The Rule of Nine Read Online Free PDF Page B

news travels fast. News of a terror attack travels at the speed of light.
    It began as a routine homicide case, the murder of Emerson Pike, a somewhat secretive old man who dealt in rare coins and whose past seemed shrouded. To the police the motive was obvious, theft. And when Katia was arrested with coins belonging to the victim in her possession, her guilt was self-evident. But then no one knew of Pike’s background, except the federal government, and they weren’t talking. In the end it was history that ensnared us, Pike’s past, and that of Katia’s grandfather, the old Russian, and the specter of the Cuban missile crisis.
    When it was all over, the feds held us for five days. They picked up Harry and planted the three of us, Herman, Harry, and me, in separate cells at the federal lockup in San Diego so that we couldn’t talk and compare notes. Then they interrogated us around the clock.
    When I asked them if they were going to read me my Miranda rights and allow me to have legal counsel, I was told I was not a suspect, at least not yet. When I demanded that they either arrest me or let me go, they ignored me. After conferring with his lawyers, Thorpe then told me I was a material witness. He intended to hold me as long as necessary, for my own safety.
    Because of the circumstances, they couldn’t be sure whether they had all the perpetrators. If some of them were still at large, they might try to silence me. At least that was the story.
    What they wanted was information. Short of violating attorney-client confidences, I told them everything I knew. At one point they brought in experts. Whether they were military or CIA wasn’t clear. There were no introductions. The questioning went on until I lost track of time. Inside, with no windows, I couldn’t tell whether it was night or day, or how long I had been there. I wondered about Harry and Herman and assumed that they were getting the same treatment.
    Once they were certain they had squeezed us for every thing they were going to get, they brought Harry, Herman, and me together in a room. There Thorpe, flanked by a lawyer from the Justice Department in Washington, warned us in the strongest possible terms to say nothing to anyone about the events leading up to the assault on the naval base. In particular, they told us not to mention the explosive device. They told us that we could be charged criminally if any of the information we had given them turned out to be knowingly false.
    Given the stress we were under, the multitude of details, and the fact that none of us could be sure whether our stories conformed entirely, truth was largely in the eye of the beholder. It was the sword Thorpe held over our heads to assure our silence.
    Before they let us go, Thorpe warned us that the press was waiting outside. He offered to take us out through the basement and give us a ride. At first, I turned him down, but then he showed us the photograph.
    It was a picture taken that afternoon of the area outside our law office. A sea of cameras and lights blocked the entire sidewalk in front of the Brigantine restaurant, near the arched entrance to Miguel’s Concina where our office was located. There were satellite trucks double-parked on the street out front from one edge of the photograph to the other.
    He explained that they were also camped out on the front lawn at my house, and that the media trolls had found Harry’s apartment and Herman’s place as well.
    I asked about my daughter.
    The FBI had taken Sarah out of the house that afternoon. She was fine. They were providing protection. They had a place for us, a kind of “safe house” near Balboa Park, until they could figure out some way to get the media heat off us. We didn’t have to accept his offer. It was up to us. We could go to a hotel, but there was no assurance that the press wouldn’t find us. It was clear Thorpe didn’t want us in front of the cameras. There