John Grisham - The Associate

If Kyle was supposed to be impressed, he was not. He simply shrugged as if to say, “Big deal. The least you could do.”

Delano pressed on. “It’s urgent that you get out of town, Mr. McAvoy. I suggest that we take you into protective custody for a few days, let the dust settle, give us some time to track down Bennie Wright.”

“And if you don’t find him?” Kyle asked.

“Let’s talk about that later. We have a small jet waiting at Teterboro Airport. We’ll have you there in thirty minutes. You’ll have protection around the clock until something changes.” The crisp precision of Delano’s plans left no doubt that the dangers were indeed substantial. Kyle could not argue. He was now the double agent, as well as the government’s star witness in the event Bennie got caught. If they would murder Baxter to keep him away from Elaine, it was hard to imagine what they would do to Kyle.

“Let’s go,” Delano said.

“I need a minute with my client,” Roy said.

“Certainly,” said Delano as he snapped his fingers and the room emptied. Roy closed the door, and when they were alone, he said, “I’ll call Scully and put them off.”

Kyle withdrew his FirmFone and said, “No need. I’ll check in with Doug Peckham and tell him I’m sick. Bennie never got his hands on my little phone here.”

“Fine. It’s best if I keep the briefcase and the computer.”

“Just don’t let the FBI have it.”

“I won’t.”

They shook hands. Roy said, “You did the right thing.”

“Right or wrong, it didn’t work.”

“You didn’t hand over anything, Kyle. You didn’t breach a client’s confidence.”

“Let’s argue later.”

“Be safe.”

John McAvoy was enjoying a peaceful Thursday morning at his desk when a secretary rang in with the news that two gentlemen from the FBI had dropped by for a surprise visit. They were quickly shown in. Introductions were made, badges flashed, coffee declined. “Is he all right?” John asked.

“He’s fine,” the agent named Halsey said. The one named Murdock agreed, nodding with smug assurance.

“What’s happened?”

“Kyle has informed us that you are aware of the plans he had to help apprehend his handler,” Halsey said.

“Yes. I know the background and I know what he had in mind. What’s happened?”

Both agents shifted weight. Murdock took over. “Well, things didn’t go as planned. Kyle secured the documents, and he was supposed to meet the handler around ten last night in a midtown hotel. The handler didn’t show, fled at the last moment. As of now, we have not apprehended him.”

John closed his eyes, removed his reading glasses, and lit a cigarette. “Where’s Kyle?”

“He’s with us, in protective custody. He’s safe, and he’s anxious to talk to you. That will not be possible at this moment.”

A blast of blue smoke escaped from John’s side of the desk. “Protective custody?” he repeated. The smoke drifted over and began settling on Halsey and Murdock.

“Afraid so. He could be in danger.”

“Who botched the operation?”

“Not sure it was botched, or how or why. Let’s just say there is a lot of investigating going on right now.”

“When can I talk to him?”

“Soon,” Halsey said.

“We’re out of Philly,” Murdock said. “But we’re here in York for the next few days. Our job is to relay messages to you.” Both agents withdrew business cards. “Cell numbers on the back. Please don’t hesitate to call.”

KYLE SLEPT LATE into the morning, and awoke to the sounds of waves rolling onto a beach. He was adrift in the clouds — a thick white comforter, puffy white pillows, a thick white bedspread piled at his feet. The queen-sized bed was topped with a white canopy. He knew where he was, but it took a few minutes to convince himself he was really there.

The walls were adorned with cheap pastels of beach scenes. The floor was painted wood. He listened to the ocean and heard the distant calls of seagulls. There were no other sounds, quite a contrast to the early bustle of Chelsea. No alarm clock startling him at some obscene hour. No rush to shower and dress and hurry through the frantic rituals of getting to the office. None of that, at least not today.

This was not an unpleasant way to begin the rest of his life.

The bedroom was one of three in a modest two-story beach rental an hour east of Destin, Florida, on the Gulf, two hours and forty-eight minutes by Learjet from Teterboro Airport in New Jersey. They, he and his new friends, had landed at Destin just before 4:00 a.m. A van with armed drivers had scooped them up and raced along Highway 98, passing miles of empty condos and beach houses and small hotels. There were a few vacationers, judging by the parking lots, and many of the cars had Canadian license plates.

The two windows were half-open and the breeze blew the curtains. It was a full three minutes before Kyle thought about Bennie, but he fought the temptation and concentrated on the distant squawking of the seagulls. There was a slight knock at the door. “Yes,” Kyle answered with a scratchy voice.

It opened slightly, and Todd, his new best friend, wedged through his chubby face and said, “You wanted a ten o’clock wake-up call.”

“Thanks.”

“You okay?”

“Sure.”

Todd had joined the escape in Destin and was now assigned to guard their witness or snitch or whatever Kyle was considered to be. He was from the Pensacola office, went to Auburn, was only two years older than Kyle himself, and talked far more than any other FBI agent, real or fake, that he’d met so far in this ordeal.

Kyle, in boxers only, left the softness of the clouds and went next door to the large kitchen-den combo. Todd had been to the grocery store. The counter was covered with boxes of cereal, breakfast snacks, cookies, chips, all manner of boxed foods. “Coffee?” Todd asked.

“Sure.”

There were a few items of folded clothing on the kitchen table. Kyle’s other new best friend was Barry, an older, quieter type with premature gray hair and more wrinkles than any forty-year-old should have. Barry said, “Good morning. We’ve been shopping. Bought you a couple of T-shirts, shorts, a pair of khakis, deck shoes. Really nice stuff from the local Kmart. Don’t worry, Uncle Sam paid the bill.”

“I’m sure I’ll look fabulous,” Kyle said, taking a cup of coffee from Todd. Todd and Barry, both in khakis and polos, were unarmed but not far from their weapons. There was also a Nick and a Matthew somewhere close by.

“I gotta call the office,” Kyle said. “Check in, you know, tell them I’m sick and can’t work today. By now they’re already looking for me.”

Todd produced the FirmFone and said, “Be our guest. We’re told it’s secure. Just don’t give a hint as to where you are. Agreed?”

“Where am I?”

“Western Hemisphere.”

“Close enough.”

With his coffee and his phone, Kyle stepped outside onto a wide deck that looked over some dunes. The beach was long and beautiful, and deserted. The air was light, brisk, but far warmer than frigid New York. With great reluctance he looked at the phone. E-mails, texts, and voice mails from Doug Peckham, Dale, Sherry Abney, Tim Reynolds, Tabor, and a few others, but nothing to alarm him. He scanned them quickly, just the usual daily barrage of communications from very wired people with too much access to each other. Dale asked twice if he was okay.

He called Doug Peckham, got his voice mail, and reported that he was down with the flu, flat on his back, sick as a dog, and so on. Then he called Dale, who was in a meeting. He left the same message. One useless advantage of working with workaholics was that they had no time to worry about each other’s minor ailments. Got the flu— take some pills and sleep it off, but do not spread your germs at the office.