The Firm

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."

"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 Bodden 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 of the small settlement he turned south and less than a mile later found the ocean.

* * *

It was 10 A.M. and the parking lot of Abanks Dive Lodge was half full. The two morning dive boats had left thirty minutes earlier. The McDeeres walked quickly to the bar, where Henry was already shuffling beer and cigarettes to the domino players.

Barry Abanks leaned on a post supporting the thatched roof of the bar and watched as his two dive boats disappeared around the corner of the island. Each would make two dives, at places like Bonnie’s Arch, Devil’s Grotto, Eden Rock and Roger’s Wreck Point, places he had dived and toured and guided through a thousand times. Some of the places he had discovered himself.

The McDeeres approached, and Mitch quietly introduced his wife to Mr. Abanks, who was not polite but not rude. They started for the small pier, where a deckhand was preparing a thirty-foot fishing boat; Abanks unloaded an indecipherable string of commands in the general direction of the young deckhand, who was either deaf or unafraid of his boss.

Mitch stood next to Abanks, the captain now, and pointed to the bar fifty yards away down the pier. "Do you know all those people at the bar?" he asked.

Abanks frowned at Mitch.

"They tried to follow me here. Just curious," Mitch said. "The usual gang," Abanks said. "No strangers."

"Have you noticed any strangers around this morning?"

"Look, this place attracts strange people. I keep no ledger of the strange ones and the normal ones."

"Have you seen a fat American, red hair, at least three hundred pounds?"

Abanks shook his head. The deckhand eased the boat, uckward, away from the pier, then toward the horizon. Abby sat on a small padded bench and watched the dive lodge disappear. In a vinyl bag between her feet were two new sets of snorkeling fins and dive masks. It was ostensibly a snorkeling trip with maybe a little light fishing if they were biting. The great man himself had agreed to accompany them, but only after Mitch insisted and told him they needed to discuss personal matters. Private matters, regarding the death of his son.

From a screened balcony on the second floor of a Cayman Kai beach house, the Nordic watched the two snorkeled heads bob and disappear around the fishing boat. He handed the binoculars to Two-Ton Tony Verkler, who, quickly bored, handed them back. A striking blonde in a black one-piece with legs cut high, almost to the rib cage, stood behind the Nordic and took the binoculars. Of particular interest was the deckhand.

Tony spoke. "I don’t understand. If they were talking serious, why the boy? Why have another set of ears around?"

"Perhaps they’re talking about snorkeling and fishing," said the Nordic.

"I don’t know," said the blonde. "It’s unusual for Abanks to spend time on a fishing boat. He likes the divers. There must be a good reason for him to waste a day with two novice snorkelers. Something’s up."