"So they're here and they're following us?"
"Of course. They probably had one or two people on the plane with you and Abby. Might have been men, women or both. Could've been a black dude or an oriental woman. Who knows? Remember, Mitch, they have plenty of money. There are two that we recognize. One was in Washington when you were there. A blond fellow, about forty, six-one, maybe six-two, with real short hair, almost a crew cut, and real strong, Nordic-looking features. He moves quickly. We saw him yesterday driving a red Escort he got from Coconut Car Rentals on the island."
"I think I've seen him," Mitch said.
"Where?" asked Acklin.
"In a bar in the Memphis airport the night I returned from Washington. I caught him watching me, and I thought at the time that I had seen him in Washington."
"That's him. He's here."
"Who's the other one?"
"Tony Verkler, or Two-Ton Tony as we call him. He's a con with an impressive record of convictions, most of it in Chicago. He's worked for Morolto for years. Weighs about three hundred pounds and does a great job of watching people because no one would ever suspect him."
"He was at Rumheads last night," Acklin added.
"Last night? We were there last night."
With great ceremony, the dive boat pushed from the pier and headed for open water. Beyond the pier, fishermen in their small catboats pulled their nets and sailors navigated their brightly colored catamarans away from land. After a gentle and dreamy start, the island was awake now. Half the boats tied to the pier had left or were in the process of leaving.
"So when did you boys get in towji?" Mitch asked, sipping his drink, which was more rum than Coke.
"Sunday night," Tarrance answered while watching the dive boat slowly disappear.
"Just out of curiosity, how many men do you have on the islands?"
"Four men, two women," said Tarrance. Acklin became mute and deferred all conversation to his supervisor.
"And why exactly are you here?" Mitch asked.
"Oh, several reasons. Number one, we wanted to talk to you and nail down our little deal. Director Voyles is terribly anxious about reaching an agreement you can live with. Number two, we want to watch them to determine how many goons are here. We'll spend the week trying to identify these people. The island is small, and it's a good place to observe."
"And number three, you wanted to work on your sun-tan?"
Acklin managed a slight giggle. Tarrance smiled and then frowned. "No, not exactly. We're here for your protection."
"My protection?"
"Yes. The last time I sat at this very table I was talking to
Joe Hodge and Marty Kozinski. About nine months ago. The day before they were killed, to be exact."
"And you think I'm about to be killed?"
"No. Not yet."
Mitch motioned at the bartender for another drink. The domino game grew heated, and he watched the natives argue and drink beer.
"Look, boys, as we speak the goons, as you call them, are probably following my wife all over Grand Cayman. I'll be sort of nervous until I get back. Now, what about the deal?"
Tarrance left the sea and the dive boat and stared at Mitch. "Two million's fine, and"
"Of course it's fine, Tarrance. We agreed on it, did we not?"
"Relax, Mitch. We'll pay a million when you turn over all of your files. At that point, there's no turning back, as they say. You're in up to your neck."
"Tarrance, I understand that. It was my suggestion, remember?"
"But that's the easy part. We really don't want your files, because they're clean files. Good files. Legitimate files. We want the bad files, Mitch, the ones with indictments written all over them. And these files will be much harder to come by. But when you do so, we'll pay another half million. And the rest after the last trial."
"And my brother?"
"We'll try."
"Not good enough, Tarrance. I want a commitment."
"We can't promise to deliver your brother. Hell, he's got at least seven more years."
"But he's my brother, Tarrance. I don't care if he's a serial murderer sitting on death row waiting for his last meal. He's my brother, and if you want me, you have to release him."
3"I said we'll try, but we can't commit. There's no legal, formal, legitimate way to get him out, so we must try other means. What if he gets shot during the escape?"
"Just get him out, Tarrance."
"We'll try."
"You'll throw the power and resources of the FBI in assisting my brother in escaping from prison, right, Tarrance?"
"You have my word."
Mitch sat back in his chair and took a long sip of his drink. Now the deal was final. He breathed easier and smiled in the direction of the magnificent Caribbean.
"So when do we get your files?" Tarrance asked.
"Thought you didn't want them. They're too clean, remember?"
"We want the files, Mitch, because when we get the files, then we've got you. You've proved yourself when you hand us your files, your license to practice law, so to speak."
"Ten to fifteen days."
"How many files?"
"Between forty and fifty. The small ones are an inch thick. The big ones wouldn't fit on this table. I can't use the copiers around the office, so we've had to make other arrangements."
"Perhaps we could assist in the copying," said Acklin.
"Perhaps not. Perhaps if I need your help, perhaps I'll ask for it."
"How do you propose to get them to us?" Tarrance asked. Acklin withdrew again.
"Very simple, Wayne. When I've copied them all, and once I get the million where I want it, then I'll hand you a key to a certain little room in the Memphis area, and you can get them in your pickup."
"I told you we'd deposit the money in a Swiss bank account," Tarrance said.
"And now I don't want it in a Swiss bank account, okay? I'll dictate the terms of the transfer, and it'll be done exactly as I say. It's my neck on the line from now on, boys, so I call the shots. Most of them, anyway."
Tarrance smiled and grunted and stared at the pier. "So YOU don't trust the Swiss?"
- "Let's just say I have another bank in mind. I work for money launderers, remember, Wayne, so I've become an expert on hiding money in offshore accounts."
"We'll see."
"When do I see this notebook on the Moroltos?"
"After we get your files and pay our first installment. We'll brief you as much as we can, but for the most part you're on your own. You and I will need to meet a lot, and of course that'll be rather dangerous. May have to take a few bus rides."
"Okay, but the next time I get the aisle seat."
"Sure, sure. Anybody worth two million can surely pick his seat on a Greyhound."
"I'll never live to enjoy it, Wayne. You know I won't."
Three miles out of Georgetown, on the narrow and winding road to Sodden Town, Mitch saw him. The man was squatting behind an old Volkswagen Beetle with the hood up as if engine trouble had stopped him. The man was dressed like a native, without tourist clothes. He could easily pass for one of the Brits who worked for the government or the banks. He was well tanned. The man held a wrench of some sort and appeared to study it and watch the Mitsubishi jeep as it roared by on the left-hand side of the road. The man was the Nordic. He was supposed to have gone unnoticed.
Mitch instinctively slowed to thirty miles per hour, to wait for him. Abby turned and watched the road. The narrow highway to Bodden Town clung to the shoreline for five miles, then forked, and the ocean disappeared. Within minutes the Nordic's green VW came racing around a slight bend. The McDeere jeep was much closer than the Nordic anticipated. Being seen, he abruptly slowed, then turned into the first white-rock driveway on the ocean side.
Mitch gunned the jeep and sped to Bodden Town. West o the small settlement he turned south and less than a mile later found the ocean.