Next the Mole uploaded a blanket surveillance app onto Potter’s phone. The process was similar to updating the phone’s operating system, only he didn’t need Potter’s consent. The app essentially cloned Potter’s phone, copying all his e-mails, his call log, his voicemails, his browsing history, and everything else stored inside its forty-seven apps. For all intents and purposes, the phone belonged to the Mole. Potter was only borrowing it.
The Mole had a final trick up his sleeve. Worming his way into the captive phone’s settings, he activated the built-in microphone so that it would pick up everything being said inside the car. In effect, he’d turned the phone into a bug.
The Mole played the audio over the speaker. The quality was spotty. He guessed that Potter had the phone in his pocket. Even so, with only minor digital enhancement, he could hear Rascal Flatts singing “Fast Cars and Freedom” loud and clear.
“Looks like he’s headed downtown,” said Shanks.
“Isn’t the paper there?”
“South side of the river.”
“Quiet,” blurted the Mole. “He’s making a call.”
The phone number Tank Potter dialed appeared on the screen. Then, a moment later, the name of the account holder. “Cantu, Carlos. 78 Sagebrush Road, Buda, TX.” A picture of Cantu flashed onto the screen, and on an adjacent monitor a map showed the address and coordinates of the phone’s location: 1213 Sabine Street, Austin, TX. Travis County medical examiner.
The Mole hit the Record button.
“Carlos, it’s Tank.”
“What’s up?”
“I’m calling about those bodies. You know-the Fibbie and the informant.”
“What about ’em?”
“They still there?”
“Yep. We’ve got ’em packed up and loaded. Bennett and his boss are completing the paperwork. Only thing left to do is box up the blood and fluid samples.”
“How long till they take off?”
“An hour, maybe longer. They don’t appear to be in any hurry.”
“All right, thanks, Carlos. Appreciate it.”
The call ended.
“What was that all about?” asked Shanks.
“Don’t know,” said the Mole. “But I can tell you where they’re headed. Twelfth and Sabine.”
–
Thirty-five thousand feet above the earth and eight hundred miles away, Ian Prince and Peter Briggs were also listening to Tank Potter’s conversation with Carlos Cantu.
“Stand by for instructions,” Briggs said to the Mole after Potter had hung up.
Ian crossed the cabin and sat down at his work console. A live map of Austin pinpointed the location of Potter’s vehicle traveling south along Interstate 35. He slipped on a pair of earphones and opened a channel to Briggs’s men on the ground.
“Why the morgue?”
“Don’t know,” said the Mole.
Ian had his own ideas, and they centered on the probability that Potter had discovered that Bennett’s version of the events in Dripping Springs differed significantly from the actual record. “Bring up Potter’s call history.”
A list of phone numbers appeared on the monitor. Ian scrolled through and noted that Tank Potter had spoken to Carlos Cantu, the man he’d phoned minutes earlier, the night before.
“Potter send any texts?”
“One,” said the Mole. “Transmitting now.”
The text appeared on the screen in a pop-up window. It read: “Here. Waiting out front.” The timestamp showed 21:07.
“Dig down and get me a GPS fix on that text.”
“Sent from 1213 Sabine. Travis County Medical Examiner’s Office.”
Peter Briggs stood beside Ian. “Potter must have visited the morgue last night. According to the after-action report, Grant and Stark were each killed with a single shot from a sniper’s rifle. If Potter examined the bodies, he knows that Bennett’s version of events is incorrect. No wonder he visited Mary Grant. He thinks he has a story.”
Ian took off the headphones and moved to a quiet corner of the cabin to place a private call.
“Mason.”
“Hello, Ed. You’re about to have some visitors.”
“What’s going on?” asked Edward Mason.
“Mary Grant and a reporter from the Statesman are headed your way. She’s not too keen on your moving her husband to Quantico.”
“How the hell does she know anything about that? For that matter, how do you?”
“Give us some credit. We’re the ones that hacked into your mainframe. Just get used to the idea that we know everything.”
“Limey prick.”
“What was that, Ed? I didn’t quite catch it.”
“Nothing.”
“I suggest you hurry up your business. Mrs. Grant is currently moving into the right lane of I-35 to take the Twelfth Street exit. I estimate that you have six minutes.”
44
Tank parked across the street from the Travis County Medical Examiner’s Office, a large white two-story building running the length of the block. “Go in,” he said. “Tell them that you’re the next of kin. You have a right to view your husband’s body.”
Mary got out and walked around the front of the Jeep. As she crossed the street, a dark Ford sedan pulled out of an alley and accelerated sharply, forcing her to jump back a step. A van belonging to the Medical Examiner followed closely behind. Before she could cross, another Ford sped past. The driver looked hard at her. She recognized the gleaming dome, the accusing eyes. The Ford braked, tires screeching, and backed up. Don Bennett rolled down the window.
“What are you doing here, Mary?”
“Why are you taking Joe to Virginia?”
“It’s not your concern.”
“He’s my husband. Of course it’s my concern.”
Another man sat in the passenger seat. He was older, well groomed, bristling with authority. She’d seen his face in one FBI publication or another, but his name escaped her.
“Go home,” said Bennett. “We’ve got everything under control.”
“You said that two days ago. I still don’t believe you. What are you hiding, Don?”
Bennett rolled up the window and drove down the street. Mary ran alongside for a few steps, banging her fist on the glass. “What is it, Don? What’s Semaphore?”
The Ford accelerated, leaving Mary behind as it barreled past a stop sign and disappeared from sight. Mary ran back to the Jeep and jumped into the passenger seat as a third Ford left the medical examiner’s parking lot.
“I asked him about Semaphore.”
“It rattled him. He took off like a bat out of hell.”
Tank made a U-turn and set off after the FBI convoy.
“Where are you going?” asked Mary. “We can’t keep up with them in this wreck.”
“We don’t need to,” said Tank.
–
Edward Mason smoothed his necktie and settled into the passenger seat for the drive to Bergstrom International Airport. “Mrs. Joseph Grant, I take it.”
“Yes,” said Don Bennett.
“You didn’t mention that she was so attractive.”
“Does it matter?”
“Or so forceful,” Mason added. He thought Bennett looked anxious, ill-at-ease.
“You asked if she’d give up. I said no. Does that qualify as forceful enough?”
Edward Mason registered his subordinate’s anger. He was beginning to wonder if Bennett was entirely with the program.
“Damn,” said Bennett. “The Jeep just got onto the freeway a quarter mile back.”
Mason swiveled to look out the rear window. He caught a flash of blue paint six or seven cars behind them. “I don’t want any record of our transferring Grant’s body to Quantico. If the public is made aware that we’re taking anything other than absolutely standard measures with regard to this case, they’ll demand to know why. Are we clear, Don?”