Poisonfeather (Gibson Vaughn #2)(41)
“How much money?”
“Something in the seven figures, certainly.”
“Hmm.” Merrick studied his cuticles. “That’s very generous of you.”
An interesting reaction, to say the least. A starving man would dance for a dollar. For a million, a starving man would do almost anything. Even a man with a million dollars would sit up at the chance to double his money. But Merrick wasn’t dancing, hadn’t even asked what the money was for. The offer of a million dollars had barely registered, which meant two things, only one of which pleased Fa. First, it meant that Merrick wasn’t a starving man at all. He had money. Enough that a million dollars hadn’t tempted him, not even for a moment. That was problematic, because what did a man like Charles Merrick care about besides money? Second, it meant that if Merrick had money, then the American government had not seized all his assets as they had claimed. Why? And why had they lied about it? Fa thought he knew the answer to that but knew with certainty that he would learn nothing more from Merrick today.
He stood and thanked a stunned Merrick for his time.
“That’s it?” Merrick asked. “What about this seven figures? Aren’t you going to stay and tell me what that’s about?”
“As if that would do any good.”
“Well, you’re the oddest visitor I’ve had, I’ll hand you that.”
“I’ll see you again. Good luck upon your release.”
Fa left Merrick at the table and went through the exit procedures. It was raining lightly when he left the prison, but he hardly noticed. The rain felt good, and he smiled at what he’d learned from Merrick’s behavior. Without question, Merrick had traded something valuable to his government, and in exchange the Americans had permitted him to plead out to a lighter sentence and keep some of his assets.
It had to be Poisonfeather.
What else could that valuable “something” be? Fa could imagine how it had played out. Looking at twenty years in prison, Merrick had sold out his source in China’s government to the CIA. And the CIA had made Merrick’s mole their own. It would have been a simple matter for the CIA to flip Merrick’s source, turning him into Poisonfeather. Selling strategic investment secrets to Merrick Capital would have earned the traitor a date with a firing squad. The very threat of such exposure would have ensured Poisonfeather’s loyalty to the CIA ever since.
This was Fa’s way back. If he learned the identity of Poisonfeather, not even Zhi could prevent Fa’s return to grace.
Merrick would give him Poisonfeather’s name. Not now, of course. First, Fa had to guide Merrick into a more agreeable frame of mind. Once Merrick was starving, he would dance. He would dance for Fa and sing him a pretty song in the bargain.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Charles Merrick’s impromptu sit-down with Agent Ogden hadn’t rattled him until the visit from Lee Wulff. The man calling himself Wulff spoke with no discernible accent, but Merrick recognized him as a Chinese national. And that scared him. Suddenly Ogden’s paranoia didn’t seem quite so paranoid. Merrick had considered notifying Ogden directly but didn’t trust the CIA agent not to overreact. If Ogden had any reason to believe that the Chinese were onto him, mightn’t he make good on his threat to rendition Merrick? Why take the risk? No, better to handle this himself. Once he was free, he’d have more than enough money to protect himself.
All this fuss over one magazine interview. It boggled the mind. Still, Merrick allowed that perhaps the interview hadn’t been the best idea. Although, it would have been fine if that witch from Finance hadn’t goaded him. There ought to be a law, he thought sourly. But the situation was salvageable . . . if only he could make a phone call.
That was a problem, because it wasn’t the sort of call that could be made from the prison pay phones. The prison didn’t listen to every outgoing call, but you never could be sure. After his early-morning visitor, Merrick had passed word to Slaski and waited in the library until lunch, but the guard hadn’t shown up, cagey about being seen together out in the open. Merrick knew why, but he still found it infuriating. They had a system and a schedule, and Merrick had never deviated from it. Until now.
Yes, it was a risk, but it was a necessary one, and Slaski could put on his big-boy pants and do as he was told. Yet here he was again, twiddling his thumbs for a second straight afternoon because Slaski was too cowardly to show his face. Ridiculous. Even after eight years in prison, Merrick chafed at being kept waiting. He snapped through the pages of Starting a Business for Dummies and did the only thing he could do—kept waiting.
Either by design or by accident, there was virtually no cellular reception at the prison. The guards complained about it all the time. Apparently, it was an issue in town too. Not a large enough customer base to warrant more cell towers to avoid dead spots. The prison was one such dead spot. However, it was generally agreed that the southwest corner of the prison library offered the best cell phone reception in the prison. A narrow blind behind a column offered a modicum of privacy. Inmates who had deals worked out with guards called it “the booth.” But even the booth only offered two bars, and sometimes no service at all if the technology gods were in a fickle mood.
Merrick looked up as Slaski came in and spoke to the guard on duty. After a minute, the guard stood and left the library. When he was gone, Slaski huffed his way back to Merrick on his stout Polish legs.