"I'm terribly sorry."
"I can tell. Now, who did it?"
"Some locals down there. A gang of Brazilians we hired when we got a tip he was there. I don't even know their names."
"Where'd the tip come from?"
"Wouldn't you like to know?"
"Yes, I would." Jaynes loosened his tie and sat on the edge of his desk, looking down at Stephano, who was looking up without the slightest trace of concern. He could bargain his way out of any trouble the FBI might send him. He had very good lawyers. . "I have a deal for you," Jaynes said. "And this just came down from the Director."
"I can't wait."
"We're prepared to arrest Benny Aricia tomorrow. We'll make a big deal out of it, leak it to the press and all, tell them how this guy who lost ninety million hired you to track down Lanigan. And when you caught him, you worked him over but still didn't find the money."
Stephano listened hard, but revealed nothing.
"Then we'll arrest the two CEO's-Atterson at Monarch-Sierra Insurance and Jill at Northern Case Mutual. Those are the other two members of your little consortium, as we understand it. We'll march into their fancy offices with storm troopers, cameras won't be far behind, and we'll haul them out in handcuffs and throw them in black vans. Lots of leaks to the media, you understand. And we'll make sure that it's well reported that these guys helped Aricia fund your little mission into Brazil to drag out Patrick. Think of it, Stephano, your clients will all be arrested and placed in jail."
Stephano wanted to ask just exactly how in hell the FBI identified the members of his little Patrick consortium, but then he figured it wasn't too difficult. They isolated the people who'd lost the most.
"It'll kill your business, you know," Jaynes said, feigning sympathy.
"So what do you want?"
"Well, here's the deal. It's quite simple. You tell us everything-how you found him, how much he told you, etc., everything. We have lots of questions-and we'll drop the charges against you and lay off your clients."
"It's nothing but harassment then."
"Exactly. We wrote the book. Your problem is that we can humiliate your clients and put you out of business."
"Is that all?"
"No. With a bit of luck on our end, you could also go to jail."
There were lots of reasons to grab this deal, not the least of which was Mrs. Stephano. She felt disgraced because word was out the FBI was watching her house at all hours. Her phones were bugged; she knew this for a fact because her husband made his calls in the backyard near the rosebushes. She was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. They were respectable people, she kept telling her husband.
By implying he knew more than he did, Stephano had placed the FBI precisely where he wanted them. He could get his charges dismissed. He could protect his clients. And, most importantly, he would enlist the considerable resources of the feds to track down the money.
"I'll have to talk to my attorney."
"You have until 5 P.M. tomorrow."
PATRICK SAW his ghastly wounds on a late edition of CNN, in full color, as his man Sandy waved the pictures around like a boxer showing the world his newly won belt. It was about halfway through an hour wrap-up of the day's stories. There was no official response from the FBI, said a correspondent who was poised outside the Hoover Building in Washington.
Luis happened to be in the room when the report ran. He froze, listening to it, looking from the television to the bed where Patrick sat smirking. Things connected quickly. "My pictures?" he asked in heavily accented English.
"Yes," Patrick replied, ready to laugh.
"My pictures," he repeated proudly.
THE STORY about the American lawyer who faked his death, watched his burial, stole ninety million from his firm and got caught four years later living quietly in Brazil made for good light reading in most of the Western world. Eva read the latest episode in an American paper while sipping coffee under a canopy at Les Deux Garcons, her fayorite sidewalk cafe in Aix. It was raining, a steady mist that soaked the tables and chairs not far from her.
The story was buried deep inside the front section.
It described third-degree burns but did not run the photos. Her heart broke and she put on sunglasses to hide her eyes.
Patrick was going home. Wounded and chained like an animal, he would make the one journey he always knew was inevitable. And she would go. She would linger in the background, hiding and doing what he wanted, and praying for the safety of both of them. She would roam her room at night, just like Patrick, asking herself what had become of their future.
Chapter 14
FOR HIS RETURN HOME, Patrick chose a pair of aqua surgeon's scrubs, very baggy and loose-fitting because he wanted nothing to aggravate his burns. The flight would be nonstop, but still more than two hours, and he needed to be as comfortable as possible. The doctor gave him a small bottle of pain pills, just in case, and also a file with his medical records. Patrick thanked him. He shook hands with Luis and said good-bye to a nurse.
Agent Myers waited outside his door with four large uniformed Military Police. "I'll make a deal with you, Patrick," he said. "If you behave, no handcuffs and leg chains now. Once we land, though, I have no choice."
"Thanks," Patrick said, and began walking gingerly down the hallway. His legs ached from toe to hip, and his knees were weak from lack of use. He held his head high, shoulders back, and nodded politely to the nurses as he walked past. Down the elevator to the basement, where a blue van waited with two more MP's, armed and scowling at the empty cars parked nearby. A strong hand under the arm, and Patrick was helped up and onto the middle bench. An MP handed him a pair of cheap aviator sunglasses. "Tfou'll need these," he said. "It's bright as hell out there."
The van never left the base. It moved slowly over blistering asphalt, through half-guarded checkpoints, never reaching thirty miles per hour. Not a word was spoken inside the van. Patrick looked through the thick shades and through the tinted windows at rows of barracks, then rows of offices, then a hangar. He had been there four days, he thought. Maybe three. He couldn't be sure because the drugs blurred the earlier hours. An air conditioner roared from the dash and kept them cool. He gripped his medical file, the only physical thing he owned at the moment
He thought of Ponta Pori, his home now, and wondered if he had been missed. What had they done to his house? Was the maid cleaning it? Probably not. And what about his car, the little red Beetle he loved so much? He knew only a handful of people in town. What were they saying about him? Probably nothing.
What difference did it make now? Regardless of the gossip in Ponta Pora, the folks in Bikm had certainly missed him. The prodigal son returns. The most famous Biloxian on the planet conies home, and how will they greet him? With leg chains and subpoenas. Why not a parade down Highway 90, along the Coast, to celebrate this local boy who made good? He put them on the map; he made their town famous. How many of them had been shrewd enough to own ninety million dollars?
He almost chuckled at his own silliness.
What jail would they put him in? As a lawyer, he had, at various times, seen all the local jails-City of Biloxi, Harrison County, even a federal holding cell at Keesler Air Force Base in Biloxi. He wouldn't be that lucky.
Would he get a cell to himself, or share it with common thieves and crackheads? An idea hit. He opened the file and quickly scanned the doctor's release notes. There it was, in bold letters-