Enigma (FBI Thriller #21)(94)
“Yes, Saxon is fine. I’m here to end it, Mr. Hainny.”
“End what?” Hainny looked at him blankly, took a step forward to block him. “I don’t know what this is all about but I do know you are overstepping your bounds again, Agent Savich. You shouldn’t be here in the dead of night, you shouldn’t ever be at my home without my invitation. You will not come in unless you tell me right now what you’re doing here, and it better be good.”
“Sergei Petrov is dead.”
Hainny froze, blinked rapidly, then said carefully, “And why is that important? I don’t know a Sergei Petrov. Why would I care if he’s dead? I can’t imagine what you think his death has to do with me.” He straightened his shoulders, getting himself in control again, the chief of staff to the president once more. “I think you should leave now, Agent Savich. I’ll be speaking to the director in the morning and I will tell him of your inexplicable, highly inappropriate behavior.” Hainny stepped back to shut the door.
Savich held out a metal box. “I was going to give this to Saxon, but I realized it would be better if you had it.”
Hainny stared at the box, licked his lips. He stuck out his right hand, then drew it back, shrugged. “A metal box? What is that?”
“It’s exactly what you’re praying it is—the manufactured proof that Saxon murdered Mia Prevost. Agents found it in Petrov’s desk. Of course, you already know all about the contents, Mr. Hainny. I’m sure Petrov called you today, probably gloated since once again, thanks to Manta Ray, he had the box back in his hands.”
Hainny grew very still. He said very slowly, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Agent Savich.” He held out his hand. “Give it to me and I will look at the contents in my own time. Now I want you to get off my property.”
“Mr. Hainny, you are a good liar, you have to be, given your position, but you know as well as I that the contents of this box were being used to blackmail you. The Russians call it kompromat—compromising material they use on each other and, of course, on foreigners, to control them. With you, Petrov succeeded, and he would have continued to, if he still had control of the box. And if he were still alive, of course.
“I’m here at your home, Mr. Hainny, out of courtesy to you. I did not want to have to march into the White House to arrest you. It’s time to end this, sir. It is time for you to speak to me honestly, either here or at the Hoover Building.”
Hainny turned and walked down the wide entrance hall, his slippers slapping on the floor, to the last door on the right. He disappeared inside, flipped on the light switch. Savich followed him into a long narrow room, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves reaching up into shadows. A dark brown sofa sat in front of a dark stone fireplace, and a large mahogany desk dominated the other end of the room. The window behind the desk was covered with heavy, closed draperies. It was a dark room, a room with no color, perfectly suited to Hainny. Savich could picture him hunkering down in this silent, brooding room, weaving his plans in the shadows, deciding how and when to use secrets he had no right to know without compunction to get what he wanted.
Hainny walked to the sideboard, poured himself a glass of whiskey, drank it down, and slowly turned to stare, not at Savich, but at the small, gun-metal steel box he held. “Well, what’s in the box?”
“Saxon’s bloody shirt and T-shirt, several letters from Mia Prevost to Cortina Alvarez, a supposed friend of hers, detailing how Saxon’s behavior had changed, how he was becoming violent, ranting at her, trying to cut her off from her friends, that she was afraid of him, and didn’t know what to do. And of course the pièce de résistance—the knife used to kill her, her dried blood still on the blade, Saxon’s fingerprints no doubt on the handle. In short, more evidence than a prosecutor would need to convict Saxon of murder and send him to prison for life. And naturally, destroy your career as well.”
“There is no such person as Cortina Alvarez!” Finally, a spark of rage.
Savich nodded. “Of course there isn’t. It’s a near-perfect legend created for Sergei Petrov’s bodyguard and longtime lover, Elena Orlov. Are you ready to tell me your side of it now, Mr. Hainny? Ready to tell me the truth?”
Hainny poured himself more whiskey, then walked slowly, like an old man, to the dark brown sofa. He sat down, motioned Savich to sit beside him. He said nothing for a very long time. He sipped at his whiskey, raised the glass to study it. “This is Glenfiddich, not the most expensive, but it’s my favorite. My father introduced me to it on my eighteenth birthday, as I did Saxon.” He laughed. “Saxon hates it.” He paused, rolled the glass around between his palms. “Petrov called me the day after Mia Prevost was murdered, told me he’d done me a favor and taken away all the evidence that Saxon had murdered Mia Prevost from her apartment, as you said, more than enough to send Saxon to prison for life. He sent me photographs of the bloody shirt and T-shirt, the letters, and the knife. He said he’d hide them from the police if I cooperated with him—that was the word he used, cooperated. I asked him what he wanted and he told me what he wanted wasn’t beyond someone in my position, someone with my abilities and reach. He even assured me it was nothing treasonous. He was going to ask me to do only what was necessary to keep my beloved son from prison. And now he was sure I had the motivation I needed.” Hainny fell silent.