The Brethren

Half of Klockner’s team had already left town. The other half monitored Wilson Argrow inside Trumble. And they waited.

When the forgers at Langley finished with Argrow’s court file it fit in a cardboard box, and was flown to Jacksonville on a small jet along with three agents. It contained, among many other things, a fiftyone-page indictment handed down by a grand jury in Dade County, a correspondence file filled with letters from Argrow’s defense lawyer and the US. Attorney’s office, a thick file of motions and other pretrial maneuverings, research memos, a list of witnesses and summaries of their testimonies, a trial brief, jury analysis, an abstract of the trial, presentencing reports, and the final sentence itself. It was reasonably well organized, though not too neat to arouse suspicion. Copies were smudged, and pages -were missing, and staples were hanging off, little touches of reality carefully added by the good folks in Documents to create authenticity. Ninety percent of it would not be needed by Beech andYaxber, but its sheer heft made it impressive. Even the cardboard box had some age on it.

The box was delivered to Trumble by Jack Argrow, a semiretired real estate lawyer in Boca Raton, Florida, and brother of the inmate. Lawyer Argrow’s state bar certification had been faxed to the proper bureaucrat at Trumble, and his name was on the approved list of attorneys.

Jack Argrow was Roger Lyter, a thirteen-year man with a law degree from Texas. He’d never met Kenny Sands, who was Wilson Argrow. The two shook hands and said hello while Link looked suspiciously at the cardboard box sitting on the table.

"What’s in there?" he asked.

"It’s my court records,"Wilson said.

"Just paperwork," Jack said.

Link stuck a hand in the box and moved some files around, and in a few seconds the search was over and he stepped out of the room.

Wilson slid a paper across the desk, and said, "This is the affidavit. Wire the money to the bank in Panama, then get me written verification so I’ll have something to show them."

"Less ten percent."

"Yes, that’s what they think."

The Geneva Trust Bank in Nassau had not been contacted. To do so would’ve been futile and risky. No bank would release funds under the circumstances Argrow was creating. And questions would be raised if he tried.

The wire transfer going to Panama was new money.

"Langley is quite anxious;" the lawyer said.

"I’m ahead of schedule," the banker replied.

The box was emptied on a table in the law library. Beech and Yarber began sifting through its contents while Argrow, their new client, watched with feigned interest. Spicer had better things to do. He was in the middle of his weekly poker game.

"Where’s the sentencing report?" Beech asked, scratching through the pile.

"I want to see the indictment,"Yarber mumbled to himself.

They found what they wanted, and both settled into their chairs for a long afternoon of reading. Beech’s choice was quite dull. Yarber’s, however, was not.

The indictment read like a crime narrative. Argrow, along with seven other bankers, five accountants, five securities brokers, two lawyers, eleven men identified only as drug traffickers, and six gentlemen from Colombia, had organized and run an elaborate enterprise designed to take drug proceeds in the form of cash and turn them into respectable deposits. At least $400 million had been laundered before the ring was infiltrated, and it appeared as though their man Argrow was right in the thick of things. Yarber admired him. If half the allegations were true, then Argrow was a very smart and talented financier.

Argrow became bored with the silence, and left to stroll around the prison. When Yarber finished reading the indictment, he interrupted Beech and made him read it. Beech enjoyed it too. "Surely," he said, "he’s got some of the loot buried somewhere."

"You know he does;’Yarber agreed. "Four hundred million bucks, and that’s just what they could find. What about his appeal?"

"Doesn’t look good. The judge followed the guidelines. I see no error."

"Poor guy"

"Poor guy, my ass. He’ll be out four years before me."

"I don’t think so, Mr. Beech. We’ve spent our last Christmas in prison."

"Do you really believe that?" Hadee asked.

"Indeed I do."

Beech placed the indictment back on the table, then stood and stretched and paced around the room. "We should’ve heard something by now," he said, very softly though no one else was there.

"Patience."

"But the primaries are almost over. He’s back in Washington most of the time. He’s had the letter for a week."

"He can’t ignore it, Hadee. He’s trying to figure out what to do. That’s all."

The latest memo from the Bureau of Prisons in Washington baffled the warden. Who in hell’s name up there had nothing better to do than to stare at a map of the federal prisons and decide which one to meddle with that day? He had a brother making $150,000 selling used cars, and there he was making half that much running a prison and reading idiotic memos from pencil-pushers making $100,000 and not doing a productive damned thing. He was so sick of it!

RE: Attorney Visitation, Trumble Federal Prison Disregard prior order, said order restricting attorney visitation to Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, from 3 p.m. to 6 p.m. Attorneys are now permitted to visit seven days a week, from 9 a.m. to 7 p.m.

"It takes a dead lawyer to get the rules changed," he mumbled to himself.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Deep in a basement garage, they rolled Teddy Maynard into his van and locked the doors. York and Deville sat with him. A driver and a bodyguard handled the van, which had a television, a stereo, and a small bar with bottled water and sodas, all of which were ignored by Teddy. He was subdued, and dreading the next hour. He was tired-tired of his work, tired of the fight, tired of forcing himself through another day, then another. Fight it six more months, he kept telling himself, then give it up and let someone else worry about saving the world. He’d go quietly to his small farm in West Virginia where he’d sit by the pond, watch the leaves fall into the water, and wait for the end. He was so tired of the pain.

There was a black car in front of them and a gray one behind, and the little convoy made its way around the Beltway, then east across the Roosevelt Bridge and onto Constitution Avenue.

Teddy was silent, so therefore York and Deville were too. They knew how much he loathed what he was about to do.

He talked to the President once a week, usually on Wednesday morning, always by phone if Teddy had his way. They last saw each other nine months earlier when Teddy was in the hospital and the President needed to be briefed.

The favors usually fell to an equal level, but Teddy hated to be on the same footing with any President. He’d get the favor he wanted, but it was the asking that humiliated him.

In thirty years he’d survived six Presidents, and his secret weapon had been the favors. Gather the intelligence, hoard it, rarely tell the President everything, and occasionally gift-wrap a small miracle and deliver it to the White House.

This President was still pouting over the humiliating defeat of a nuclear test ban treaty Teddy had helped sabotage. The day before the Senate killed it, the CIA leaked a classified report raising legitimate concerns about the treaty, and the President got flattened in the stampede. He was leaving office, a lame duck more concerned with his legacy than with the pressing matters of the country.

Teddy had dealt with lame ducks before, and they were impossible. Since they wouldn’t face the voters again, they dwelt on the big picture. In their waning days, they liked to travel, with lots of their friends, to foreign lands where they held summits with other lame ducks. They worried about their presidential libraries. And their portraits. And their biographies, so they spent time with historians. As the clock ticked they became wiser and more philosophical, and their speeches became grander. They talked of the future, of the challenges and the way things ought to be, conveniently ignoring the fact that they’d had eight years to do all the things that needed to be done.