“Thank you, Mr. Mason.”
“Ed-please.”
Mary stepped out of the car. During their tête-à-tête, someone had extricated the Jeep from the Ford. Despite the impact and the deafening noise of the collision, there appeared to be little damage to Tank Potter’s car. The Ford wasn’t as fortunate but looked drivable.
Mason came around the front of the sedan. “Cut Potter loose,” he said.
“But…,” Don Bennett protested, hurrying toward his superior.
“Do it,” said Mason.
Tank Potter got to his feet and stood patiently as an agent cut the plastic cuffs. Mason approached him and whispered a few words that Mary couldn’t hear, but the effect was to make Potter wince repeatedly. She imagined he’d gotten the same warning as she had, but without the sugar coating. Keep your nose out of the FBI’s business or your ass is getting thrown in jail.
“You’re free to go, Mr. Potter,” said Edward Mason. “I’d get those brakes checked if I were you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Mason. I’ll be sure to have my car looked at immediately.”
Tank watched Mason head back to his car, then walked over to Mary. “What did he tell you?”
“Is it true?” She was surprised at the anger she felt toward him. More than Bennett or Mason, he had manipulated her. Their actions, however mercenary, were on behalf of their country. Potter’s were strictly for personal gain.
“The DUI? Yeah, it’s true. But that doesn’t-”
“And you no longer work at the Statesman?”
“Technically…”
“Do you or don’t you?”
“No, ma’am. I’m no longer an employee.”
“So you visited me to drum up a story to get your job back. You came to my house to lean on me and see if I spilled?”
“To ‘lean on you’? Where’d you get that? I’m a reporter. We interview people. We ask questions. It’s our job. I wasn’t leaning on you.”
“You used to be a reporter,” said Mary, her voice, her body, trembling with rage. “Now you’re just an unemployed drunk who pressures widows into divulging private information.”
“It’s not like that. I’m not making any of that stuff up. Ask Mason. He knows it’s true. Why do you think they’re moving the bodies?”
Mary pinned her shoulders back and raised her chin. “I don’t have anything more to say to you, Mr. Potter. I’d appreciate it if you left my family and me alone.”
“What kind of Kool-Aid did he give you, lady?”
“Just the truth. Next time you’d be well advised to do the same. Goodbye.”
Mary walked to Edward Mason’s car and tapped on the window. “Would it be possible for one of your agents to give me a ride home?”
“Our pleasure.”
“I apologize for any inconvenience. It won’t happen again.”
46
As ONE 1 began its initial descent into the Austin area, Ian stood in his personal quarters, humming a song from a favorite musical. ONE 1 was essentially a bespoke 737-900ER designed to his requirements. There was a screening room and a fitness room, an office, and a bedroom. His quarters took up the rear of the plane. The office was identical to his offices in Austin, Palo Alto, Guangzhou, and Bangalore, if on a smaller scale: dark carpets, birch furnishings, minimal, spare, efficient.
“You wanted me?” asked Briggs.
“Come in,” said Ian. “Shut the door.”
“Did you ask to see me so we could sing show tunes?”
“Do you know any?”
Briggs regarded Ian as if he were mad. “What are you so damned happy for? We have a problem and we need to tie it off.”
“I thought you already told me it was ‘banked.’ Once-or was it twice?”
“Call me a gentleman. I have a soft spot for women.”
“And your suggestion?”
“You don’t need to know.”
“Didn’t you hear what Mason said? Mary Grant apologized for damaging the investigation. She promised not to disturb things further.”
“You believe her?”
There was no point in answering the question. Belief was subjective. Ian trafficked in certainties. “Show a carpenter a nail and he hits it with a hammer.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re the carpenter,” said Ian. “An excellent carpenter, to be sure, but a carpenter nonetheless. Sometimes a more elegant solution is called for.”
“The woman has to go. How’s that for elegant?”
Ian walked to his desk and sat. He’d spent the past half hour sorting through the angles. Eliminating an FBI agent was one thing: a single, orchestrated act with all pieces in place to control any possible damage. Eliminating the agent’s wife was something else entirely. Her death only days after his would not go unnoticed. Questions would be asked. The story had all the makings of a tabloid sensation. Edward Mason was a powerful official, but he had no means of controlling the investigation into the murder of a private citizen, or the press coverage it would garner.
There was more. Ian refused to orphan two young girls. He knew about growing up without a father. He hadn’t wanted to get rid of Joseph Grant, but in the end there had been no other choice. Grant was too tenacious, and Hal Stark had far too much information. In the end it was Ed Mason’s decision as much as his.
“About the reporter,” said Ian. “The one with the pictures. What’s his name again?”
“Potter. Tank Potter.”
“Yes, about Mr. Potter and his indiscreet friend at the medical examiner’s office…”
“Cantu.”
“Yes, Mr. Cantu.” Ian drummed his fingers on the desk. “Those two are nails. Feel free to use your hammer.”
Briggs appeared happier: a horse given his reins. “And the pictures?”
“Tell the Mole to make them disappear. I believe that’s well within his skill set. Let me take care of the woman.”
“You’re sure about this elegant solution?”
Ian spun in his chair and gazed out the window.
“All right, then,” said Briggs. “We’ll do it your way.” He paused at the door. “What’s that song, anyway? I think I’ve heard it.”
Ian kicked his feet onto the desk and sang aloud. “How do you solve a problem like Maria?”
Briggs looked away, sickened, and hurried fore.
Ian shook his head. Of course Briggs hated The Sound of Music. No one was killed in it.
He continued singing, his voice growing louder, his hands moving theatrically. “How do you catch a moonbeam in your hand?”
He had the answer.
Sloths.
47
Tank Potter made a beeline across the newsroom to Al Soletano’s office. “I’ve got proof,” he said, holding his phone above his head. “I told you I had a story. Here it is. Proof.”
The few reporters at work popped their heads above their cubicles to see what the commotion was all about. A few called his name. Tank paid them no heed. His wrists burned from the flex cuffs. His back ached from the kidney punch. But worst was the injury to his professional integrity.
“Al!” he shouted. “You there? Come out of your hobbit hole.”
Soletano emerged from his office, a sheaf of paper in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other. “What are you doing here, Potter?” he asked wearily.
“I was right about the story-about Joe Grant.”
“I don’t want to hear.”
“Proof,” said Tank, brandishing his smartphone.
“Take it somewhere else. You no longer work for this newspaper.”
“The FBI was stonewalling. I knew it all along.”