by Tim Dorsey
“I certainly didn’t,” said Benmont.
“Someone out there was sharp.” He whistled in grudging admiration. “In the old days, it was tiny cameras in cigarette packs, microfilm in pumpkins, and listening devices in cuckoo clocks. Today it’s computers. And forget the government. It’s corporate America with their marketing software who’ve amassed larger stockpiles of private data on our citizens than we ever dreamed possible.”
“‘Terms of agreement’?” said Benmont.
Carlson nodded. “Why hack into the federal system when our enemies can buy all they need from a company such as yours?”
“Lucky me it fell on my desk.” Benmont’s head drooped. “And I just handed it all over on a platter. In bulk.”
“You didn’t know,” said the agent. “And you did us a favor in a way. New numbers are being issued all over the country as we speak.”
“Please tell me you have a plan.”
“Yes,” said Carlson. “First we need to get you someplace safe, temporarily. Then I need to find a way to prove you were only an unwitting bystander.”
“How are you going to do that?” asked Benmont.
“Unfortunately, your company’s law firm grabbed the hard drives, and then they were stolen from the home of that murdered attorney, so all records of your project—and anything that could prove your innocence—are gone. The only thing you’ve got right now is my belief in you. Please tell me you still have a memory stick or something.”
“Of course,” said Benmont. “Who doesn’t back up their work?”
“Where is it?”
“In my car up the street. I didn’t want to park here.”
“Excellent. I’ll need it.” Carlson pulled out what looked like a cell, but more elaborate.
“What the heck’s that?”
“A secure satellite phone.” The agent punched buttons. “I’m calling in a favor, the next part of my plan. Like I said, until we know who the mole is, I don’t know who I can trust at the Bureau. With one exception. There was an instructor of mine at the academy in Quantico. He’s risen fast through the ranks and is now essentially the assistant, assistant, assistant director. Name’s McCreedy.”
“Doesn’t sound that high up.”
“High enough to be above the fray and start an internal investigation that will clear you.” Carlson listened to the phone ring. “I haven’t told a soul about my findings with your list, because if the wrong person gets wind, I could be in as much danger as you—and more importantly, my efforts to exonerate you will be buried. Some gears will need to turn in the meantime, but as soon as my theory reaches McCreedy’s ear, you’re practically home free.”
“Is he answering?”
The agent waved for him to be quiet.
“. . . Wait for the tone . . .” Beep.
“Hi, George. It’s Nelson calling again. They’ve said you’ve been in meetings all day, but I have something top priority that I can’t leave in your voice mail. Call me as soon as you can.”
Click.
“McCreedy’s a great guy,” Carlson told Benmont. “He’s actually coming down to Florida soon for a professional retreat in Sanibel, so hopefully if all this has blown over by then, you might get to meet him.” The agent slid a matchbook across the bar.
“What’s this?” asked Benmont.
“Your contact at the safe house. I’m taking you there personally, so that number is only a last resort in case we get separated for some reason, like taking evasive maneuvers to lose a tail.” The agent threw cash on the bar. “Number’s inside. It’s written in reverse in case you’re captured.”
“Captured? You said I was almost home free.”
“You are. Just standard procedure.” Carlson stood up. “Let’s get to your car and secure the files on that memory stick.”
The Crown Vic drove slowly down Gulf Boulevard.
Benmont pointed behind a dry cleaners. “It’s the Nissan.”
Carlson pulled up, and everyone got out. “Where it is?”
“In the trunk.” Benmont pulled out his keys and popped the lid. “There it is, next to the spare.”
Carlson grabbed it and slammed the trunk lid when his satellite phone rang. “We’re in luck. It’s McCreedy. Here’s the beginning of your freedom . . .” He raised the phone to his head. “Yes, sir, thank you for calling me back. You know that situation in Florida? I’ve caught a break. It’s about that data analyst everyone’s looking for . . . Believe it or not, he’s right here with me. Sir, you need to know that—”
Pop.
Benmont and Sonic looked at each other, then down at the agent with the spreading red stain in the middle of his chest.
“Is he fooling around?” asked Sonic.
“I think he’s dead,” said Benmont.
Pop, pop, pop . . .
Pings and sparks off the back of the car. The windows didn’t shatter because the rounds were too high velocity. Just a neat, horizontal row of holes surrounded by spiderweb cracks.
The pair hit the ground, slithering through hot gravel to the Nissan’s doors.
Pop, pop, pop . . .
They crawled inside and kept their heads low as Benmont threw the car into gear and took off.
Sonic looked over the back of the seat out the cracked window. “I don’t see anybody.”
Benmont drove in a box of four consecutive right turns.
“What are you doing?” asked Sonic.
“I don’t know, but it’s something Carlson said, so I think it’s good.”
“Still nobody following,” said a turned-around Sonic. “How on earth did we escape?”
“Don’t jinx us.” Another right turn. “Whoever ambushed us was probably set up for our meeting at the bar, and was waiting until we got to my car, but didn’t know it was parked that far away. I know a little about high-powered sniper rifles. The first shot was chambered and steady, but then he had to bolt the rest in a hurry.”
They sped across a drawbridge for the mainland.
“Still nobody back there.” Sonic faced forward in his seat and covered his eyes. “What are we going to do now?”
Benmont pulled a matchbook from his pocket and opened the cover.
Chapter 33
Boca Shores
The carpeting was wall-to-wall and eggshell, two quilted chairs, a sofa, oversize cushions. In other words, just like every other trailer in the retirement park.
With one exception.
A houseguest slowly moved along one of the walls, examining showpieces lovingly displayed on custom glass shelving.
“I never asked,” said Tofer. “Are you married?”
“Not anymore,” said Ted. “And if you were ever married, you’d know a husband could never decorate the living room with model rockets.”
“Man, it’s like you kept them all,” said Tofer, squinting up close to a Mercury capsule. “I remember a lot of these from your old bedroom but never realized all the detail you put into them . . . So I guess you gave up shortwave?”
“Follow me . . .” Ted led his old friend down the hall and opened the door to the spare bedroom.
“Holy smokes,” said Tofer. “It’s like the radio room of an early NASA tracking station in the South Pacific.”
“Pretty much.” Ted pointed up. “Used to have a big antenna that could pick up everything to Antarctica, but the management here made me take it down because it didn’t conform to the park’s aesthetics. I mean, it’s a trailer park.”
“There’s a lot of that going around.”
A phone rang somewhere in the mobile home.
Ted grabbed it off the kitchen wall. “Hello? . . . Who? . . . My name? Why don’t you tell me who you are first? . . . I’m sorry but I don’t know anybody by that name. You must have the wrong number . . .” He was about to hang up. “. . . Wait, what? Could you repeat that last part? . . . Okay, do you have something to write with? . . .” A few minutes passed. “. . . Right, see you then.”
He hung up
.
Tofer was staring. “That was a most mysterious call.”
Ted opened the fridge. “You should have heard it from my end.”
“Don’t keep me in suspense,” said Tofer.
“I’m starting to think you might not be as paranoid as I first thought.” Ted bent down and reached for the top shelf.
“What are you doing?”
“Something a husband would never be allowed.” He drank straight from a container of orange juice.
“Holy shit!” said Tofer.
“What are you, my wife now?”
“No!” He held up the morning’s newspaper. Two mug shots on the front page, next to a larger photo of a crime scene.
“Oh, that,” said Ted. “We saw a pretty interesting fireworks show the other night. The Duncans had a close one.”
Tofer shook his head. “These aren’t the Duncans. They’re the Mulroneys.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Some years have passed, but I’m sure. Ike has aged well.” Tofer sped-read down the article. “I knew them from way back when.”
Ted took another swig of OJ. “Who are the Mulroneys?”
“A couple of our assets who became double agents for the U.S.,” said Tofer. “Or maybe they were working for the Americans all along. They did quite a bit of damage, exposed a lot of our Cuban counterparts in Miami. We eventually figured it out and they were marked to be ‘disappeared.’ All these years, that’s what I thought had happened.”
“Clearly our side was a step ahead and got them out,” Ted said wistfully. “Well, I’ll be. Living across from a couple of protected agents and never guessing in a million years.”
Tofer shook the newspaper. “It mentions a car bomb.”
Ted put the carton of juice away. “Hmm, your story, the Duncans, and now that phone call I just received.” He slowly began to nod. “It looks like I might be coming out of retirement.”
Later That Afternoon
Earl didn’t recognize the car as it approached the guard booth at Boca Shores. He stepped out and hitched his pants from second nature.
“How can I help you fellas?”
They gave their names.
Earl grabbed a clipboard from inside the booth and found a spot in the middle of the top page. “Yes, he’s expecting you . . . Have a nice day.”
The guard arm raised.
“. . . Let’s . . . make . . . a deal! . . .”
The car circled the lake until it found the address and pulled up the drive. Nervous eyes glanced around before the passengers ran for the screen door.
Ted opened it and they rushed inside.
The two new guests were hyperventilating, standing on random spots on the carpet and looking around in a general state of bewilderment like they’d never seen furniture before.
“Why don’t you have a seat on the couch?” said Ted. “Just take slow, deep breaths and calm down. You’ve been through a lot.”
They did.
Ted went to the fridge again and brought them each a soda.
Shaking hands tried to pop the metal tabs.
“Let me give you a hand there,” said Ted. Pop, pop. “Now then, which one of you is Benmont?”
A hand went up. “Here.”
Ted turned the other way. “That would make you Sonic.”
A head nodded and sipped a soft drink.
“I have a question,” said Benmont. “Why did Carlson give us your phone number?”
“Long story short,” said Ted, “he was a rookie agent when I was winding down my career. We hit it off like a son I never had, and stayed in touch all these years. Some of the field agents are instructed to make their own emergency arrangements that nobody else knows about in case an operation goes sideways and security is breached. So I agreed to fill the void. My phone number and trailer are his aces in the hole.”
“But why you?”
“Because I’m retired, off the grid. Which makes my safe house even safer.” Ted pulled up a chair and sat. “Now then, where’s Carlson?”
Benmont set his can down on the coffee table. “Dead, I think.”
“Dead!” Ted was back on his feet. “What do you mean, you think?”
“We didn’t stick around,” said Benmont. “Bullets were flying everywhere. Someone must have found out he was going to meet us.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this on the phone?” Ted demanded.
“We didn’t want you calling anyone,” said Benmont.
“That’s exactly what I should have done.” Ted reached for the wall phone. “That’s what I’m going to do now.”
“No! Stop!” said Benmont. “Carlson himself explained why he couldn’t call anyone. He figured everything out, but didn’t know who to trust. Someone killed him just for meeting us. Don’t you see?”
Ted took his hand away from the phone and returned to his chair. “Okay, now you are going to tell me everything. From the beginning, and don’t leave anything out. What the hell was this theory of yours?”
“It all started when I received this assignment as a data analyst, but something bothered me, so I wrote up a report . . .”
And for the next hour, Benmont laid it all out: dead boss, dead attorney, shootout in the company parking lot, all the way up to meeting Earl at the guard booth a few minutes earlier.
Ted sat in thought. “Now I understand why Carlson couldn’t exactly just bring you in according to procedure. And he did give you my phone number after all, so that fits.”
“There is one person you need to call,” said Benmont.
“Who’s that?”
“At the bar Carlson mentioned a guy named McCreedy.”
“Who’s that?” asked Ted.
“Someone who’s supposed to be way up in the Bureau,” said Benmont. “Carlson told me that McCreedy would trust his version of events, and he had enough power to launch an inquiry and straighten everything out. He mentioned that McCreedy is supposed to be coming to Florida soon for some kind of professional retreat.”
“Then it’s simple,” said Ted. “We just have to keep you two hidden until we can reach this McCreedy character. Piece of cake.”
“Really?” said Benmont.
“That was sarcasm.”
Night fell and Ted Pruitt put on a light jacket. “You three stay here. Stay away from the windows and don’t answer the door.”
Benmont, Sonic and Tofer sat in a row on the couch with expressions that said they wouldn’t have to be told twice.
Ted locked the screen door behind him. He strolled down a few homes and rang the doorbell on another screen door.
Lawrence Shepard came onto the porch. “Ted, what are you doing here?”
“You still hiding the Duncans?”
It was an open secret in the park. The Duncans didn’t want to be found right now, and an exploding car was a good enough reason for everyone. The residents closed ranks, no matter how many cops came to their door: “Nope, don’t have the slightest idea where they are.” Instead of the blue wall of silence, it was the silver wall.
Ted entered the living room. “The Mulroneys, I presume?”
The couple was stunned. Lawrence spun around. “How’d you know?”
“I’ve got a situation, too,” said Ted. “And I’ve just learned some things that shed light on your guests’ predicament . . .”
The bathroom door opened, and two people came out.
“But, Serge, I can go by myself.”
“I’m not about to leave you alone with the guest towels.”
“But I just wanted to wash my head.”
“Coleman, I think you’re the only adult with cradle cap.”
They entered the living room.
“Oh, hi, Ted,” said Serge. “Haven’t seen you since the big party at the clubhouse. Sorry about Coleman. We’ll pay for the shirt.”
Ted turned. “What are they doing here?”
“It’s okay,” said Lawrence. “He knows.”
“Every
one in the park knows the Duncans are here.”
“No,” said Lawrence. “He knows. The Mulroneys.”
“What?” said Ted. “Why did you tell him that?”
“I trust him,” said Lawrence. “And I needed some advice. He can navigate worlds that I didn’t even realize existed. So you said you had a situation, too?”
Ted stared at a grinning Serge for a moment. Well, if Serge knew about the Mulroneys, and the sky still hadn’t fallen . . . “Okay, you’ll all need to sit down for this . . .” And Ted got them up to speed on everything going on back at his own trailer, especially the Benmont List.
“Let me see if I have this straight,” said Lawrence. “If this so-called theory is correct, then the Duncans—I mean Mulroneys—were on that Social Security number list, which would explain the car bomb, as well as their dead houseguests a few days earlier?”
“It also means they’re still not safe,” said Ted. “Much bigger problem than the cops.”
“Now we have to go to the police,” said Lawrence.
“No,” said Ted. “This means we definitely can’t come forward. At least not until I can work this out and reach someone high up in the Bureau. I’ve been given a name.”
“I’m getting dizzy,” said Nancy Shepard. “I can understand a couple of retired spies living under assumed names here. They have to be somewhere, so why not? But now you’re telling me you’re also a former agent running a safe house with three more people lying low? That’s way too much of a coincidence for one retirement park.”
“I’m just retired FBI,” said Ted. “I never anticipated my trailer would ever actually be needed.”
An eager hand thrust toward the ceiling. “Ooo! Ooo! Ooo! Pick me!”
Lawrence sighed. “What is it, Serge?”
“In Florida, it’s barely a coincidence. Have you heard of the island of Sanibel near Fort Myers?”
“Sure,” said Nancy. “We went shell collecting there.”
“There are so many retired spies living there that if you threw a rock, it would ricochet off at least three spooks.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Lawrence.
“In 1974, a man named Porter Goss led an effort to incorporate the island and became its first mayor. He later was an eight-term congressman before being named by George W. Bush as director of the CIA, where he had spent much of the sixties as a clandestine agent in Latin America . . . If you need any further understanding why Sanibel is such a popular locale for our agents to retire, just check this map.” Serge thrust out his smartphone.