Invasion of Privacy (18 page)

Tank parked across the street from the Travis County Medical Examiner’s Office, a large white two-story building running the length of the block. “Go in,” he said. “Tell them that you’re the next of kin. You have a right to view your husband’s body.”

Mary got out and walked around the front of the Jeep. As she crossed the street, a dark Ford sedan pulled out of an alley and accelerated sharply, forcing her to jump back a step. A van belonging to the Medical Examiner followed closely behind. Before she could cross, another Ford sped past. The driver looked hard at her. She recognized the gleaming dome, the accusing eyes. The Ford braked, tires screeching, and backed up. Don Bennett rolled down the window.

“What are you doing here, Mary?”

“Why are you taking Joe to Virginia?”

“It’s not your concern.”

“He’s my husband. Of course it’s my concern.”

Another man sat in the passenger seat. He was older, well groomed, bristling with authority. She’d seen his face in one FBI publication or another, but his name escaped her.

“Go home,” said Bennett. “We’ve got everything under control.”

“You said that two days ago. I still don’t believe you. What are you hiding, Don?”

Bennett rolled up the window and drove down the street. Mary ran alongside for a few steps, banging her fist on the glass. “What is it, Don? What’s Semaphore?”

The Ford accelerated, leaving Mary behind as it barreled past a stop sign and disappeared from sight. Mary ran back to the Jeep and jumped into the passenger seat as a third Ford left the medical examiner’s parking lot.

“I asked him about Semaphore.”

“It rattled him. He took off like a bat out of hell.”

Tank made a U-turn and set off after the FBI convoy.

“Where are you going?” asked Mary. “We can’t keep up with them in this wreck.”

“We don’t need to,” said Tank.

Edward Mason smoothed his necktie and settled into the passenger seat for the drive to Bergstrom International Airport. “Mrs. Joseph Grant, I take it.”

“Yes,” said Don Bennett.

“You didn’t mention that she was so attractive.”

“Does it matter?”

“Or so forceful,” Mason added. He thought Bennett looked anxious, ill-at-ease.

“You asked if she’d give up. I said no. Does that qualify as forceful enough?”

Edward Mason registered his subordinate’s anger. He was beginning to wonder if Bennett was entirely with the program.

“Damn,” said Bennett. “The Jeep just got onto the freeway a quarter mile back.”

Mason swiveled to look out the rear window. He caught a flash of blue paint six or seven cars behind them. “I don’t want any record of our transferring Grant’s body to Quantico. If the public is made aware that we’re taking anything other than absolutely standard measures with regard to this case, they’ll demand to know why. Are we clear, Don?”

Bennett nodded. “Yessir.”

“Impress me.”

The Jeep was doing seventy on the interstate, the engine whining, the steering wheel shaking as if it had dropsy. Don Bennett and the medical examiner’s van were somewhere far ahead.

“Your husband never mentioned having to head out to Dripping Springs?” asked Tank.

“I would’ve remembered Dripping Springs, and I certainly would have remembered the Nutty Brown Cafe. We would have had a laugh.”

“And Semaphore? You never heard him mention it?”

“I told you already. I was looking at these doodles my husband had made on his legal pad and the word just popped out.”

“Out of the blue? Boom…
semaphore
? Just like that?”

“Yes—all those signal flags. When I figured out what he was drawing, the word flew out.”

“So all we have is Semaphore, secret trips to San Jose, and a receipt from the Nutty Brown Cafe,” said Tank.

“Don’t forget Judge Caruso,” said Mary. “And the fact that you think Joe wasn’t killed by a handgun, which means the informant didn’t kill him.”

“I don’t ‘think’ it,” said Tank. “I know it.”

He guided the car off I-35 onto 290 east. Mary looked out the window. A sign read,
AUSTIN-BERGSTROM INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT 8 MILES
. The city had vanished. Untended fields spread to either side of them, dotted with corrugated-tin warehouses, broken fences, rundown farm equipment. She caught a flash of black out of the corner of her eye. “Watch out!” she shouted as a Chevy Tahoe cut in front of them.

Tank hit the brakes and Mary lurched forward, the seat belt preventing her from striking the dash. Tank honked. “Watch it, asshole!” Then, to Mary: “Excuse me, ma’am.”

“Watch it, fucker!” shouted Mary. She looked at Tank’s wide eyes and the two shared a nervous laugh. “Excuse
me
, sir,” she said.

Tank moved into the left lane and the Tahoe mirrored him, blocking his progress. “Okay, funny guy, we get the picture. Now get out of the way.”

“Pass him,” said Mary.

“I can’t. There’s someone in the next lane.”

Mary looked to her right. Another SUV filled the lane beside them, maintaining the same speed as the Tahoe, effectively boxing them in. “Slow down,” she said. “Go around him.”

Tank slowed to fifty. The Tahoe blocking them slowed too, as did the SUV to their right. “There’s someone behind us, too.”

Mary looked over her shoulder. A third dark SUV sat behind them. The driver wore a suit and sunglasses. She looked at the car to their right. Also a white male in a dark suit with sunglasses. The car looked familiar, too. Joe drove the same model from the FBI’s motor pool.

“Bennett has his men surrounding us,” she said. “I recognize one of them from the hospital. Forget it, Mr. Potter. We’ve made our point. Let’s go home.”

“It’s our chance to get pictures of Bennett moving your husband to Quantico.”

“I’m not sure what good they’ll do.”

“Leave that to me.”

Mary glanced at her watch. It was two o’clock.
Jess
. “I’ve got to get my daughter from school,” she said. “I’m late already.”

“She can wait.”

“But…” Mary stifled her worries. Jess was fine. The fact of the matter was, she was used to waiting.

Tank continued to drive below the speed limit. Traffic was stacked behind them. He slowed and put on his turn signal. His intention was clear. He was giving up the chase. After a few seconds the SUV to their right accelerated, granting them room to scoot over. Tank changed lanes as they passed beneath a sign that read:
AIRPORT FREIGHT ½ MILE
.

The lead Tahoe accelerated. The SUV behind them broke off as well. In seconds the FBI’s vehicles disappeared from view. The pent-up traffic rushed ahead, passing them as if they were a rock in a stream.

“Seat belt on?” asked Tank.

“Yes. Why?”

“Hold on.” Tank yanked the car to the left as he downshifted into third gear and rammed the accelerator. Behind them, tires squealed. Horns blared. The Jeep bounded across two lanes of traffic and hit the dirt shoulder, its front tires leaving the ground before landing with a spine-jarring thud. Tank steered down the embankment and up the other side. Both oncoming lanes were empty. He cut across the highway and down the on-ramp.

“Look out!” shouted Mary.

Fifty yards ahead, a big rig was barreling straight at them. All Mary could see was its enormous chrome grille and the headlights, which she swore were staring right at her. The air horn sounded. Mary gripped the armrest and braced for impact. Tank slotted the Jeep left, his door striking the safety barrier, sparks flying. The rig passed within an inch, close enough that the change in air pressure made her ears pop.

Mary covered her head and screamed.

And then the rig had passed. They were down the ramp, turning right and shooting across the underpass and onto the frontage road.

“What was that?” asked Mary, pinned to her door.

“Highway chicken. Old college game.”

“You’re serious? You mean you’ve done that before?”

“I saw it all the way. We weren’t in danger for a second.”

“And the truck?”

“You got me there. Kind of came out of nowhere.”

Mary let go of the armrest as anger replaced fear. “Why did you do it? We’re too far behind to catch them anyway. They’re probably already aboard the plane.”

But Tank appeared unfazed. For the first time that day he didn’t appear as if he were about to throw up. “Trust me, Mrs. Grant. We’ll beat them there.”

The FBI’s convoy idled at the entry to the private aircraft concourse at Bergstrom International Airport as the gate rolled slowly open.

“We’re too late,” said Mary.

Two hundred yards separated them. Tank Potter had chosen to use the old construction road running across the back of the airport complex. The route was longer, but there were no traffic signals and few vehicles. She watched nervously as the gate continued on its track. The Tahoe and the other SUVs that had hemmed them in on the freeway pulled up behind the sedans. The last vehicle backed up and turned in order to block both lanes of traffic. They’d been spotted.

Driving much too fast, Tank rounded a last curve and turned into the private aircraft entry. Instead of stopping at the improvised roadblock, he swung the Jeep left, mounted the curb, and accelerated across an expanse of grass before swinging back onto the road.

The gate was three-quarters open. The first sedan nosed forward.

“Slow down,” said Mary.

Tank kept the Jeep on a collision course with the Ford.

“Stop,” said Mary. “You’re going too fast.”

“This may get ugly. Hold on.” Tank braked hard. The Jeep skidded before colliding with the front left wheel well of the Ford.

FBI agents swarmed from their vehicles and surrounded the Jeep, weapons drawn and aimed at Tank and Mary. Don Bennett strode toward them. “Out of the car.”

Tank climbed out, hands high. “It was an accident.”

“Shut up, Mr. Potter,” said Don Bennett. “Consider yourself under arrest.”

“You know me?” said Tank.

A younger agent approached from his rear and slugged him in the kidney. Tank dropped to a knee. The agent yanked his hands behind his back and cuffed him.

Mary confronted Bennett. “I’m not letting you take him.”

“Back off, Mary, or I’ll cuff you, too.”

“Everyone, let’s calm down.” The slim, authoritative man approached, buttoning his jacket. “Holster your firearms, gentlemen,” he said, turning in a circle, waving his agents’ guns down. “Mrs. Grant, I’m Edward Mason, deputy director. May I offer my sincerest condolences, both personally and on behalf of the Bureau?”

“I know your name.”

“I have to admit that I’m not used to having my car rammed.”

“And I’m not used to being blocked in on the freeway.”

Mason’s lips tightened in something between a grimace and a smile.

“I’m sure Don Bennett explained everything to you on the ride over,” said Mary. “Why are you taking Joe to Quantico?”

“The law requires us to perform a postmortem on your husband, and it’s our policy to carry out the procedure in Virginia with our own trusted team of physicians.”

“That’s not true,” said Tank.

Mason continued, unruffled. “I understand it’s your wish that Joe be buried in Boston. Naturally we’ll make sure that he’s sent to you as quickly as possible.”

“How soon might that be?”

“I can’t promise, but a week should be sufficient. Ten days at the outside.”

“To perform an autopsy?” Tank stated. “It should have been done already. Joe Grant and the informant he was meeting with were each killed by a single shot from a high-caliber rifle. Why are you trying to keep that fact a secret?”

Mason put a hand on Mary’s arm, gently turning her away from Potter and Bennett. “Mrs. Grant—
Mary
—can we speak privately?”

Mary looked over her shoulder at Tank Potter, arms bound behind his back, forced to his knees. “Yes,” she said.

Mason led her to his car. The two climbed into the rear seat. The engine was running, and the interior was cool and comfortable. “So,” he said with an emphatic sigh. “How in the world did we get here?”

“Don Bennett lied to me about the circumstances surrounding Joe’s death. Now you’re moving Joe’s body out of Austin so that you can lie about the results of the autopsy. It’s my intention to find out how and why my husband was killed. I’d say that summarizes things.”

“Well put,” said Mason. “Clear. Succinct. None of the bullshit I usually get.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“I didn’t mean to. I guess I’d want to know the same thing. Don told me you’d received a call from Joe indicating that he was in some kind of trouble.”

“That’s correct.”

“Can you give me details about what he said?”

“Are you admitting that you lied to me and the press about Joe’s death?”

“I’m suggesting that you and I might be working toward a common goal.”

Mary considered this. If she wanted to hear his side of the story, she owed him hers. “I can’t remember all of Joe’s words. He called to tell me that he was in danger. He feared for his life.”

“He said that?”

“In so many words.”

“But nothing specific about the case he was working on?”

“No.”

“Or the man he was meeting?”

“Don’t you know who he was meeting?”

“We know, but it’s important that neither you nor anyone else does…at least for the time being. Let me be honest with you—and please, what I say remains between us.”

“You mean I shouldn’t say anything to Mr. Potter.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

“All right.”

Mason drew a breath. “Joe was working a sensitive case.
Confidential
doesn’t begin to describe it. I can’t go into details, but I will tell you that his work involved the highest levels of national security. Joe delayed taking his promotion to D.C. to continue working it. One day soon you’ll read about it in the papers. You’ll learn everything. But for now we need to keep it locked down. That includes guarding the identity of the informant. Should his name be revealed, it would adversely impact the investigation. I’d go so far as to say it would shut it down. I know you wouldn’t want to jeopardize something that Joe gave his life for.”

Mary looked closely at Edward Mason, the grave, officious face of the government. She noted the neat gray hair cut an inch above his collar, the steady blue eyes, the crisp button-down shirt and dark necktie. Mason was the Bureau’s number-two man, and he carried the power of office easily. He exuded the steady, reassuring demeanor associated
with airline pilots or astronauts, or movie stars charged with carrying out desperate missions in the face of daunting odds. One of Joe’s fellow Marines, judging by his tie clasp. A man’s man. Joe would gladly have followed him into battle.

And Mary? What about her? She was a good citizen. Loyal. Patriotic. Daughter of a family with a proud naval tradition. Who was she to question the actions of the FBI? Who was she to doubt Edward Mason’s word? To refuse his earnest request?

And yet…

“What about what Tank Potter said?” she asked.

“About the gunshot wounds?”

Mary nodded.

“I wouldn’t put much stock in Mr. Potter’s words.”

“He’s a reporter. It’s his job to get the truth.”

“Not exactly,” said Mason. “He used to be a reporter.”

“Excuse me?”

“Mr. Potter was arrested two nights ago for driving while intoxicated. He no longer works at the
Statesman
. From what I understand, he’s a very sick man. You might consider the possibility that Mr. Potter manipulated you to drum up a story so he could get his job back. It’s a reporter’s job to lean on their sources until they spill, so to speak.”

“But he has pictures.”

“Pictures? Of your husband—”

“And the informant. A pistol doesn’t do that. At least, that’s what Mr. Potter said.”

“Maybe it would be wise to have an expert look at them.”

“Maybe,” said Mary.

Mason fixed her with his steady eyes. “For now, all you need to know is that Joe died heroically in the service of his country. The United States will be a safer place because of his work. I’ll see to it that his pension is based on the salary he was to receive after his promotion to the Senior Executive Service. When this is all over, you and your family can expect a commendation from the president.”

“The president?” said Mary, but all she was thinking about was the enormous impact on the family’s finances that a promotion to the Senior Executive Service would bring.

“The highest levels of national security, Mary.”

Still, her curiosity demanded one thing. “So what is Semaphore, then?”

Mason cocked his head. “What was that, Mary?”

The hint was plain enough. She heard Randy Bell ordering her never to say that word again. “Nothing,” she said. “I must have misheard something.”

Mason placed his hand on her arm. “Mary, you’re a civilian. Our work can be dangerous. May I have your word that we won’t be running into you again…
for your sake
?”

“Yes,” said Mary.

“Promise?”

Mason extended his hand and she shook it, looking directly into his eyes. “Promise.”

“Thank you for your cooperation. I can see that Joe was a lucky man.”

Mary reached for the door handle.

“And Mary,” Edward Mason said, in an entirely different voice. Her kind uncle had been replaced by the admiral in one of his black moods. “Vehicular battery is a serious offense. A felony. Add to that interfering with a federal investigation. You and Mr. Potter nearly got into a lot of trouble. I don’t think your children need to see their mother in a federal penitentiary on top of losing their father.”

“Thank you, Mr. Mason.”

“
Ed—
please.”

Mary stepped out of the car. During their tête-à-tête, someone had extricated the Jeep from the Ford. Despite the impact and the deafening noise of the collision, there appeared to be little damage to Tank Potter’s car. The Ford wasn’t as fortunate but looked drivable.

Mason came around the front of the sedan. “Cut Potter loose,” he said.

“But…,” Don Bennett protested, hurrying toward his superior.

“Do it,” said Mason.

Tank Potter got to his feet and stood patiently as an agent cut the plastic cuffs. Mason approached him and whispered a few words that Mary couldn’t hear, but the effect was to make Potter wince repeatedly. She imagined he’d gotten the same warning as she had, but without the sugar coating. Keep your nose out of the FBI’s business or your ass is getting thrown in jail.

“You’re free to go, Mr. Potter,” said Edward Mason. “I’d get those brakes checked if I were you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Mason. I’ll be sure to have my car looked at immediately.”

Tank watched Mason head back to his car, then walked over to Mary. “What did he tell you?”

“Is it true?” She was surprised at the anger she felt toward him. More than Bennett or Mason, he had manipulated her. Their actions, however mercenary, were on behalf of their country. Potter’s were strictly for personal gain.

“The DUI? Yeah, it’s true. But that doesn’t—”

“And you no longer work at the
Statesman
?”

“Technically…”

“Do you or don’t you?”

“No, ma’am. I’m no longer an employee.”

“So you visited me to drum up a story to get your job back. You came to my house to lean on me and see if I spilled?”

“To ‘lean on you’? Where’d you get that? I’m a reporter. We interview people. We ask questions. It’s our job. I wasn’t leaning on you.”

“You used to be a reporter,” said Mary, her voice, her body, trembling with rage. “Now you’re just an unemployed drunk who pressures widows into divulging private information.”

“It’s not like that. I’m not making any of that stuff up. Ask Mason. He knows it’s true. Why do you think they’re moving the bodies?”

Mary pinned her shoulders back and raised her chin. “I don’t have anything more to say to you, Mr. Potter. I’d appreciate it if you left my family and me alone.”

“What kind of Kool-Aid did he give you, lady?”

“Just the truth. Next time you’d be well advised to do the same. Goodbye.”

Mary walked to Edward Mason’s car and tapped on the window. “Would it be possible for one of your agents to give me a ride home?”

“Our pleasure.”

“I apologize for any inconvenience. It won’t happen again.”