“How can we leave the country?” Beech asked. “We have no passports, no papers.”
“My brother will have all of that. You will be given new identities, with a complete set of papers, including credit cards. It’s all waiting for you.”
“Two years?” Spicer asked, and Yarber looked at him as if he’d lost his mind.
“That’s right. Two years. It’s part of the deal. Agreed?”
“I don’t know,” Spicer said, his voice shaking. Spicer had never left the United States.
“Don’t be foolish,” Yarber snapped at him. “A complete pardon, a million bucks a year for two years to live abroad. Hell, yes, we’ll take the deal.”
A sudden knock on the door terrified them. Two guards were looking in. Argrow grabbed the copies of the pardons and stuffed them in his pocket. “Do we have a deal, gentlemen?”
They nodded yes, and all three shook hands with him.
“Good,” he said. “Remember, act surprised.”
They followed the guards to the warden’s office where they were introduced to two very stern-faced men from Washington, one from Justice, one from the Bureau of Prisons. The warden completed the stiff introductions without getting any of the names confused, then he handed each of the three a legal-sized document. They were the originals of what Argrow had just shown them.
“Gentlemen,” the warden announced with as much drama as he could muster, “you’ve just been pardoned by the President of the United States.” He smiled warmly as if he were responsible for this good news.
They stared at their pardons, still in shock, still dizzy with a thousand questions, the biggest of which was, How in the world did Argrow scoop the warden and show them the documents first?
“I don’t know what to say,” Spicer managed to mumble, then the other two mumbled something else.
The man from Justice said, “The President reviewed your cases, and he felt that you have served enough time. He feels very strongly that you have more to offer your country and your communities by once again becoming productive citizens.”
They stared blankly at him. This fool didn’t know they were about to assume new names and flee their country and their communities for at least two years? Who was on which side here?
And why was the President granting them clemency when they had enough dirt to destroy Aaron Lake, the man who was primed to defeat the Vice President? It was Lake who wanted them silenced, not the President? Right?
How could Lake convince the President to pardon them?
How could Lake convince the President to do anything, at this stage of the campaign?
They clutched their pardons and sat speechless, their faces drawn tight as the questions hammered away inside.
The man from the Bureau said, “You should feel honored. Clemency is very rare.”
Yarber managed to acknowledge him with a quick nod, but even then he was thinking, Who’s waiting for us on the outside?
“I think we’re in shock,” Beech said.
It was a first for Trumble, inmates so important that the President decided to pardon them. The warden was quite proud of the three, but uncertain as to how the moment should be commemorated. “When would you like to leave?” he asked, as if they might want to stick around for a party.
“Immediately,” Spicer said.
“Very well. We’ll drive you to Jacksonville.”
“No thanks. We’ll have someone pick us up.”
“Okay, then, well, there’s some paperwork.”
“Make it quick,” Spicer said.
They were each given a duffel bag to collect their things in. As they walked rather briskly across the grounds, all still very close together and in perfect step, with a guard trailing behind, Beech said, under his breath, “So who got us the damned pardons?”
“It wasn’t Lake,” Yarber said, just barely loud enough to be heard.
“Of course it wasn’t Lake,” Beech said. “The President wouldn’t do a damned thing Aaron Lake asked him to.”
They walked faster.
“What difference does it make?” Spicer asked.
“It doesn’t make any sense,” Yarber said.
“So what’re you gonna do, Finn?” Spicer asked without looking. “Stay here for a few days and ponder the situation? And then if you figure out who’s responsible for the pardon, then maybe you won’t accept it? Gimme a break.”
“Somebody else is behind this,” Beech said.
“Then I love this somebody else, okay?” Spicer said. “I’m not sticking around to ask questions.”
They ransacked their rooms in a mad rush, never slowing to say good-bye to anyone. Most of their friends were scattered around the camp anyway.
They had to hurry before the dream was over, or before the President changed his mind.
AT ELEVEN-FIFTEEN, they walked through the front door of the administration building, the same door they’d each entered years ago, and waited on the hot sidewalk for their ride. None of the three looked back.
The van was driven by Wes and Chap, though they gave other names. They used so many.
Joe Roy Spicer lay down on the backseat, and covered his eyes with a forearm, determined not to see anything until he was far away. He wanted to cry and he wanted to scream, but he was numb with euphoria—sheer, uncut, unabashed euphoria. He hid his eyes and smiled a goofy smile. He wanted a beer and he wanted a woman, preferably his wife. He’d call her soon. The van was rolling now.
The suddenness of the release had them rattled. Most inmates count the days, and in doing so know with some measure of accuracy when the moment will come. And they know where they’re going, and who’s waiting for them there.
But the Brethren knew so little. And the few things they knew, they didn’t really believe. The pardons were a hoax. The money was nothing but bait. They were being taken away to be slaughtered, same as poor Trevor. The van would stop any minute, and the two goons up front would search their bags, find their dirty files, then murder them in a roadside ditch.
Maybe. But, at the moment, they did not miss the safety of Trumble.
Finn Yarber sat behind the driver and watched the road ahead. He held his pardon, ready to present it to anyone who might stop them and tell them the dream was over. Next to him was Hatlee Beech, who after a few minutes on the road began to cry, not loud, but with his eyes tightly closed and his lips quivering.
Beech had reason to cry. With almost eight and a half years to go, clemency meant more to him than to his two colleagues combined.
Not a word was uttered between Trumble and Jacksonville. As they approached the city, and the roads became wider and the traffic heavier, the three watched the scenery with great curiosity. People were driving, moving about. Planes overhead. Boats on the rivers. Things were normal again.
They inched through the traffic on Atlantic Boulevard, thoroughly enjoying every moment of the congestion. The weather was hot, the tourists were out, ladies with long bronze legs. They saw the seafood restaurants and bars with signs advertising cold beer and cheap oysters. When the street ended, the beach began, and they pulled under the veranda of the Sea Turtle. They followed one of their escorts through the lobby, where they caught a look or two because they were still dressed alike. Up to the fifth floor, and off the elevator before Chap said, “Your rooms are right here, these three.” He was pointing down the hall. “Mr. Argrow would like to see you as soon as possible.”
“Where is he?” Spicer asked.
Chap pointed again. “Over there, in the corner suite. He’s waiting.”
“Let’s go,” Spicer said, and they followed Chap into the corner, their duffel bags bouncing against one another.
Jack Argrow looked nothing like his brother. He was much shorter, and his hair was blond and wavy where his brother’s was dark and thinning. It was just a casual observation, but the three noticed it and mentioned it later. He shook their hands quickly, but only to be polite. He was edgy and talked very fast. “How’s my brother?” he asked
.
“He’s doing well,” Beech said.
“We saw him this morning,” Yarber added.
“I want him out of prison,” Jack snapped, as if they’d put him there in the first place. “That’s what I’ll get outta this deal, you know. I’ll get my brother out of prison.”
They glanced at each other; nothing could be said.
“Have a seat,” Argrow said. “Look, I don’t know how or why I’m in the middle of this, you understand. It makes me very nervous. I’m here on behalf of Mr. Aaron Lake, a man I believe will be elected, and make a great President. I suppose I can then get my brother outta prison. But anyway, I’ve never met Mr. Lake. Some of his people approached me about a week ago, and asked me to get involved in a very secret and delicate matter. That’s why I’m here. It’s a favor, okay? I don’t know everything, you understand?” The sentences were clipped and rapid. He talked with his hands and his mouth, and he couldn’t be still.
The Brethren offered no response, none was really expected.
Two hidden cameras captured the scene and sent it immediately to Langley, where Teddy, York, and Deville watched it on a wide screen in the bunker. The ex-judges, now ex-inmates, looked like freshly released POW’s, dazed and subdued, still in uniform, still in disbelief. They sat close together, watching Agent Lyter give a splendid performance.
After trying to outthink and outmaneuver them for three months, it was fascinating to finally see them. Teddy studied their faces, and grudgingly admitted a little admiration. They’d been shrewd and lucky enough to hook the right victim; now they were free and about to be well compensated for their ingenuity.
“Okay, look, the first thing is the money,” Argrow barked. “Two million each. Where do you want it?”
It was not the sort of question they’d had much experience with. “What are the options?” asked Spicer.
“You have to wire it somewhere,” Argrow snapped back.
“How about London?” Yarber asked.
“London?”
“We’d like the money, all of it, all six million, to be wired at one time, to one account, to a bank in London,” Yarber said.
“We can wire it anywhere. Which bank?”
“Can you help us with the details?” Yarber asked.
“I’m told we can do anything you want. I’ll have to make a few calls. Why don’t you go to your rooms, take a shower, change clothes. Give me fifteen minutes.”
“We don’t have any clothes,” Beech said.
“There are some things in your rooms.”
Chap led them down the hall and gave them their keys.
Spicer stretched out on his king-sized bed and stared at the ceiling. Beech stood in the window of his room and looked north, for miles along the beach, the blue water gently rolling onto the white sand. Children played near their mothers. Couples strolled hand in hand. A fishing boat inched along on the horizon. Free at last, he said to himself. Free at last.
Yarber took a long hot shower—complete privacy, no time limit, plenty of soap, thick towels. Someone had placed a selection of toiletries on the vanity—deodorant, shaving cream, razors, toothpaste, toothbrush, floss. He took his time, then changed into a pair of Bermuda shorts, sandals, and a white tee shirt. He’d be the first to leave, and he needed to find a clothing store.
Twenty minutes later they reconvened in Argrow’s suite, and they brought with them their collection of files wrapped neatly in a pillowcase. Argrow was just as anxious as before. “There’s a large bank in London called Metropolitan Trust. We can send the money there, then you can do with it whatever you want.”
“That’s fine,” Yarber said. “The account will be in my name only.”
Argrow looked at Beech and Spicer, and they nodded their approval. “Very well. I assume you have a plan of some sort.”
“We do,” Spicer said. “Mr. Yarber here will leave for London this afternoon, and when he gets there he’ll go to the bank and take care of the money. If all goes well, then we’ll leave soon afterward.”
“I assure you things will go well.”
“And we believe you. We’re just being careful.”
Argrow handed two sheets of paper to Finn. “I need your signature to start the wire and open the account.” Yarber scribbled his name.
“Have you had lunch?” he asked.
They shook their heads. Lunch was certainly on their minds, but they weren’t sure how to proceed.
“You’re free men now. There are some nice restaurants just a few blocks from here. Go enjoy yourselves. Give me an hour to start the wire. Let’s meet here at two-thirty.”
Spicer was holding the pillowcase. He sort of waved it at Argrow and said, “Here are the files.”
“Right. Just throw them on the sofa there.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
THEY LEFT THE HOTEL on foot, without escorts, without restrictions, but with their pardons in their pockets, just in case. And though the sun was warmer near the beach, the air was certainly lighter. The sky was clearer. The world was pretty again. Hope filled the air. They smiled and laughed at almost anything. They strolled along Atlantic Boulevard, and mixed easily with the tourists.
Lunch was steak and beer at a sidewalk café, under an umbrella, so they could watch the foot traffic. Little was said as they ate and drank. Everything was seen, though, especially the younger ladies in shorts and skimpy tops. Prison had turned them into old men. Now they felt the urge to party.
Especially Hatlee Beech. He’d had wealth and status and ambition, and as a federal judge he’d had what was all but impossible to lose—a lifetime appointment. He’d fallen hard, lost everything, and during his first two years at Trumble he’d existed in a state of depression. He had accepted the fact that he would die there, and he’d seriously considered suicide. Now, at the age of fifty-six, he was emerging from the darkness in a rather splendid fashion. He was fifteen pounds lighter, nicely tanned, in good health, divorced from a woman who had money but not much else to offer, and about to collect a fortune. Not a bad middle-aged rally, he told himself. He missed his children, but they’d followed the money and forgotten about him.
Hatlee Beech was ready for some fun.
Spicer was also looking for a party, preferably one at a casino. His wife had no passport, so it would be a few weeks before she could join him in London, or wherever he might land. Did they have casinos in Europe? Beech thought so. Yarber had no idea, and didn’t care.
Finn was the most reserved of the three. He drank a soda instead of beer, and he wasn’t as interested in the flesh passing by. Finn was already in Europe. He’d never leave, never return to his native land. He was sixty, very fit, now with lots of money, and was about to bum around Italy and Greece for the next ten years.
Across the street, they found a small bookstore and bought several travel books. In a shop specializing in beachwear, they found just the right sunglasses. Then it was time to see Jack Argrow again, and finish the deal.
KLOCKNER AND COMPANY watched them stroll back to the Sea Turtle. Klockner and company were weary of Neptune Beach and Pete’s and the Sea Turtle and the crowded rental. Six agents, including Chap and Wes, were still there, all very anxious for another assignment. The unit had discovered the Brethren, plucked them from inside Trumble, brought them to the beach, and now they just wanted them to leave the country.
Jack Argrow had not touched the files, or at least they appeared untouched. They were still wrapped in the pillowcase, on the sofa, in the exact spot Spicer had left them.
“The wire is under way,” Argrow said as they settled into his suite.
Teddy was still watching from Langley. The three were now wearing all manner of beach garb. Yarber had a fishing cap with a six-inch bill. Spicer had a straw hat and a yellow tee shirt of some variety. Beech, the Republican, wore khaki shorts, a knit pullover, and a golf cap.
There were three large envelopes on the dining table. Argrow handed one to each of the Brethren. “Inside, you’ll fin
d your new identities. Birth certificates, credit cards, Social Security cards.”
“What about passports?” asked Yarber.
“We have a camera set up in the next room. The passports and driver’s licenses will need photos. It’ll take thirty minutes. There’s also five thousand dollars cash in those small envelopes there.”
“I’m Harvey Moss?” Spicer asked, looking at his birth certificate.
“Yes. You don’t like Harvey?”
“I guess I do now.”
“You look like a Harvey,” Beech said.
“And who are you?”
“Well, I’m James Nunley.”
“Nice to meet you, James.”
Argrow never cracked a smile, never relaxed for a second. “I need to know your travel plans. The people in Washington really want you out of the country.”
“I need to check flights to London,” Yarber said.
“We’ve already done that. A flight to Atlanta leaves Jacksonville in two hours. At seven-ten tonight, there’s a flight leaving Atlanta for London Heathrow that arrives early tomorrow morning.”
“Can you get me a seat?”
“It’s already done. First class.”
Finn closed his eyes and smiled.
“And what about you?” Argrow asked, looking at the other two.”
“I kinda like it here,” Spicer said.
“Sorry. We have a deal.”
“We’ll take the same flights tomorrow,” Beech said. “Assuming all goes well with Mr. Yarber.”
“Do you want us to handle the reservations?”
“Yes, please.”
Chap eased into the room without making a sound, and took the pillowcase from the sofa. He left with the files.
“Let’s do the photos,” Argrow said.
FINN YARBER, now traveling as a Mr. William McCoy of San Jose, California, flew to Atlanta without incident. For an hour he walked the concourses of the airport, rode the underground shuttles, and thoroughly enjoyed the frenzy and chaos of being in the midst of a million people in a hurry.
His first-class seat was a massive leather recliner. After two glasses of champagne, he began to drift, and to dream. He was afraid to sleep because he was afraid to wake up. He was certain he would be back on his top bunk, staring at the ceiling, counting off another day at Trumble.
John Grisham Page 32
