"And then to where?"
"London, on the Concorde."
They were on a busy street, with the FBI agents behind them. "Why are they behind us?" she asked.
"Protection."
She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead, and thought of Patrick in his small room at the hospital, bored, with little to do but think of places to send her. Then she noticed the car phone. "May I?" she said, lifting it.
"Sure." Birck was driving carefully, watching his mirrors as if he were chauffeuring the President.
Eva called Brazil and, switching to her native tongue, had a tearful reunion with her father, via satellite. He was well, and so was she. Both were liberated, though she didn't tell him where she'd spent the last three days. Kidnapping wasn't such a harsh ordeal after all, he joked. He had been treated superbly; not a single bruise. She promised to be home soon. Her legal work in the United States was almost over, and she was very homesick.
Birck listened without trying to, though he couldn't understand a word. When she hung up and finished wiping her eyes, he said, "There are some phone numbers in the letter, in case you get stopped again by customs. The FBI has lifted its alert, and they've agreed to allow you to travel under your passport for the next seven days."
She listened but said nothing.
"There's also a phone number in London, if something happens at Heathrow."
She finally opened the letter. It was from Sandy, on his letterhead. Things were proceeding nicely, and rapidly, in Biloxi. Call him at the hotel suite when she arrived at JFK. He would have further instructions.
In other words, he would tell her things Mr. Birck here shouldn't hear.
They arrived at the busy general aviation terminal on the north side of Miami International. The agents stayed with their car as Birck escorted her inside. The pilots were waiting. They pointed to a handsome little jet parked just outside, ready to take her anywhere she wanted. "Take me to Rio," she almost said. "Please, Rio."
She shook hands with Birck, thanked him for being so nice, and boarded her flight. No luggage. Not a stitch of extra clothing. Patrick would pay dearly for this. Let her get to London; give her a day along Bond and Oxford. She'd have more clothes than this little jet could carry.
AT SUCH an early hour, J. Murray looked especially tired and disheveled. He managed to grunt a hello to the secretary who opened the door, and he said yes to coffee, strong and black. Sandy greeted him, took his wrinkled blazer, and showed him to a parlor where they sat and reviewed the property settlement agreement.
"This is much better," Sandy said when he finished. Trudy had already signed off on the deal. J. Murray couldn't endure another visit by her and her slimy gigolo. She and Lance had fought yesterday in his office. J. Murray had been doing dirty divorces for years, and he'd bet good money that Lance's days were numbered. The financial strain was gnawing at Trudy.
"We'll sign it," Sandy said.
"Why wouldn't you? You're getting everything you want."
"It's a fair settlement, under the circumstances."
"Yeah, yeah."
"Look, Murray, there's been a significant development involving your client and her lawsuit with Northern Case Mutual."
"Do tell."
"Yes, there's a lot of background which is really not relevant to your client, but the bottom line is this: Northern Case Mutual has agreed to drop its lawsuit against Trudy."
J. Murray just sat there for a few seconds, then his bottom lip slowly departed from his top. Was this a joke?
Sandy reached for some papers, a copy of the settlement agreement with Northern Case Mutual. He had already blacked out sensitive paragraphs, but there was plenty for J. Murray to read.
"You're kidding," he mumbled as he took the agreement. He scanned past the blackened lines without the least bit of curiosity, and came to the heart of the matter, two paragraphs beautifully untouched by censors. He read clear and precise language which called for the immediate dismissal of the lawsuit against his client.
He didn't care why it was happening. An impenetrable shroud of mystery surrounded Patrick, and he wasn't about to start asking questions.
"What a pleasant surprise," he said.
"I thought you'd like it."
"She keeps everything?"
"Everything she has left."
J. Murray read it again, slowly. "Can I keep this?" he asked.
"No. It's confidential. But a motion to dismiss will be filed today, and I'll fax you a copy."
"Thanks."
"There's one other item," Sandy said. He handed J. Murray a copy of the Monarch-Sierra settlement, equally as censored. "Look on page four, third paragraph."
J. Murray read the sentences establishing a trust to be funded to the tune of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, for the benefit of little Ashley Nicole Lanigan. Sandy McDermott would act as trustee. The money was to be used only for the health and education of the child, and any unused funds would be paid to the child upon her thirtieth birthday.
"I don't know what to say." But he was already thinking of how this might play back in his office.
Sandy waved him off as if it were nothing.
"Anything else?" J. Murray asked with a bright smile. Any more goodies?
"That's it. The divorce is settled. It's been a pleasure."
They shook hands and J. Murray left, his step a bit quicker. He rode the elevator alone, his mind racing wildly. He'd tell her how he'd played hardball with the rascals, how he'd finally just had it up to here with their outrageous demands, how he had barged into the meeting and threatened a vicious trial unless they yielded and made concessions. He had tried many such cases, was in fact known to be quite a courtroom brawler.
Damn the adultery charges! Damn the nudie pictures! His client was wrong but was still entitled to fairness. There was a poor innocent child to protect here!
He'd tell her how they'd broken and run in full retreat. He had demanded a trust fund for the child, and Patrick had collapsed under the weight of his own guilt. Here, they insisted, take a quarter of a million dollars.
And he'd fight like hell, fight them forever to protect the assets of his client, who had done nothing wrong by taking the two point five million. Out of fear, they had folded and scrambled to find a way to save Trudy's money. These details were murky at the moment, but he had an hour's worth of driving to work on the story.
By the time he got to his office, it would be a magnificent victory.
EYEBROWS WERE RAISED at the Concorde counter at JFK because she had no luggage. A supervisor was called and a huddle ensued as Eva fought to control her nerves. She couldn't take another arrest. She loved Patrick, but this was far above and beyond the call of romance. Not long ago she'd had a promising career as a lawyer in a city she loved. Then Patrick came along.
Suddenly there were warm British smiles everywhere. She was directed to the Concorde lounge, where she had coffee and called Sandy's number in Biloxi.
"Are you okay?" he asked when he heard her voice.
"I'm fine, Sandy. I'm at JFK, en route to London. How's Patrick?"
"Wonderful. We've cut the deal with the federal folks."
"How much?"
"A hundred and thirteen million," he replied, and waited to hear a response. Patrick had been perfectly noncommittal when he'd been told the size of the repayment. She followed the same script.
"When?" was all she said.
"I'll have instructions when you get to London. There's a room at the Four Seasons in the name of Leah Pires."