John Grisham - The Brethren

"Actually, the lawyer picked the Bahamas," Spicer said.

"Anyway, the banks are pretty loose there. Lots of secrets get told. Lots of officials get bribed. Most of the serious money launderers stay away from the Bahamas. Panama is the current hot spot, and, of course, Grand Cayman is still rock solid."

Of course, of course, they all three nodded. Offshore was offshore, wasn't it? Just another example of trusting an idiot like Trevor.

Argrow watched them with their puzzled faces and thought how truly clueless they were. For three men with the ability to totally wreck the American electoral process, they seemed awfully naive.

"You haven't answered our question," Spicer said.

"Anything's possible in the Bahamas."

"So you can do it?"

"I can try. No guarantees."

"Here's the deal, " Spicer said. "You verify the account, and we'll do your appeals for free."

"That's not a bad deal." Argrow said.

"We didn't think so. Agreed?"

"Agreed."

For an awkward second they just looked at one another, proud of their mutual agreement but not sure who moved next. Finally, Argrow said, "I'll need to know something about the account."

"Such as?" Beech asked.

"Such as a name or a number."

"The account name is Boomer Realty, Ltd. The account number is 144-DXN-9593."

Argrow scribbled some notes on a sheet of scrap paper.

"Just curious." Spicer said as they watched him closely. "How do you plan to communicate with your contacts outside?"

"Phone," Argrow said without looking up.

"Not these phones," Beech said.

"These phones are not secure," Yarber said.

"You can't use these phones," Spicer said with an edge.

Argrow smiled and acknowledged their concerns, then he glanced over his shoulder and removed from his pants pocket an instrument of some sort, not much larger than a pocketknife. He held it between his thumb and index finger, and said, "This is a phone, gentlemen."

They stared in disbelief, then watched as he quickly unfolded it from the top and the bottom and from one side so that when properly opened it,still looked much too small for any meaningful conversation. "It's digital," he said. "Very secure."

"Who gets the monthly bill?" asked Beech.

"I have a brother in Boca Raton. The phone and the service were gifts from him." He snapped it back smartly, and it vanished before their eyes. Then he pointed to the small conference room behind them, to their chamber. "What's in there?" he asked.

"Just a conference room," Spicer said.

"It has no windows, right?"

"None, except for that small one in the door."

"All right. What if I go in there, get on the phone, and go to work.You three stay here and watch out for me. If anyone enters the library, come knock on the door."

The Brethren readily agreed, though they did not believe Argrow could pull it off.

The call went to the white van, parked a mile and a half from Trumble, on a gravel road sometimes maintained by the county. The road was next to a hay field, farmed by a man they'd yet to meet. The property line for the acreage owned by the federal government was a quarter of a mile away, but from where the van was sitting there was no sign of a prison.

Only two technicians were in the van, one fully asleep in the front seat, the other half asleep in the back with a headset on. When Argrow pressed the Send button on his fancy little gadget, a receiver in the van was activated, and both men came to life.

"Hello," he said. "This is Argrow"

"Yes, Argrow, Chevy One here, go ahead." said the technician in the back.

"I'm near the three stooges, going through the motions, supposedly making calls to friends on the outside to verify the existence of their account offshore. So far things are progressing even faster than I'd hoped."

"Sounds like it."

"Roger. I'll check in later." He pushed the End button, but kept the phone at his head and appeared to be deep in conversation. He sat on the edge of the table, then he walked around some, glancing occasionally at the Brethren and beyond.

Spicer couldn't help but sneak a look through the window of the door. "He's making calls." he said excitedly.

"What do you expect him to be doing?" asked Yarber, who was actually reading recent court decisions.

"Relax, Joe Roy," Beech said. "The money disappeared with Trevor."

Twenty minutes passed, and things became dull as usual. While Argrow worked the phones,- the judges killed time, waiting at first, then returning to more pressing business. It had been six days since Buster had left with their letter. No word from Buster meant he'd walked away clean, dropped off the note to Mr. Konyers, and was now somewhere far away. Give it three days to travel to Chevy Chase, and the way they had it figured Mr. Aaron Lake should now be scrambling with a plan to deal with them.

Prison had taught them patience. Only one deadline worried them. Lake had the nomination, which meant he would be vulnerable to their blackmail until November. If he won, they would have four years in which to torment him. But if he lost he would fade quickly away, like all the losers. "Where's Dukakis now?" Beech had asked.

They had no plans to wait until November. Patience was one thing, release was another. Lake was their one fleeting opportunity to walk away with enough money to coast forever.

They intended to give it a week, then write another letter to Mr. Al Konyers in Chevy Chase. They weren't sure how to smuggle it out, but they would think of something. Link, the guard up front whom Trevor had been bribing for months, was their first prospect.

Argrow's phone presented an option. "If he'll let us use it." Spicer said, "then we can call Lake, call his campaign office, his congressional office, call every damned number we can get from directory assistance. Leave the message that Ricky in rehab really needs to see Mr. Lake. That'll scare the hell out of him."

"But Argrow will have a record of our calls, or at least his brother will," Yarber said.

"So? We'll pay him for the calls, and so what if they know we're trying to call Aaron Lake. Right now, half the country is trying to call him. Argrow won't have a clue why we're doing it."

A brilliant idea, one they pondered for a long time. Ricky in rehab could make the calls and leave the messages. Spicer in Trumble could do the same. Poor Lake would get hounded.

Poor Lake. The man had money pouring in so fast he couldn't count it.

After an hour, Argrow emerged from the chamber and announced he was making progress, "I need to wait an hour, then make a few more calls," he said. "What about lunch?"

They were anxious to continue their discussion, and they did so over sloppy joes and coleslaw.

Pursuant to Mr. Lake's precise instructions, Jayne drove alone to Chevy Chase. She found the shopping center on Western Avenue, and parked in front of Mailbox America. With Mr. Lake's key, she opened the box, removed eight pieces of junk mail, and placed them in a folder. There were no personal letters. She walked to the counter and informed the clerk that she wished to close the box on behalf of her employer, Mr. Al Konyers.

The clerk pecked a few times on a keyboard. The records indicated that a man named Aaron L. Lake had rented the box in the name of Al Konyers about seven months earlier. The rental had been paid for twelve months, so nothing was owed.

"That guy running for President?" the clerk asked as she slid a form across the counter.

"Yes." Jayne said, signing where indicated.

"No forwarding address?" No.

She left with the folder and headed south, back into the city. She had not stopped to question Lake's storyabout renting the box in a clandestine effort to expose fraud at the Pentagon. It didn't matter to her, nor did she have time to ask a lot of questions. Lake had them sprinting eighteen hours a day, and she had far more important things to worry about.