Three Classic Thrillers (26 page)

The briefcases and luggage were loaded quickly onto the plane, and within minutes they were cleared
for takeoff. Mitch fastened his seat belt and admired the leather-and-brass cabin. It was lavish and luxurious, and he had expected nothing less. Avery mixed another drink and buckled himself in.

An hour and fifteen minutes later, the Lear began its descent into Baltimore-Washington International Airport. After it taxied to a stop, Avery and Mitch descended to the tarmac and opened the baggage door. Avery pointed to a man in a uniform standing near a gate. “That’s your chauffeur. The limo is in front. Just follow him. You’re about forty minutes from the Capital Hilton.”

“Another limo?” Mitch asked.

“Yeah. They wouldn’t do this for you on Wall Street.”

They shook hands, and Avery climbed back on the plane. The refueling took thirty minutes, and when the Lear took off and turned south, he was asleep again.

Three hours later, it landed in Georgetown, Grand Cayman. It taxied past the terminal to a very small hangar where it would spend the night. A security guard waited on Avery and his luggage and escorted him to the terminal and through customs. The pilot and copilot ran through the post flight ritual. They too were escorted through the terminal.

After midnight, the lights in the hangar were extinguished and the half dozen planes sat in the darkness. A side door opened, and three men, one of them Avery, entered and walked quickly to the Lear 55. Avery opened the baggage compartment, and the three hurriedly unloaded twenty-five heavy cardboard boxes. In the muggy tropical heat, the hangar was like
an oven. They sweated profusely but said nothing until all boxes were out of the plane.

“There should be twenty-five. Count them,” Avery said to a muscle-bound native with a tank top and a pistol on his hip. The other man held a clipboard and watched intently as if he was a receiving clerk in a warehouse. The native counted quickly, sweat dripping onto the boxes.

“Yes. Twenty-five.”

“How much?” asked the man with the clipboard. “Six and a half million.”

“All cash?”

“All cash. U.S. dollars. Hundreds and twenties. Let’s get it loaded.”

“Where’s it going?”

“Quebecbanq. They’re waiting for us.”

They each grabbed a box and walked through the dark to the side door, where a comrade was waiting with an Uzi. The boxes were loaded into a dilapidated van with
CAYMAN PRODUCE
stenciled badly on the side. The armed natives sat with guns drawn as the receiving clerk drove away from the hangar in the direction of downtown Georgetown.

Registration began at eight outside the Century Room on the mezzanine. Mitch arrived early, signed in, picked up the heavy notebook of materials with his name printed neatly on the cover and went inside. He took a seat near the center of the large room. Registration was limited to two hundred, the brochure said. A porter served coffee, and Mitch spread the
Washington Post
before him. The news was dominated by a dozen stories of the beloved Redskins, who were in the Super Bowl again.

The room filled slowly as tax lawyers from around the country gathered to hear the latest developments in tax laws that changed daily. A few minutes before nine, a clean-cut, boyish attorney sat to Mitch’s left and said nothing. Mitch glanced at him and returned to the paper. When the room was packed, the moderator welcomed everyone and introduced the first speaker. Congressman something or other from Oregon, chairman of a House Ways and Means subcommittee. As he took the podium for what was supposed to be a one-hour presentation, the attorney to Mitch’s left leaned over and offered his hand.

“Hi, Mitch,” he whispered. “I’m Grant Harbison, FBI.” He handed Mitch a card.

The congressman started with a joke that Mitch did not hear. He studied the card, holding it near his chest. There were five people seated within three feet of him. He didn’t know anyone in the room, but it would be embarrassing if anyone knew he was holding an FBI card. After five minutes, Mitch shot a blank stare at Harbison.

Harbison whispered, “I need to see you for a few minutes.”

“What if I’m busy?” Mitch asked.

The agent slid a plain white envelope from his seminar notebook and handed it to Mitch. He opened it near his chest. It was handwritten. Across the top, in small but imposing letters, the words read simply: “Office of the Director—FBI.”

The note read:

Mitch folded the letter in the envelope and slowly placed it in his notebook. We appreciate your cooperation. From the Director of the FBI. He realized the importance at this moment of maintaining his composure, of keeping a straight, calm face as if it was simply routine. But he rubbed his temples with both hands and stared at the floor in front of him. He closed his eyes and felt dizzy. The FBI. Sitting next to him! Waiting on him. The Director and hell knows who else. Tarrance would be close at hand.

Suddenly, the room exploded in laughter at the congressman’s punch line. Harbison leaned quickly toward Mitch and whispered, “Meet me in the men’s room around the corner in ten minutes.” The agent left his notebooks on the table and exited amid the laughter.

Mitch flipped to the first section of the notebook and pretended to study the materials. The congressman was detailing his courageous battle to protect tax shelters for the wealthy while at the same time easing the burden on the working class. Under his fearless guidance, the subcommittee had refused to report legislation limiting deductions for oil and gas exploration. He was a one-man army on the Hill.

Mitch waited fifteen minutes, then another five, then began coughing. He needed water, and with hand over mouth he slid between the chairs to the back of the room and out the rear door. Harbison was
in the men’s room washing his hands for the tenth time.

Mitch walked to the basin next to him and turned on the cold water. “What are you boys up to?” Mitch asked.

Harbison looked at Mitch in the mirror. “I’m just following orders. Director Voyles wants to personally meet you, and I was sent to get you.”

“And what might he want?”

“I wouldn’t want to steal his thunder, but I’m sure it’s rather important.”

Mitch cautiously glanced around the rest room. It was empty. “And what if I’m too busy to meet with him?”

Harbison turned off the water. and shook his hands into the basin. “The meeting is inevitable, Mitch. Let’s not play games. When your little seminar breaks for lunch, you’ll find a cab, number 8667, outside to the left of the main entrance. It will take you to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, and we’ll be there. You must be careful. Two of them followed you here from Memphis.”

“Two of whom?”

“The boys from Memphis. Just do as we say and they’ll never know.”

The moderator thanked the second speaker, a tax professor from New York University, and dismissed them for lunch.

Mitch said nothing to the taxi driver. He sped away like a maniac, and they were soon lost in traffic. Fifteen minutes later, they parked near the Memorial.

“Don’t get out yet,” the driver said with authority. Mitch did not move. For ten minutes, he did not move
or speak. Finally, a white Ford Escort pulled alongside the cab and honked. It then drove away.

The driver stared ahead and said, “Okay. Go to the Wall. They’ll find you after about five minutes.”

Mitch stepped to the sidewalk, and the cab left. He stuck his hands deep in the pockets of his wool overcoat and walked slowly to the Memorial. Bitter wind gusts from the north scattered leaves in all directions. He shivered and flipped the collar of his coat around his ears.

A solitary pilgrim sat rigidly in a wheelchair and stared at the Wall. He was covered with a heavy quilt. Under his oversized camouflage beret, a pair of aviator’s sunglasses covered his eyes. He sat near the end of the wall, near the names of those killed in 1972. Mitch followed the years down the sidewalk until he stopped near the wheelchair. He searched the names, suddenly oblivious of the man.

He breathed deeply and was aware of a numbness in his legs and stomach. He looked slowly downward, and then, near the bottom, there it was. Engraved neatly, matter-of-factly, just like all the others, was the name Rusty McDeere.

A basket of frozen and wilted flowers sat on its side next to the monument, inches under his name. Mitch gently laid them to one side and knelt before the Wall. He touched the engraved letters of Rusty’s name. Rusty McDeere. Age eighteen, forever. Seven weeks in Vietnam when he stepped on a land mine. Death was instantaneous, they said. They always said that, according to Ray. Mitch wiped a small tear and stood staring at the length of the Wall. He thought of the fifty-eight thousand families who had been told that death was instantaneous and no one suffered over there.

“Mitch, they’re waiting.”

He turned and looked at the man in the wheelchair, the only human in sight. The aviator’s glasses stared at the Wall and did not look up. Mitch glanced around in all directions.

“Relax, Mitch. We’ve got the place sealed off. They’re not watching.”

“And who are you?” Mitch asked.

“Just one of the gang. You need to trust us, Mitch. The Director has important words, words that could save your life.”

“Where is he?”

The man in the wheelchair turned his head and looked down the sidewalk. “Start walking that way. They’ll find you.”

Mitch stared for a moment longer at his brother’s name and walked behind the wheelchair. He walked past the statue of the three soldiers. He walked slowly, waiting, with hands deep in his pockets. Fifty yards past the monument, Wayne Tarrance stepped from behind a tree and walked beside him. “Keep walking,” he said.

“Why am I not surprised to see you here?” Mitch said.

“Just keep walking. We know of at least two goons from Memphis who were flown in ahead of you. They’re at the same hotel, next door to you. They did not follow you here. I think we lost them.”

“What the hell’s going on, Tarrance?”

“You’re about to find out. Keep walking. But relax, no one is watching you, except for about twenty of our agents.”

“Twenty?”

“Yeah. We’ve got this place sealed off. We want to
make sure those bastards from Memphis don’t show up here. I don’t expect them.”

“Who are they?”

“The Director will explain.”

“Why is the Director involved?”

“You ask a lot of questions, Mitch.”

“And you don’t have enough answers.”

Tarrance pointed to the right. They left the sidewalk and headed for a heavy concrete bench near a footbridge leading to a small forest. The water on the pond below was frozen white.

“Have a seat,” Tarrance instructed. They sat down. Two men walked across the footbridge. Mitch immediately recognized the shorter one as Voyles. F. Denton Voyles, Director of the FBI under three Presidents. A tough-talking, heavy-handed crime buster with a reputation for ruthlessness.

Mitch stood out of respect when they stopped at the bench. Voyles stuck out a cold hand and stared at Mitch with the same large, round face that was famous around the world. They shook hands and exchanged names. Voyles pointed to the bench. Tarrance and the other agent walked to the footbridge and studied the horizon. Mitch glanced across the pond and saw two men, undoubtedly agents with their identical black trench coats and close haircuts, standing against a tree a hundred yards away.

Voyles sat close to Mitch, their legs touching. A brown fedora rested to one side of his large, bald head. He was at least seventy, but the dark green eyes danced with intensity and missed nothing. Both men sat still on the cold bench with their hands stuck deep in their overcoats.

“I appreciate you coming,” Voyles started.

“I didn’t feel as though I had a choice. You folks have been relentless.”

“Yes. It’s very important to us.”

Mitch breathed deeply. “Do you have any idea how confused and scared I am. I’m totally bewildered. I would like an explanation, sir.”

“Mr. McDeere, can I call you Mitch?”

“Sure. Why not.”

“Fine. Mitch, I am a man of very few words. And what I’m about to tell you will certainly shock you. You will be horrified. You may not believe me. But I assure you it’s all true, and with your help we can save your life.”

Mitch braced himself and waited.

“Mitch, no lawyer has ever left your law firm alive. Three have tried, and they were killed. Two were about to leave, and they died last summer. Once a lawyer joins Bendini, Lambert & Locke, he never leaves, unless he retires and keeps his mouth shut. And by the time they retire, they are a part of the conspiracy and cannot talk. The firm has an extensive surveillance operation on the fifth floor. Your house and car are bugged. Your phones are tapped. Your desk and office are wired. Virtually every word you utter is heard and recorded on the fifth floor. They follow you, and sometimes your wife. They are here in Washington as we speak. You see, Mitch, the firm is more than a firm. It is a division of a very large business, a very profitable business. A very illegal business. The firm is not owned by the partners.”

Mitch turned and watched him closely. The Director looked at the frozen pond as he spoke.

“You see, Mitch, the law firm of Bendini, Lambert & Locke is owned by the Morolto crime family in Chicago. The Mafia. The Mob. They call the shots
from up there. And that’s why we’re here.” He touched Mitch firmly on the knee and stared at him from six inches away. “It’s Mafia, Mitch, and illegal as hell.”

“I don’t believe it,” he said, frozen with fear. His voice was weak and shrill.

The Director smiled. “Yes you do, Mitch. Yes you do. You’ve been suspicious for some time now. That’s why you talked to Abanks in the Caymans. That’s why you hired that sleazy investigator and got him killed by those boys on the fifth floor. You know the firm stinks, Mitch.”