levrin were spies, whom did they work for? If people were being brought into New York because the "operation" had started, what was the operation? What did they want from Josh beyond the use of his apartment?

But the most serious question, and the one that kept him most from concentrating on the job at lunch, was: Why him? Why had they chosen to send him all those checks? Why was he the one they were now activating? If Mr. Nimrin had been his control, back at the beginning, why is it he'd never met the man nor heard his name before in his entire life?

If he'd ever been recruited as an undercover spy, he'd have remembered it. He was sure of that much.

The lunch at last came to an end, with the rep's feathers once more in an unruffled state. They shook hands outside the restaurant, assured each other of their continuing unity in the pursuit of more consumers of Cloudbank, and Josh returned to the office where, apart from a memo about the lunch to Sid Graff, his immediate boss, he again did nothing for Sewell-McConnell but use their computer.

This time, he wanted to know about Cayman Key Bank. He typed the name into a search engine and was somewhat surprised to find that the bank not only existed but had a website. He went there and found an airy world of white and pastels, mostly pale blue and pale green, and suggestions he buy himself a piece of the sun.

Account Holders
was one of the destinations he could click on. He did — and found a place that offered him an opportunity to type in his account number. He'd brought the bankbook along to the office, so he copied the number, which was mostly letters, into the space provided, and noticed that no matter what he typed, another
x
appeared in the box on the screen.

He was then asked his mother's maiden name, which surprised him a lot. How would they know his mother's maiden name? All right; he typed in
Hansforth
, which became
xxxxxxxxx
, and then the screen segued to a place that said, "Welcome to Cayman Key Bank, Mr. Redmont. Please select from the menu below."

He had not given his name. The fourth item on the menu below was
Account Balance
. He clicked on it. The site considered the question, then numbers began to appear in the box to the right of where he'd clicked:
$40,000.00
.

It was real.

THERE WERE DAYS WHEN Josh took the subway home from Sewell-McConnell at the end of the day. Some days, when the weather was good and his spirits were up, he walked. But on days when he felt harried or low or faintly sick or — like this Tuesday, after the
Washington Post
and Cayman Key Bank — all three, there was nothing for it, coming out of the office building on 3rd Avenue in the 40s, but to hail a cab.

It was almost six by the time he came out, having finally done some work for his employer toward the end of the day. The late afternoon sun glared like a dormitory proctor down all the side streets, and the city was full. Since it was July, the city was full mostly of people who didn't speak English or, if they did, spoke it with one of those mashed-potatoes-in-the-mouth twangs. The sidewalks were full of people and the streets were full of vehicles of all sorts. It would surely take longer to get home by taxi than by subway, and would be more expensive as well (not that a man with a bank account in the Cayman Islands would care about
that)
, but it would be soothing. And he felt a need for soothing right now.

The only problem with getting a cab at 6 P.M. on a weekday, of course, was finding a cab. Josh marched to the curb, where other people stood and waved their arms at cabs, and he waved his own arm, and eventually his turn came and the yellow car angled to a stop in front of him. He opened the door, slid in, and somebody slid in right behind him. One of the other people who'd been waving at taxis; got right in after him, shoved him over.

"Hey!" Josh cried. "This is
my
cab."

"I am Mr. Nimrin," the man said, low and fast, still pushing Josh leftward on the seat so he could bring his body in far enough to shut the door.

Josh stared. Mr. Nimrin, now successfully aboard, flashed the profile Josh had been studying in the
Washington Post
, except without the moustache, as he leaned toward the driver to say, "137 Riverside Drive, near 86th Street."

"Wait a minute," Josh said. "That isn't where I live."

"Your place is no doubt under surveillance," Mr. Nimrin told him, and sat back as the cab started forward. "We will talk when we are alone. You will pay for the taxi."

Josh said, "I was told you were retired."

Mr. Nimrin gave a scornful snort. "We shall see," he said. He raised a warning finger. "No talking now."

"My wife will be calling me," Josh said.

"You will call her back," Mr. Nimrin said. "No talking."

So they didn't talk. Uptown and crosstown, through the park at 64th Street and then up Broadway, they were in the middle of heavy honking traffic all the way. This was one of those days when it might have been faster even to
walk
home.

Though home wasn't where he was going — was it?

He took the opportunity of the long ride to study Mr. Nimrin, at first covertly and then openly, as it became clear the man didn't care if he was stared at. That same glower he'd seen in the photo, aimed at the off-camera judge, was still visible in his large-headed sharp-featured profile, though damped down, as though Mr. Nimrin's disapproval of all he saw was so natural to him that he himself hardly remarked on it anymore. He had that eagle's nose, that high gleaming forehead, that powerful shock of black hair. He was older than fifty, perhaps younger than a hundred. He wore a lightweight black suit, white shirt, maroon tie with geometric figures. He didn't look diplomatic enough to be a diplomat, but he certainly had some kind of foreign-office air about him. His accent was quite noticeable, though it didn't interfere with Josh's understanding, and he couldn't tell what Mr. Nimrin's original language might be.

Riverside Drive, high over the Hudson, is peaceful but windy, even in July. The cab stopped at one of the tall broad apartment buildings placed here to take advantage of the view, and Mr. Nimrin impatiently clambered out while Josh paid the fare. Then he levered himself out, the cab fled, and Mr. Nimrin said, "Well, come along."

There was a doorman, who saw them coming and opened the door. Mr. Nimrin ignored him, so Josh did, too, and followed Mr. Nimrin at a left oblique across the gold lobby, not toward the elevators. Mr. Nimrin walked like a man pleased to deliver bad news; a flatfooted heavy tread, arms moving a bit more than necessary at his sides, eyes and face following that eagle beak in a straight line, implacable, ignoring everything to left and right.

On the left wall of the lobby was a door, darker gold, with two white marble steps and a delicate wrought iron railing that led up to it. Mr. Nimrin mounted the steps, pushed open the door, and stepped through, not looking around to see if Josh were still in his wake. He was, and heard a bell ring faintly, somewhere farther ahead, when the door was opened. It sounded again when he let the door snick shut behind himself.

This was a waiting room, windowless, in calming grays and pale greens. Two gray vinyl sofas at right angles faced a square wooden coffee table on which magazines were lined in orderly display. Floor lamps flanked the sofa, beaming gentle illumination upward. Reproductions of Hudson River school paintings were grandly framed on the walls. The carpet was a curly light green that looked like Velcro's gentler cousin.

"Sit there," Mr. Nimrin said, with a shooing gesture at the righthand sofa, while he himself headed for the one on the left.

As they sat, Josh said, "What is this place?"

"A psychiatrist's office," Mr. Nimrin told him. "No one knows I know her. We will not be spied upon here."

Josh said, "So you can tell me—"

"One moment," Mr. Nimrin said, again raising that warning finger. "She will be coming out."

He looked past Josh at the interior door, which obediently opened, and a woman leaned out. She was about sixty, stocky but striking looking, with thick waves of gray hair around a strong-featured face. She wore a high-necked bulky gray sweater and black slacks. She peered past Josh and said, without surprise, "It's you. Are you all right?"

"Fine," he told her. He was curt, but not as though he meant to be insulting.

"I'm with a patient," she said.

"We will be brief," he assured her, which sounded to Josh like a dismissal.

To her, too. 'Take your time," she said, smiled meaninglessly at Josh, and left, closing the door.

"Now," Josh said, "you can tell me what's going on."

"That I cannot," Mr. Nimrin corrected him. "What I can tell you is that it all depends on you." He looked more stern than ever. "What you do," he said, "over the next days and perhaps weeks, will determine whether or not we are both terminated."

"YOU DON'T MEAN FIRED," Josh said. "Fired
at
, perhaps," Mr. Nimrin told him. "In any case, dead."

"But… why?" Josh made vague hand movements. "Why am I even
in
this?"

"I must accept some of the blame for that," Mr. Nimrin said.

"Really?"

"You shouldn't be in it at all," Mr. Nimrin said. "It was very stupid of those people to activate you. What's the point? You're an amateur. You have no training. You're a lamb led to slaughter."

"Oh, God." Josh pressed his palms onto the vinyl sofa seat on both sides of himself, praying for balance. A lamb led to slaughter? Mr. Nimrin didn't look like a man who made jokes.

"If it were only you," Mr. Nimrin went on, "I would never concern myself. Let them embarrass themselves, having put some babe in the woods through the meat grinder."

Meat grinder — it was getting worse. Josh said, "Mr. Levrin didn't seem—"

"
Mister
Levrin?" Mr. Nimrin snorted. "Levrin is an idiot," he said, "as even you probably noticed, but he is also savage and ruthless and merciless. I have seen him at his bloody work."

"Oh, have you?" Josh said. This is a nightmare, he told himself. I've fallen asleep at my desk. If I don't wake up, I'll be in trouble.

Big trouble.

"Levrin," Mr. Nimrin was going on, "is capable of the kind of cruelty only possible to those with absolutely no imagination."

Trying to remember back to that encounter at the ferry terminal, trying to remember Levrin's face and words and manner, Josh said, "He didn't
seem
like that kind of person."

"Of course not," Mr. Nimrin said. "If he
seemed
like that kind of person, he'd be no use to anyone at all. It's because he can seem like no more than the idiot he is that he is effective."

"But—" Floundering, Josh tried to find firm footing somewhere in all this. "You said, you're partly to blame, for me being in whatever this is."

"Well, of course." Mr. Nimrin shook an irritated head. "I'm the one who recruited you. But no one was ever supposed to make actual
use
of you."

"What do you mean, you recruited me?" Here at last, surprisingly enough, there
was
firm footing. "I've never seen you before in my life."

"Well, yes, you did," Mr. Nimrin said. "You wouldn't remember. I was in disguise."

Disguise? Josh almost laughed. How could a powerful presence like Mr. Nimrin disguise himself? Fake beards and beauty marks, humpbacks. He already had an accent

But then the urge to laugh faded, to be replaced by a fresh fear. Why were they in this psychiatrist's office, who "they" didn't know Mr. Nimrin knew? Was he just crazy, after all? Was this some paranoid fantasy? But if so, whose?