City of Saints & Thieves(40)

“I don’t think so. I tried to mix up my route.”

“So . . . what were we able to get?”

“Only about fifteen percent of the hard-drive memory.”

I curse elaborately and look over my shoulder at the elevator shaft opening. I lower my voice, even though I’m pretty sure there’s no way Michael can hear us. “I’m going to have to go back in Greyhill’s office and transmit again, aren’t I?”

“If you want everything, yeah.”

I rub my hand over my head, thinking. “Look,” I say in a whisper. “Michael thinks we got it all—enough to ruin his dad, anyway. That’s how I was able to make a deal with him to get out of that cell. He thinks I won’t release the dirt if he can prove his dad didn’t kill my mother.”

Boyboy blinks at me. “What? Why would you agree to that? Greyhill killed your mom; you’ve always said so.”

Another glance over my shoulder, and then I come in close. “I know, I know. But listen. There was a video, Boyboy. Mr. Greyhill had a camera in his office that recorded everything the night she died.”

“What?” Boyboy gasps. “There was no camera on the network I hacked.”

“I know. It must have been separate. Or it is now. Anyway, the footage from that night is gone. David Mwika took it when he disappeared. But Michael says he knows where Mwika is and can get it.”

“And do you believe him?”

I can’t look Boyboy in the face and tell him Michael got his information from his father. It sounds too ludicrous. “Yeah,” I say. “I mean, we’ve got time, right? Even after I get the data, you need a few days to decrypt everything. Think about it, Boyboy. A video. Proof, once and for all, that Greyhill did it.”

“So where is Mwika?”

I sit back. “Michael won’t tell me. He thinks I’ll bail.” I incline my head. “He’s right, of course . . .”

Boyboy puts up both hands to stop me. “Let me make sure I understand. You made a deal where Mr. Omoko may be forced to wait for his money while you play detective?”

“No. Omoko has already agreed to wait a week while you decrypt everything anyway. And he knows the bank accounts are part of what needs decrypting. I just used the time cushion we already had to make a deal with Michael—and also, you know, I thought I might need to get back into Greyhill’s office. And I was right.”

Boyboy lets all of this sink in. “And what if I had got all of it?”

I avoid his eye. “Well, you didn’t, so stop complaining. I’ll get everything this time. Oh, and I need a new USB thingy. Do you have one? Michael broke the other one.”

Boyboy doesn’t move. “But this deal you’ve made doesn’t change anything, right? You give that reporter the dirt, I hack the bank accounts, money goes to the Goondas, you do whatever it is you’re going to do to Mr. Greyhill that I do not want to know about. Dirt. Money. Blood.”

I gnaw at my fingernail. “One, two, three. As soon as I’ve seen the video.”

“No matter what that video shows. No matter who killed your mom, right? You with me on this?” Boyboy speaks very slowly. “Omoko is expecting his money. If he doesn’t get it, those Goondas are going to kill you. And then they’ll kill me. And then they’ll go back and kill you again just to make sure you got the message.”

“I know. The plan hasn’t changed. The video is going to show that Mr. Greyhill killed my mom, and then I’ll know for sure, one hundred percent, once and for all.”

Boyboy looks ill. He opens his mouth to argue again, but he’s interrupted.

“Tina.”

Boyboy peers over my shoulder at the elevator shaft. “Is that him?”

I go to the hole. “Shh!” I say, looking down.

Michael’s bright eyes glitter in the light. “Toss me the key!”

“It hasn’t been ten minutes!” I whisper.

Michael points at his watch. “It has.”

I curse under my breath, but go to fish the key out of its hiding place in between the pages of one of my books. I drop it down, not even waiting to see if it hits Michael between his silly green eyes.

I hurry back to Boyboy. “Don’t worry, okay? It’s all going to be fine. Now, quick, before he climbs up here, is there anything worthwhile in that fifteen percent you did get?”

Boyboy still looks sick, but he sits up a little straighter. “There are a couple of juicy nuggets so far.” He touches some gibberish on his screen.

I can no more understand what he’s showing me than read hieroglyphics. “What exactly am I looking at?” I whisper.

“Okay, this is money going into Extracta’s bank accounts from China and Dubai.”

I whistle. “Those are the actual amounts? I don’t know if I can even count that high.”

“That’s all legal. But look at this.” He moves to another page. “Here’s more money going out to some military contractor in South Africa for ‘security advice.’ But it’s, like, a hundred thousand US dollars a pop for so-called consultant fees.”

“So?”

“So the security advice comes in wooden crates that, according to these invoices, weigh several tons.”

“He’s importing something.” I glance over my shoulder, but Michael hasn’t appeared yet. “You think it’s weapons?” I can barely keep the giddiness out of my voice.