Wednesday morning. Tarry Ross climbed the stairs to the fourth floor of the Phoenix Park Hotel. He paused on the landing outside the hall door and caught his breath. Sweat beaded across his eyebrows. He removed the dark sunglasses and wiped his face with the sleeve of his overcoat. Nausea hit below the belt, and he leaned on the stair rail. He dropped his empty briefcase on the concrete and sat on the bottom step. His hands shook like severe palsy, and he wanted to cry. He clutched his stomach and tried not to vomit.
The nausea passed, and he breathed again. Be brave, man, be brave. There's two hundred thousand waiting down the hall. If you got guts, you can go in there and get it. You can walk out with it, but you must have courage. He breathed deeper, and his hands settled down. Guts, man, guts.
The weak knees wobbled, but he made it to the door. Down the hall, past the rooms. Eighth door on the right. He held his breath, and knocked.
Seconds passed. He watched the dark hall through the dark glasses and could see nothing. "Yeah," a voice inside said, inches away.
"It's Alfred." Ridiculous name, he thought. Where'd it come from?
The door cracked, and a face appeared behind the little chain. The door closed, then opened wide. Alfred walked in.
"Good morning, Alfred," Vinnie Cozzo said warmly. "Would you like coffee?"
"I didn't come here for coffee," Alfred snapped. He placed the briefcase on the bed and stared at Cozzo.
"You're always so nervous, Alfred. Why don't you relax. There's no way you can get caught."
"Shut up, Cozzo. Where's the money?"
Vinnie pointed to a leather handbag. He stopped smiling. "Talk to me, Alfred."
The nausea hit again, but he kept his feet. He stared at them. His heart beat like pistons. "Okay, your man, McDeere, has been paid a million bucks already. Another million is on the way. He's delivered one load of Bendini documents and claims to have ten thousand more." A sharp pain hit his groin, and he sat on the edge of the bed. He removed his glasses.
"Keep talking," Cozzo demanded.
"McDeere's talked to our people many times in the last six months. He'll testify at the trials, then hit the road as a protected witness. He and his wife."
"Where are the other documents?"
"Dammit, I don't know. He won't tell. But they're ready to be delivered. I want my money, Cozzo."
Vinnie threw the handbag on the bed. Alfred opened it and the briefcase. He attacked the stacks of bills, his hands shaking violently.
"Two hundred thousand?" he asked desperately.
Vinnie smiled. "That was the deal, Alfred. I got another job for you in a couple of weeks."
"No way, Cozzo. I can't take any more of this." He slammed the briefcase shut and ran to the door. He stopped and tried to calm himself. "What will you do with McDeere?" he asked, staring at the door.
"What do you think, Alfred?"
He bit his lip, clenched the briefcase and walked from the room. Vinnie smiled and locked the door. He pulled a card from his pocket and placed a call to the Chicago home of Mr. Lou Lazarov.
Tarry Ross walked in panic down the hall. He could see little from behind the glasses. Seven doors down, almost to the elevator, a huge hand reached from the darkness and pulled him into a room. The hand slapped him hard, and another fist landed in his stomach. Another fist to the nose. He was on the floor, dazed and bleeding. The briefcase was emptied on the bed.
He was thrown into a chair, and the lights came on. Three FBI agents, his comrades, glared at him. Director Voyles walked up to him, shaking his head in disbelief. The agent with the huge, efficient hands stood nearby, within striking distance. Another agent was counting money.
Voyles leaned into his face. "You're a traitor, Ross. The lowest form of scum. I can't believe it."
Ross bit his lip and began sobbing.
"Who is it?" Voyles asked intently.
The crying was louder. No answer.
Voyles swung wildly and slapped Ross's left temple. He shrieked in pain. "Who is it, Ross? Talk to me."
"Vinnie Cozzo," he blurted between sobs.
"I know it's Cozzo! Dammit! I know that! But what did you tell him?"
Tears ran from his eyes and blood poured from his nose. His body shook and gyrated pitifully. No answer.
Voyles slapped him again, and again. "Tell me, you little sonofabitch. Tell me what Cozzo wants." He slapped him again.
Ross doubled over and dropped his head on his knees. The crying softened.
"Two hundred thousand dollars," an agent said.
Voyles dropped to one knee and almost whispered to Ross. "Is it McDeere, Ross? Please, oh please, tell me it's not McDeere. Tell me, Tarry, tell me it's not McDeere."
Tarry stuck his elbows on his knees and stared at the floor. The blood dripped neatly into one little puddle on the carpet. Gut check, Tarry. You don't get to keep your money. You're on the way to jail. You're a disgrace, Tarry. You're a slimy little scuzzball of a chicken, and it's over. What could possibly be gained by keeping secrets? Gut check, Tarry.
Voyles was pleading softly. Sinners, won't you come? "Please say it ain't McDeere, Tarry, please tell me it ain't."
Tarry sat straight and wiped his eyes with his fingers. He breathed deeply. Cleared his throat. He bit his lip, looked squarely at Voyles and nodded.
DeVasher had no time for the elevator. He ran down the stairs to the fourth floor, to the corner, a power one, and barged into Locke's office. Half the partners were there. Locke, Lambert, Milligan, McKnight, Dunbar, Denton, Lawson, Banahan, Kruger, Welch and Shottz. The other half had been summoned.
A quiet panic filled the room. DeVasher sat at the head of the conference table, and they gathered around.
"Okay, boys. It's not time to haul ass and head for Brazil. Not yet, anyway. We confirmed this morning that he has talked extensively to the Fibbies, that they have paid him a million cash, that they have promised another million, that he has certain documents that are believed to be fatal. This came straight from the FBI. Lazarov and a small army are flying into Memphis as we speak. It appears as though the damage has not been done. Yet. According to our source - a very high-ranking Fibbie - McDeere has over ten thousand documents in his possession, and he is ready to deliver. But he has only delivered a few so far. We think. Evidently, we have caught this thing in time. If we can prevent further damage, we should be okay. I say this, even though they have some documents. Obviously, they don't have much or they would've been here with search warrants."
DeVasher was onstage. He enjoyed this immensely. He spoke with a patronizing smile and looked at each of the worried faces. "Now, where is McDeere?"
Milligan spoke. "In his office. I just talked to him. He suspects nothing."
"Wonderful. He's scheduled to leave in three hours for Grand Cayman. Correct, Lambert?"
"That's correct. Around noon."
"Boy, the plane will never make it. The pilot will land in New Orleans for an errand, then he'll take off for the island. About thirty minutes over the Gulf, the little blip will disappear from radar, forever. Debris will scatter over a thirty-square-mile area, and no bodies will ever be found. It's sad, but necessary."
"The Lear?" asked Denton.
"Yes, son, the Lear. We'll buy you another toy."
"We're assuming a lot, DeVasher," Locke said. "We're assuming the documents already in their possession are harmless. Four days ago you thought McDeere had copied some of Avery's secret files. What gives?"
"They studied the files in Chicago. Yeah, they're full of incriminating evidence, but not enough to move with. They couldn't get the first conviction. You guys know the damning materials are on the island. And, of course, in the basement. No one can penetrate the basement. We checked the files in the condo. Everything looked in order."
Locke was not satisfied. "Then where did the ten thousand come from?"
"You're assuming he has ten thousand. I rather doubt it. Keep in mind, he's trying to collect another one million bucks before he takes off. He's probably lying to them and snooping around for more documents. If he had ten thousand, why wouldn't the Fibbies have them by now?"
"Then what's to fear?" asked Lambert.
"The fear is the unknown, Ollie. We don't know what he's got, except that he's got a million bucks. He's no dummy, and he just might stumble across something if left alone. We cannot allow that to happen. Lazarov, you see, said to blow his ass outta the air. Quote unquote."
"There's no way a rookie associate could find and copy that many incriminating records," Kruger said boldly, and looked around the group for approval. Several nodded at him with intense frowns.
"Why is Lazarov coming?" asked Dunbar, the real estate man. He said "Lazarov" as if Charles Manson was coming to dinner.
"That's a stupid question," DeVasher snapped, and looked around for the idiot. "First, we've got to take care of McDeere and hope the damage is minimal. Then we'll take a long look at this unit and make whatever changes are necessary."
Locke stood and glared at Oliver Lambert. "Make sure McDeere's on that plane."
Tarrance, Acklin and Laney sat in stunned silence and listened to the speaker phone on the desk. It was Voyles in Washington, explaining exactly what had happened. He would leave for Memphis within the hour. He was almost desperate.
"You gotta bring him in, Tarrance. And quick. Cozzo doesn't know that we know about Tarry Ross, but Ross told him McDeere was on the verge of delivering the records. They could take him out at any time. You've got to get him. Now! Do you know where he is?"
"He's at the office," Tarrance said.
"Okay. Fine. Bring him in. I'll be there in two hours. I wanna talk to him. Goodbye."
Tarrance punched the phone, then dialed the number.
"Who are you calling?" Acklin asked.
"Bendini, Lambert & Locke. Attorneys-at-law."
"Are you crazy, Wayne?" Laney asked.
"Just listen."
The receptionist answered the phone. "Mitch McDeere, please," Tarrance said.
"One moment, please," she said. Then the secretary: "Mr. McDeere's office."
"I need to speak to Mitchell McDeere."
"I'm sorry, sir. He's in a meeting."
"Listen, young lady, this is Judge Henry Hugo, and he was supposed to be in my courtroom fifteen minutes ago. We're waiting for him. It's an emergency."
"Well, I see nothing on his calendar for this morning."
"Do you schedule his appointments?"
"Well, yes, sir."
"Then it's your fault. Now get him on the phone."
Nina ran across the hall and into his office. "Mitch, there's a Judge Hugo on the phone. Says you're supposed to be in court right now. You'd better talk to him."
Mitch jumped to his feet and grabbed the phone. He was pale. "Yes," he said.
"Mr. McDeere," Tarrance said. "Judge Hugo. You're late for my court. Get over here."
"Yes, Judge." He grabbed his coat and briefcase and frowned at Nina.
"I'm sorry," she said. "It's not on your calendar."
Mitch raced down the hall, down the stairs, past the receptionist and out the front door. He ran north on Front Street to Union and darted through the lobby of the Cotton Exchange Building. On Union, he turned east and ran toward the Mid-America Mall.
The sight of a well-dressed young man with a briefcase running like a scared dog may be a common sight in some cities, but not in Memphis. People noticed.
He hid behind a fruit stand and caught his breath. He saw no one running behind him. He ate an apple. If it came to a footrace, he hoped Two-Ton Tony was chasing him.
He had never been particularly impressed with Wayne Tarrance. The Korean shoe store was a fiasco. The chicken place on Grand Cayman was equally dumb. His notebook on the Moroltos would bore a Cub Scout. But his idea about a Mayday code, a "don't ask questions, just run for your life" alert, was a brilliant idea. For a month, Mitch knew if Judge Hugo called, he had to hit the door on a dead run. Something bad had gone wrong, and the boys on the fifth floor were moving in. Where was Abby? he thought.
A few pedestrians walked in pairs along Union. He wanted a crowded sidewalk, but there was none. He stared at the corner of Front and Union and saw nothing suspicious. Two blocks east, he casually entered the lobby of the Peabody and looked for a phone. On the mezzanine overlooking the lobby, he found a neglected one in a short hallway near the men's room. He dialed the Memphis office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
"Wayne Tarrance, please. It's an emergency. This is Mitch McDeere."
Tarrance was on the phone in seconds. "Mitch, where are you?"
"Okay, Tarrance, what's going on?"
"Where are you?"
"I'm out of the building, Judge Hugo. I'm safe for now. What's happened?"
"Mitch, you've gotta come in."
"I don't have to do a damned thing, Tarrance. And I won't, until you talk to me."
"Well, we've, uh, we've had a slight problem. There's been a small leak. You need - "
"Leak, Tarrance? Did you say leak? There's no such thing as a small leak. Talk to me, Tarrance, before I hang up this phone and disappear. You're tracing this call, aren't you, Tarrance? I'm hanging up."
"No! Listen, Mitch. They know. They know we've been talking, and they know about the money and the files."
There was a long pause. "A small leak, Tarrance. Sounds like the dam burst. Tell me about this leak, and quick."
"God this hurts. Mitch, I want you to know how much this hurts. Voyles is devastated. One of our senior men sold the information. We caught him this morning at a hotel in Washington. They paid him two hundred thousand for the story on you. We're in shock, Mitch."
"Oh, I'm touched. I'm truly concerned over your shock and pain, Tarrance. I guess now you want me to run down there to your office so we can all sit around and console each other."
"Voyles will be there by noon, Mitch. He's flying in with his top people. He wants to meet with you. We'll get you out of town."
"Right. You want me to rush into your arms for protection. You're an idiot, Tarrance. Voyles is an idiot. You're all idiots. And I'm a fool for trusting you. Are you tracing this call, Tarrance?"
"No!"
"You're lying. I'm hanging up, Tarrance. Sit tight and I'll call you in thirty minutes from another phone."
"No! Mitch, listen. You're dead if you don't come in."
"Goodbye, Wayne. Sit by the phone."
Mitch dropped the receiver and looked around. He walked to a marble column and peeked at the lobby below. The ducks were swimming around the fountain. The bar was deserted. A table was surrounded with rich old ladies sipping their tea and gossiping. A solitary guest was registering.
Suddenly, the Nordic stepped from behind a potted tree and stared at him. "Up there!" he yelled across the lobby to an accomplice. They watched him intently and glanced at the stairway under him. The bartender looked up at Mitch, then at the Nordic and his friend. The old ladies stared in silence.
"Call the police!" Mitch yelled as he backed away from the railing. Both men sprang across the lobby and hit the stairs. Mitch waited five seconds, and returned to the railing. The bartender had not moved. The ladies were frozen.
There were heavy noises on the stairs. Mitch sat on the railing, dropped his briefcase, swung his legs over, paused, then jumped twenty feet onto the carpet of the lobby. He fell like a rock, but landed squarely on both feet. Pain shot through his ankles and hips. The football knee buckled, but did not collapse.
Behind him, next to the elevators, was a small haberdashery with windows full of ties and Ralph Lauren's latest. He limped into it. A kid of no more than nineteen waited eagerly behind the counter. There were no customers. An outside door opened onto Union.
"Is that door locked?" Mitch asked calmly.
"Yes, sir."
"You wanna make a thousand dollars cash? Nothing illegal." Mitch quickly peeled off ten hundred-dollar bills and threw them on the counter.
"Uh, sure. I guess."
"Nothing illegal, okay? I swear. I wouldn't get you in trouble. Unlock that door, and when two men come running in here in about twenty seconds, tell them I ran through that door and jumped in a cab."
The kid smiled even brighter and raked up the money. "Sure. No problem."
"Where's the dressing room?"
"Yes, sir, over there next to the closet."
"Unlock the door," Mitch said as he slid into the dressing room and sat down. He rubbed his knees and ankles.
The clerk was straightening ties when the Nordic and his partner ran through the door from the lobby. "Good morning," he said cheerfully.
"Did you see a man running through here, medium build, dark gray suit, red tie?"
"Yes, sir. He just ran through there, through that door, and jumped in a cab."
"A cab! Damn!" The door opened and closed, and the store was silent. The kid walked to a shoe rack near the closet. "They're gone, sir."
Mitch was rubbing his knees. "Good. Go to the door and watch for two minutes. Let me know if you see them."
Two minutes later, he was back. "They're gone."
Mitch kept his seat and smiled at the door. "Great. I want one of those kelly-green sport coats, forty-four long, and a pair of white buckskins, ten D. Bring them here, would you? And keep watching."
"Yes, sir." He whistled around the store as he collected the coat and shoes, then slid them under the door. Mitch yanked off his tie and changed quickly. He sat down.
"How much do I owe you?" Mitch asked from the room.
"Well, let's see. How about five hundred?"
"Fine. Call me a cab, and let me know when it's outside."
Tarrance walked three miles around his desk. The call was traced to the Peabody, but Laney arrived too late. He was back now, sitting nervously with Acklin. Forty minutes after the first call, the secretary's voice blasted through the intercom. "Mr. Tarrance. It's McDeere."
Tarrance lunged at the phone. "Where are you?"
"In town. But not for long."
"Look, Mitch, you won't last two days on your own. They'll fly in enough thugs to start another war. You've got to let us help you."
"I don't know, Tarrance. For some strange reason I just don't trust you boys right now. I can't imagine why. Just a bad feeling."
"Please, Mitch. Don't make this mistake."
"I guess you want me to believe you boys can protect me for the rest of my life. Sorta funny, isn't it, Tarrance? I cut a deal with the FBI, and I almost get gunned in my own office. That's real protection."
Tarrance breathed deeply into the phone. There was a long pause. "What about the documents? We've paid you a million for them."
"You're cracking up, Tarrance. You paid me a million for my clean files. You got them, and I got the million. Of course, that was just part of the deal. Protection was also a part of it."
"Give us the damned files, Mitch. They're hidden somewhere close to us, you told me that. Take off if you want to, but leave the files."
"Won't work, Tarrance. Right now I can disappear, and the Moroltos may or may not come after me. If you don't get the files, you don't get the indictments. If the Moroltos don't get indicted, maybe, if I'm lucky, one day they'll just forget about me. I gave them a real scare, but no permanent damage. Hell, they may even hire me back one of these days."
"You don't really believe that. They'll chase you until they find you. If we don't get the records, we'll be chasing too. It's that simple, Mitch."
"Then I'll put my money on the Moroltos. If you guys find me first, there'll be a leak. Just a small one."
"You're outta your mind, Mitch. If you think you can take your million and ride into the sunset, you're a fool. They'll have goons on camels riding the deserts looking for you. Don't do it, Mitch."
"Goodbye, Wayne. Ray sends his regards."
The line was dead. Tarrance grabbed the phone and threw it against the wall.
Mitch glanced at the clock on the airport wall. He punched in another call. Tammy answered.
"Hello, sweetheart. Hate to wake you."
"Don't worry, the couch kept me awake. What's up?"
"Major trouble. Get a pencil and listen very carefully. I don't have a second to waste. I'm running, and they're right behind me."
"Fire away."
"First, call Abby at her parents'. Tell her to drop everything and get out of town. She doesn't have time to kiss her mother goodbye or to pack any clothes. Tell her to drop the phone, get in her car and drive away. And don't look back. She takes Interstate 64 to Huntington, West Virginia, and goes to the airport. She flies from Huntington to Mobile. In Mobile, she rents a car and drives east on Interstate 10 to Gulf Shores, then east on Highway 182 to Perdido Beach. She checks in at the Perdido Beach Hilton under the name of Rachel James. And she waits. Got that?"
"Yeah."
"Second. I need you to get on a plane and fly to Memphis. I called Doc, and the passports, etc., are not ready. I cussed him, but to no avail. He promised to work all night and have them ready in the morning. I will not be here in the morning, but you will. Get the documents."
"Yes, sir."
"Third. Get on a plane and get back to the apartment in Nashville. Sit by the phone. Do not, under any circumstances, leave the phone."
"Got it."
"Fourth. Call Abanks."
"Okay. What are your travel plans?"
"I'm coming to Nashville, but I'm not sure when I'll be there. I gotta go. Listen, Tammy, tell Abby she could be dead within the hour if she doesn't run. So run, dammit, run!"
"Okay, boss.."
He walked quickly to Gate 22 and boarded the 10:04 Delta flight to Cincinnati. He clutched a magazine full of one-way tickets, all bought with MasterCard. One to Tulsa on American Flight 233, leaving at 10:14, and purchased in the name of Mitch McDeere; one to Chicago on Northwest Flight 861, leaving at 10:15, and purchased in the name of Mitchell McDeere; one to Dallas on United Flight 562, leaving at 10:30, and purchased in the name of Mitchell McDeere; and one to Atlanta on Delta Flight 790, leaving at 11:10, and purchased in the name of Mitchell McDeere.
The ticket to Cincinnati had been bought with cash, in the name of Sam Fortune.
Lazarov entered the power office on the fourth floor and every head bowed. DeVasher faced him like a scared, whipped child. The partners studied their shoelaces and held their bowels.
"We can't find him," DeVasher said.
Lazarov was not one to scream and cuss. He took great pride in being cool under pressure. "You mean he just got up and walked out of here?" he asked coolly.
There was no answer. None was needed.
"All right, DeVasher, this is the plan. Send every man you've got to the airport. Check with every airline. Where's his car?"
"In the parking lot."
"That's great. He left here on foot. He walked out of your little fortress on foot. Joey'll love this. Check with every rental-car company. Now, how many honorable partners do we have here."
"Sixteen present."
"Divide them up in pairs and send them to the airports in Miami, New Orleans, Houston, Atlanta, Chicago, L.A., San Francisco and New York. Roam the concourses of these airports. Live in these airports. Eat in these airports. Watch the international flights in these airports. We'll send reinforcements tomorrow. You honorable esquires know him well, so go find him. It's a long shot, but what have we got to lose? It'll keep you counselors busy. And I hate to tell you boys, but these hours are not billable. Now, where's his wife?"
"Danesboro, Kentucky. At her parents'."
"Go get her. Don't hurt her, just bring her in."
"Do we start shredding?" DeVasher asked.
"We'll wait twenty-four hours. Send someone to Grand Cayman and destroy those records. Now hurry, DeVasher."
The power office emptied.
Voyles stomped around Tarrance's desk and barked commands. A dozen lieutenants scribbled as he yelled. "Cover the airport. Check every airline. Notify every office in every major city. Contact customs. Do we have a picture of him?"
"We can't find one, sir."
"Find one, and find it quick. It needs to be in every FBI and customs office by tonight. He's on the run. Son-of-a-bitch!"
