“You should write that one up for The Investigator” – that was the Justice Department’s in-house newsletter – “so everybody’ll know to look for it.”
“We have a good safe-man in the office. After that, it was just a matter of cracking the code on the disks. We have a guy in Mobile who helps us out on that – and, no, he doesn’t know what’s on the disks. He knows not to pay close attention, and he’s not all that interested anyway. I figure we’ll want to keep this one pretty tight until we move to seize the funds.”
“You know, I don’t think we’ve ever owned a shopping mall. I remember when we seized that topless bar, though.” Murray laughed as he lifted his phone and tapped in the number for the Director’s office. “Morning, Moira, this is Dan Murray. Tell the boss that we have something really hot for him. Bill Shaw will want to come in for this, too. Be there in two minutes.” Murray hung up. “Come on, Agent Bright. It’s not often that you hit a grand slam on your first major-league at-bat. You ever meet the Director?”
“Just to say hi to him twice at receptions.”
“He’s good people,” Murray assured him on the way out the door. It was a short walk down the carpeted corridor. Bill Shaw met them on the way.
“Hi, Mark. How’s your dad?”
“Catching a lot of fish.”
“Living down in the Keys now, isn’t he?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re going to love this one, Bill,” Murray observed as he opened the door. He led them in and stopped cold when he saw the Director’s secretary. “My God, Moira, you’re beautiful!”
“You watch that, Mr. Murray, or I’ll tell your wife!” But there was no denying it. Her suit was lovely, her makeup was perfect, and her face positively glowed with what could only be new love.
“I most humbly beg your pardon, ma’am,” Murray said gallantly. “This handsome young man is Mark Bright.”
“You’re five minutes early, Agent Bright,” Mrs. Wolfe noted without checking the appointment calendar. “Coffee?”
“No, thank you, ma’am.”
“Very well.” She checked to see that the Director wasn’t on the phone. “You can go right in.”
The Director’s office was large enough for conferences. Emil Jacobs had come to the Bureau after a distinguished career as a United States Attorney in Chicago, and to take this job he’d declined a seat on the U.S. Circuit Court of Appeals there. It went without saying that he could have held a partner’s chair in any criminal-law firm in America, but from the day he’d passed the bar exam, Emil Jacobs had dedicated his life to putting criminals in jail. Part of that resulted from the fact that his father had suffered during the beer wars of Prohibition. Jacobs never forgot the scars his father bore for once having talked back to a South Side Gang enforcer. A small man, like his father, Emil Jacobs viewed his mission in life as protecting the weak from the evil. He pursued that mission with a religious fervor that hid behind a brilliant analytical mind. A rare Jew in a largely Irish-Catholic agency, he’d been made an honorary member of seventeen Hibernian lodges. While J. Edgar Hoover had been known in the field as “Director Hoover,” to the current crop of agents, Director Jacobs was “Emil.”
“Your dad worked for me once,” Jacobs said as he extended his hand to Agent Bright. “He’s down on Marathon Key, isn’t he? Still fishing for tarpon?”
“Yes, sir. How’d you know?”
“Every year he sends me a Chanukah card.” Jacobs laughed. “It’s a long story. I’m surprised he hasn’t told you that one. So what’s the story?”
Bright sat down and opened his briefcase, handing out the bound copies of his documents. He started talking, awkwardly at first, but in ten minutes he was fully warmed to the subject. Jacobs was flipping rapidly through the binder, but didn’t miss a spoken word.
“We’re talking over half a billion dollars,” Bright concluded.
“More than that from what I see here, son.”
“I haven’t had time to give it a detailed analysis, sir. I figured you’d want to see this right quick.”
“You figured right,” Jacobs replied without looking up. “Bill, who’s the best guy at Justice to get in on this?”
“Remember the guy who headed the savings-and-loan thing? He’s a whiz for following money from place to place. Marty something,” Shaw said. “Young guy. He has a real nose for it. I think Dan ought to be involved also.”
Jacobs looked up. “Well?”
“Fine with me. Shame we can’t get a commission on what we seize. We’re going to want to move fast on this. The first inkling they have…”
“That might not matter,” Jacobs mused. “But there’s no reason to drag our feet. This sort of loss will sting them pretty good. And with the other things we’re… excuse me. Right, Dan, let’s set this up to move fast. Any complications on the piracy case?”
“No, sir. The physical evidence is enough for a conviction. The U.S. Attorney tossed the confession entirely when the defense lawyer started grumbling about how it had been obtained. Says he smiled when he did it. Told the other guy no deals of any kind, that he had enough evidence to fry them, which is exactly what he plans to do. He’s pressing for an early trial date, going to try the case himself. The whole thing.”
“Sounds like we have a budding political career on our hands,” Jacobs observed. “How much show and how much substance?”
“He’s been pretty good to us down in Mobile, sir,” Bright said.
“You can never have too many friends on The Hill,” Jacobs agreed. “You’re fully satisfied with the case?”
“Yes, sir. It’s solid. What’s spun off of it can stand pretty much on its own.”
“Why was there so much money on the boat if they just planned to kill him?” Murray asked.
“Bait,” Agent Bright answered. “According to the confession that we trashed, they were actually supposed to deliver it to a contact in the Bahamas. As you can see from this document, the victim occasionally handled large cash transactions himself. That’s probably the reason he bought the yacht in the first place.”
Jacobs nodded. “Fair enough. Dan, you did tell that captain -”
“Yes, sir. He learned his lesson.”
“Fine. Back to the money. Dan, you coordinate with Justice and keep me informed through Bill. I want a target date to start the seizures – give you three days for that. Agent Bright and the Mobile Field Office are to get full credit for turning this one – but, this one is code-word until we’re ready to move.” Codeword meant that the case would be classified right up with CIA operations. It wasn’t all that unusual for the Bureau, which ran most of America’s counterintelligence operations. “Mark, pick a code-word.”
“Tarpon. Dad always has been crazy about chasing after them, and they’re good fighters.”
“I’m going to have to go down there and see. I’ve never caught anything bigger than a pike.” Jacobs was quiet for a moment. He was thinking about something, Murray thought, wondering what it was. Whatever it was, it gave Emil a very crafty look. “The timing couldn’t be better. Shame I can’t tell you why. Mark, say hi to your dad for me.” The Director stood, ending the meeting.
Mrs. Wolfe noted that everyone was smiling when they came out of the room. Shaw even gave her a wink. Ten minutes later she’d opened a new file in the secure cabinet, an empty folder with the name TARPON typed on the paper label. It went in the drug section, and Jacobs told her that further documentation would follow in a few days.
Murray and Shaw walked Agent Bright down to his car and saw him off.
“What’s with Moira?” Dan asked as the car pulled out. “They think she’s got a boyfriend.” “About time.”
At 4:45, Moira Wolfe placed the plastic cover over her computer keyboard and another over her typewriter. Before leaving the office, she checked her makeup one last time and then walked out with a spring in her step. The oddest thing was that she didn’t realize that everyone else in the office was rooting for her. The other secretaries and executive assistants, even the Director’s security detail, had avoided comment for fear of making her self-conscious. But tonight had to be a date. The signs were clear, even though Moira thought that she was concealing it all.
As a senior executive secretary, Mrs. Wolfe rated a reserved parking space, one of many things that made her life easier. She drove out a few minutes later onto 10th Street, Northwest, then turned right onto Constitution Avenue. Instead of her normal southward course toward Alexandria and home, she headed west across the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge into Arlington. It seemed as though the rush-hour traffic was parting before her, and twenty-five minutes later she pulled up to a small Italian restaurant in Seven Corners. Before going in she checked her makeup again in the rearview mirror. Her children would be getting dinner from McDonald’s tonight, but they understood. She told them that she’d be working very late, and she was sure that they believed her, though she ought to have known that they saw through her lies as easily as she had once seen through theirs.