The Partner Read Online Free PDF

the pain, or at least live with it for the moment. The electrodes on his chest were smoldering and cutting deeper into his skin.
    “How long did you stay there?”
    “Three months.”
    “So you left there around July of ’92?”
    “Something like that.”
    “And where did you go next?”
    “Portugal.”
    “Why Portugal?”
    “Had to go somewhere. It’s a nice place. Never been there.”
    “How long were you there?”
    “Coupla months.”
    “Then where?”
    “São Paulo.”
    “Why São Paulo?”
    “Twenty million people. A wonderful place to hide.”
    “How long did you stay there?”
    “A year.”
    “Tell me what you did there.”
    Patrick took a deep breath, then grimaced when he moved his ankles. He relaxed. “I got lost in the city. I hired a tutor and mastered the language. Lost a few more pounds. Moved from one small apartment to another.”
    “What did you do with the money?”
    A pause. A flinch of the muscles. Where was the wretched little chrome lever? Why couldn’t they continue chatting about the chase and lay off the money?
    “What money?” he asked, with a passable effort at desperation.
    “Come on, Patrick. The ninety million dollars you stole from your law firm and its client.”
    “I told you. You got the wrong guy.”
    Guy suddenly yelled at the door. It opened instantly and the rest of the Americans rushed in. The Brazilian doctor emptied two more syringes into Patrick’s veins, then left. Two men huddled over the device in the corner. The tape recorder was turned on. Guy hovered over Patrick with the chrome lever in an upright position, scowling and angry and even more determined to kill him if he didn’t talk.
    “The money arrived by wire to your law firm’s account offshore in Nassau. The time was exactly ten-fifteen, Eastern Standard. The date was March 26, 1992, forty-five days after your death. You were there, Patrick, looking fit and tanned and posing as someone else. We have photos taken from the bank’s securitycamera. You had perfect forged papers. Shortly after the money arrived it was gone, sent by wire to a bank in Malta. You stole it, Patrick. Now, where is it? Tell me, and you’ll live.”
    Patrick took a last look at Guy, and a last glance at the lever, then he closed his eyes tightly, braced himself, and said, “I swear I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “Patrick, Patrick—”
    “Please don’t do it!” he begged. “Please!”
    “This is only level three, Patrick. You’re halfway there.” Guy pushed the lever down, and watched the body bolt and straighten.
    Patrick screamed with no restraint, a scream so fierce and horrible that Osmar and the Brazilians froze for a second on the front porch. Their conversation stopped in the darkness. One of them offered a silent prayer.
    Down the road, a hundred yards away, a Brazilian with a gun sat by the dirt trail and watched for approaching cars. None were expected. The nearest dwelling was miles away. He too offered a small prayer when the screaming started again.

Four
    It was either the fourth or fifth call from the neighbors that sent Mrs. Stephano over the edge, and it also forced Jack to tell his wife the truth. The three men in dark suits loitering outside the car parked in the street directly in front of their house were FBI agents. He explained why they were there. He told her most of the Patrick story, a serious breach of professional etiquette. Mrs. Stephano never asked questions.
    She didn’t care what her husband did at the office. She did, however, hold some rather strong feelings about what the neighbors might think. This was, after all, Falls Church, and, well, people would talk.
    She went to bed at midnight. Jack napped on the sofa in the den, rising every half-hour to peek through the blinds and see what they were doing out there. He happened to be asleep at 3 A.M. when the doorbell rang.
    He answered it in his sweatsuit. Four of them were at the door, one of whom he immediately