Nina brought a stack of letters to be signed. "Mr. Lambert would like to see you, if you're not too busy. He just called."
"Fine. I'm supposed to meet Frank Mulholland at ten. Do you know that?"
"Of course I know that. I'm the secretary. I know everything. Your office or his?"
Mitch looked at his appointment book and pretended to search. Mulholland's office. In the Cotton Exchange Building.
"His," he said with a frown.
"You met there last time, didn't you? Didn't they teach you about turf hi law school? Never, I repeat, never meet two times in a row on the adversary's turf. It's unprofessional. It's uncool. Shows weakness."
"How can you ever forgive me?"
"Wait till I tell the other girls. They all think you're so cute and macho. When I tell them you're a wimp, they'll be shocked."
"They need to be shocked, with a cattle prod."
"How's Abby's mother?"
"Much better. I'm going up this weekend."
She picked up two files. "Lambert's waiting."
Oliver Lambert pointed at the stiff sofa and offered coffee. He sat perfectly erect in a wing chair and held his cup like a British aristocrat. "I'm worried about Avery," he said.
"I saw him last night," Mitch said. "Doctor's forcing a two-month retirement."
"Yes, that's why you're here. I want you to work with Victor Milligan for the next two months. He'll get most of Avery's files, so it's familiar territory."
"That's fine. Victor and I are good friends."
"You'll learn a lot from him. A genius at taxation. Reads two books a day."
Great, thought Mitch. He should average ten a day in prison. "Yes, he's a very smart man. He's helped me out of a jam or two."
"Good. I think you'll get along fine. Try and see him sometime this morning. Now, Avery had some unfinished business in the Caymans. He goes there a lot, as you know, to meet with certain bankers. In fact, he was scheduled to leave tomorrow for a couple of days. He told me this morning you're familiar with the clients and the accounts, so we need you to go."
The Lear, the loot, the condo, the storage room, the accounts. A thousand thoughts flashed in his mind. It did not add up. "The Caymans? Tomorrow?"
"Yes, it's quite urgent. Three of his clients are in dire need of summaries of their accounts and other legal work. I wanted Milligan to go, but he's due in Denver in the morning. Avery said you could handle it."
"Sure, I can handle it."
"Fine. The Lear will take you. You'll leave around noon and return by commercial flight late Friday. Any problems?"
Yes, many problems. Ray was leaving prison. Tarrance was demanding the contraband. A half million bucks had to be collected. And he was scheduled to disappear anytime.
"No problems."
He walked to his office and locked the door. He kicked off his shoes, lay on the floor and closed his eyes.
The elevator stopped on the seventh floor, and Mitch bolted up the stairs to the ninth. Tammy opened the door and locked it behind him. He walked to the window.
"Were you watching?" he asked.
"Of course. The guard by your parking lot stood on the sidewalk and watched you walk here."
"Wonderful. Even Dutch follows me."
He turned and inspected her. "You look tired."
"Tired? I'm dead. In the past three weeks I've been a janitor, a secretary, a lawyer, a banker, a whore, a courier and a private investigator. I've flown to Grand Cayman nine times, bought nine sets of new luggage and hauled back a ton of stolen documents. I've driven to Nashville four times and flown ten. I've read so many bank records and legal crap I'm half blind. And when it's bedtime, I put on my little Dustbusters shirt and play maid for six hours. I've got so many names, I've written them on my hand so I won't get confused."
"I've got another for you."
"This doesn't surprise me. What?"
"Mary Alice. From now on, when you talk to Tarrance, you're Mary Alice."
"Let me write that down. I don't like him. He's very rude on the phone."
"I've got great news for you."
"I can't wait."
"You can quit Dustbusters."
"I think I'll lie down and cry. Why?"
"It's hopeless."
"I told you that a week ago. Houdini couldn't get files out of there, copy them and sneak them back in without getting caught."
"Did you talk to Abanks?" Mitch asked.
"Yes."
"Did he get the money?"
"Yes. It was wired Friday."
"Is he ready?"
"Said he was."
"Good. What about the forger?"
"I'm meeting with him this afternoon." - "Who is he?"
"An ex-con. He and Lomax were old pals. Eddie said he was the best documents man in the country."
"He'd better be. How much?"
"Five thousand. Cash, of course. New IDs, passports, driver's licenses and visas."
"How long will it take him?"
"I don't know. When do you need it?"
Mitch sat on the edge of the rented desk. He breathed deeply and tried to think. To calculate. "As soon as possible. I thought I had a week, but now I don't know. Just get it as soon as possible. Can you drive to Nashville tonight?"
"Oh yes. I'd love to. I haven't been there in two days."
"I want a Sony camcorder with a tripod set up in the bedroom. Buy a case of tapes. And I want you to stay there, by the phone, for the next few days. Review the Bendini Papers again. Work on your summaries."
"You mean I have to stay there?"
"Yeah. Why?"
"I've ruptured two disks sleeping on that couch.",
"You rented it."
"What about the passports?"
"What's the guy's name?"
"Doc somebody. I've got his number."
"Give it to me. Tell him I'll call in a day or so. How much money do you have?"
"I'm glad you asked. I started with fifty thousand, right? I've spent ten thousand on airfare, hotels, luggage and rental cars. And I'm still spending. Now you want a video camera. And fake IDs. I'd hate to lose money on this deal."
Mitch started for the door. "How about another fifty thousand?"
"I'll take it."
He winked at her and closed the door, wondering if he would ever see her again.
The cell was eight by eight, with a toilet in a corner and a set of bunk beds. The top bunk was uninhabited and had been for a year. Ray lay on the bottom bunk with wires running from his ears. He spoke to himself in a very foreign language. Turkish. At that moment on that floor, it was safe to bet he was the only soul listening to Berlitz jabber in Turkish. There was quiet talk up and down the hall, but most lights were out. Eleven o'clock, Tuesday night.
The guard walked silently to his cell. "McDeere," he said softly, secretly, through the bars. Ray sat on the edge of the bed, under the bunk above, and stared at him. He removed the wires.
"Warden wants to see you."
Sure, he thought, the warden's sitting at his desk at 11 P.M. waiting on me. "Where are we going?" It was an anxious question.
"Put your shoes on and come on."
Ray glanced around the cell and took a quick inventory of his worldly possessions. In eight years he had accumulated a black-and-white television, a large cassette player, two cardboard boxes full of tapes and several dozen books. He made three dollars a day working in the prison laundry, but after cigarettes there had been little to spend on tangibles. These were his only assets. Eight years.
The guard fitted a heavy key in the door and slid it open a few inches. He turned off the light. "Just follow me, and no cute stuff. I don't know who you are, mister, but you got some heavy-duty friends."
Other keys fit other doors, and they were outside under the basketball hoop. "Stay behind me," the guard said.
Ray's eyes darted around the dark compound. The wall loomed like a mountain in the distance, beyond the courtyard and walking area where he had paced a thousand miles and smoked a ton of cigarettes. It was sixteen feet tall in the daylight, but looked much larger at night. The guard towers were fifty yards apart and well lit. And heavily armed.