The Brethren

The door clicked loudly again as Quince locked the damned thing before anyone could barge in. He and Wes chatted awkwardly about this and that for a few minutes, the conversation almost dying at times for lack of common ground. Forbidden sex had brought them together, and they certainly had to avoid that subject. Life in Bakers was of little interest. Quince could ask nothing about Wes' background.

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 ca

"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 were 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

The 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. Begirming 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."