The Brethren (21 page)

Finally, he said, “What should I say in my letter to Ricky?”

Wes warmed to the idea immediately. “Well, I would wait, first of all. Wait a month. Let him sweat. If
you hurry back with a response, and with the money, he might think it’s too easy.”

“What if he gets mad?”

“He won’t. He has plenty of time, and he wants the money.”

“Do you see all his mail?”

“We think we have access to most of it.”

Quince was overcome with curiosity. Sitting with a man who now knew his deepest secret, he felt as though he could prod. “How will you stop him?”

And Wes, for no reason he would ever understand, said simply, “We’ll probably just kill him.”

A radiant peace broke out around the eyes of Quince Garbe, a warm calming glow that spread through his tortured countenance. His wrinkles softened. His lips spread into a tiny smile. His inheritance would be safe after all, and when the old man was gone and the money was his he’d flee this life and live as he pleased.

“How nice,” he said softly. “How very nice.”

Chap took the file to a motel room where a leased color copier was waiting with other members of the unit. Three sets were made, and thirty minutes later he was back at the bank. Quince inspected his originals; everything was in order. He carefully relocked the file, then said to his guests, “I think it’s time for you to go.”

They left without shaking hands or the usual goodbyes. What was there to say?

A private jet was waiting at the local airport, whose runway was barely long enough. Three hours after
leaving Quince, Chap and Wes reported to Langley. Their mission was a resounding success.

A summary of the account in the Geneva Trust Bank was procured with a bribe of $40,000 to a Bahamian banking official, a man they’d used before. Boomer Realty had a balance of $189,000. Its lawyer had about $68,000 in his account. The summary listed all the transactions—money wired in, money taken out. Deville’s people were trying desperately to track down the originators of the wires. They knew about Mr. Garbe’s remitting bank in Des Moines, and they knew that another wire of $100,000 had been sent from a bank in Dallas. They could not, however, find out who’d originated that wire.

They were scrambling on many fronts when Teddy summoned Deville to the bunker. York was with him. The table was covered with copies of Garbe’s file and copies of the bank summaries.

Deville had never seen his boss so dejected. York too had little to say. York was bearing the brunt of the Lake screwup, though Teddy was blaming himself.

“The latest,” Teddy said softly.

Deville never sat while in the bunker. “We’re still tracking the money. We’ve made contact with the magazine
Out and About
. It’s published in New Haven, a very small outfit, and I’m not sure if we’ll be able to penetrate. Our contact in the Bahamas is on retainer and we’ll know if and when any wires are received. We have a unit ready to search Lake’s offices on Capitol Hill, but that’s a long shot. I’m not optimistic. We have twenty people on the ground in Jacksonville.”

“How many of our people are shadowing Lake?”

“We’ve just gone from thirty to fifty.”

“He must be watched. We cannot turn our backs. He is not the person we thought he was, and if we lose sight of him for one hour he might mail a letter, or buy another magazine.”

“We know. We’re doing the best we can.”

“This is our highest domestic priority.”

“I know.”

“What about planting someone inside the prison?” Teddy asked. It was a new idea, one hatched by York within the past hour.

Deville rubbed his eyes and chewed his nails for a moment, then said, “I’ll go to work on it. We’ll have to pull strings we’ve never pulled before.”

“How many prisoners are in the federal system?” York asked.

“One hundred thirty-five thousand, give or take,” Deville said.

“Surely we could slip in another, couldn’t we?”

“I’ll give it a look.”

“Do we have contacts at the Bureau of Prisons?”

“It’s new territory, but we’re working on it. We’re using an old friend at Justice. I’m optimistic.”

Deville left them for a while. He’d get called back in an hour or so. York and Teddy would have another checklist of questions and thoughts and errands for him to tend to.

“I don’t like the idea of searching his office on Capitol Hill,” York said. “It’s too risky. And besides, it would take a week. Those guys have a million files.”

“I don’t like it either,” Teddy said softly.

“Let’s get our guys in Documents to write a letter from Ricky to Lake. We’ll wire the envelope, track it, maybe it will lead us to his file.”

“That’s an excellent idea. Tell Deville.”

York made a note on a pad filled with many other notes, most of which had been scratched through. He scribbled to pass the time, then asked the question he’d been saving. “Will you confront him?”

“Not yet.”

“When?”

“Maybe never. Let’s gather the intelligence, learn all we can. He seems to be very quiet about his other life, perhaps it came about after his wife died. Who knows? Maybe he can keep it quiet.”

“But he has to know that you know. Otherwise, he might take another chance. If he knows we’re always watching, he’ll behave himself. Maybe.”

“Meanwhile the world’s going to hell. Nuclear arms are bought and sold and sneaked across borders. We’re tracking seven small wars with three more on the brink. A dozen new terrorist groups last month alone. Maniacs in the Middle East building armies and hoarding oil. And we sit here hour after hour plotting against three felonious judges who are at this very moment probably playing gin rummy.”

“They’re not stupid,” York said.

“No, but they’re clumsy. Their nets have snared the wrong person.”

“I guess we picked the wrong person.”

“No, they did.”

NINETEEN

T
he memo arrived by fax from the Regional Supervisor, Bureau of Prisons, Washington. It was directed to M. Emmitt Broon, the warden of Trumble. In terse but standard language the supervisor said he’d reviewed the logs from Trumble and was bothered by the number of visits by one Trevor Carson, attorney for three of the inmates. Lawyer Carson had reached the point of logging in almost every day.

While every inmate certainly had a constitutional right to meet with his attorney, the prison likewise had the power to regulate the traffic. Beginning immediately, attorney-client visits would be restricted to Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, between the hours of 3 and 6 p.m. Exceptions would be granted liberally for good cause shown.

The new policy would be utilized for a period of ninety days, after which time it would be reviewed.

Fine with the warden. He too had grown suspicious of Trevor’s almost daily appearances. He’d questioned the front desk and the guards in a vain effort to
determine what, exactly, was the nature of all this legal work. Link, the guard who usually escorted Trevor to the conference room, and who usually pocketed a couple of twenties on each visit, told the warden that the lawyer and Mr. Spicer talked about cases and appeals and such. “Just a bunch of law crap,” Link said.

“And you always search his briefcase?” the warden had asked.

“Always,” Link had replied.

Out of courtesy, the warden dialed the number of Mr. Trevor Carson in Neptune Beach. The phone was answered by a woman who said rudely, “Law office.”

“Mr. Trevor Carson, please.”

“Who’s calling?”

“This is Emmitt Broon.”

“Well, Mr. Broon, he’s taking a nap right now.”

“I see. Could you possibly wake him? I’m the warden at the federal prison at Trumble, and I need to speak with him.”

“Just a minute.”

He waited for a long time, and when she returned she said, “I’m sorry. I couldn’t wake him up. Could I have him return your call?”

“No, thank you. I’ll just fax him a note.”

The idea of a reverse scam was hatched by York, while playing golf on a Sunday, and as his game progressed, occasionally on the fairways but more often in the sand and trees, the scheme grew and grew and became brilliant. He abandoned his pals after fourteen holes and called Teddy.

They would learn the tactics of their adversaries.
And they could divert attention away from Al Konyers. There was nothing to lose.

The letter was created by York, and assigned to one of the top forgers in Documents. The pen pal was christened Brant White, and the first note was handwritten on a plain, white, but expensive correspondence card.

Dear Ricky:

Saw your ad, liked it. I’m fifty-five, in great shape, and looking for more than a pen pal. My wife and I just bought a home in Palm Valley, not far from Neptune Beach. We’ll be down in three weeks, with plans to stay for two months.

If interested, send photo. If I like what I see, then I’ll give more details.

Brant

The return address was from Brant, P.O. Box 88645, Upper Darby, PA 19082.

To save two or three days, a Philadelphia postmark was applied in Documents, and the letter was flown to Jacksonville where agent Klockner himself delivered it to Aladdin North’s little box in the Neptune Beach post office. It was a Monday.

After his nap the following day, Trevor picked up the mail and headed west, out of Jacksonville, along the familiar route to Trumble. He was greeted by the same guards, Mackey and Vince, at the front door, and he signed the same logbook Rufus shoved in front of him. He followed Link into the visitors’ area and to a
corner where Spicer was waiting in one of the small attorney-conference rooms.

“I’m catchin some heat,” Link said as they stepped into the room. Spicer did not look up. Trevor handed two twenties to Link, who took them in a flash.

“From who?” Trevor asked, opening his briefcase. Spicer was reading a newspaper.

“The warden.”

“Hell, he’s cut back on my visits. What else does he want?”

“Don’t you understand?” Spicer said, without lowering the newspaper. “Link here is upset because he’s not collecting as much. Right, Link?”

“You got that right. I don’t know what kinda funny business you boys are runnin here, but if I tightened up on my inspections you’d be in trouble, wouldn’t you?”

“You’re being paid well,” Trevor said.

“That’s what you think.”

“How much do you want?” Spicer said, staring at him now.

“A thousand a month, cash,” he said, looking at Trevor. “I’ll pick it up at your office.”

“A thousand bucks and the mail doesn’t get checked,” Spicer said.

“Yep.”

“And not a word to anybody.”

“Yep.”

“It’s a deal. Now get outta here.”

Link smiled at both of them and left the room. He positioned himself outside the door, and for the
benefit of the closed-circuit cameras looked through the window occasionally.

Inside, the routine varied little. The exchange of mail happened first and took only a second. From a worn manila folder, the same one every time, Joe Roy Spicer removed the outgoing letters and handed them to Trevor, who took the incoming mail from his briefcase and gave it to his client.

There were six letters to be mailed. Some days there were as many as ten, seldom less than five. Though Trevor didn’t keep records, or copies, or documents in a file that would serve as proof that he had anything whatsoever to do with the Brethren’s little scam, he knew there had to be twenty or thirty potential victims currently being set up. He recognized some of the names and addresses.

Twenty-one to be exact, according to Spicer’s precise records. Twenty-one serious prospects, with another eighteen who were marginal. Almost forty pen pals currently hiding in their various closets, some terrified of their shadows, others getting bolder by the week, still others on the verge of kicking down the door and dashing off to meet Ricky or Percy.

The difficult part was being patient. The scam was working, money was changing hands, the temptation was to squeeze them too quickly. Beech and Yarber were proving to be workhorses, laboring over their letters for hours at a time while Spicer directed operations. It took discipline to hook a new pen pal, one with money, then ply him with enough pretty words to earn his trust.

“Aren’t we due for a bust?” Trevor said.

Spicer was flipping through the new letters. “Don’t tell me you’re broke,” he said. “You’re making more than we are.”

“My money’s tucked away just like yours. I’d just like to have some more of it.”

“So would I.” Spicer looked at the envelope from Brant in Upper Darby, Pa. “Ah, a new one,” he mumbled to himself, then opened it. He read it quickly, and was surprised by its tone. No fear, no wasted words, no peeking around corners. This man was ready for action.

“Where’s Palm Valley?” he asked.

“Ten miles south of the beaches. Why?”

“What kinda place is it?”

“It’s one of the gated golf communities for rich retirees, almost all from up North.”

“How much are the houses?”

“Well, I’ve never been there, okay. They keep the damned gate locked, guards everywhere like somebody might break in and steal their golf carts, but—”

“How much are the houses?”

“Nothing less than a million. I’ve seen a couple advertised for three million.”

“Wait here,” Spicer said, gathering his file and walking to the door.

“Where you going?” Trevor asked.

“To the library. I’ll be back in half an hour.”

“I got things to do.”

“No you don’t. Read the newspaper.”

Spicer said something to Link, who escorted him through the visitors’ area and out of the administration building. He walked quickly along the manicured
grounds. The sun was warm, and the gardeners were earning their fifty cents an hour.

So were the keepers of the law library. Beech and Yarber were hiding in their little conference room, taking a break from their writings with a game of chess, when Spicer entered in a rush, with an uncharacteristic smile. “Boys, we’ve finally hooked the big one,” he said, and tossed Brant’s letter on the table. Beech read it aloud.