Invasion of Privacy: A Novel Read online

  “Looks like he’s headed downtown,” said Shanks.

  “Isn’t the paper there?”

  “South side of the river.”

  “Quiet,” blurted the Mole. “He’s making a call.”

  The phone number Tank Potter dialed appeared on the screen. Then, a moment later, the name of the account holder. “Cantu, Carlos. 78 Sagebrush Road, Buda, TX.” A picture of Cantu flashed onto the screen, and on an adjacent monitor a map showed the address and coordinates of the phone’s location: 1213 Sabine Street, Austin, TX. Travis County medical examiner.

  The Mole hit the Record button.

  “Carlos, it’s Tank.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I’m calling about those bodies. You know—the Fibbie and the informant.”

  “What about ’em?”

  “They still there?”

  “Yep. We’ve got ’em packed up and loaded. Bennett and his boss are completing the paperwork. Only thing left to do is box up the blood and fluid samples.”

  “How long till they take off?”

  “An hour, maybe longer. They don’t appear to be in any hurry.”

  “All right, thanks, Carlos. Appreciate it.”

  The call ended.

  “What was that all about?” asked Shanks.

  “Don’t know,” said the Mole. “But I can tell you where they’re headed. Twelfth and Sabine.”

  —

  Thirty-five thousand feet above the earth and eight hundred miles away, Ian Prince and Peter Briggs were also listening to Tank Potter’s conversation with Carlos Cantu.

  “Stand by for instructions,” Briggs said to the Mole after Potter had hung up.

  Ian crossed the cabin and sat down at his work console. A live map of Austin pinpointed the location of Potter’s vehicle traveling south along Interstate 35. He slipped on a pair of earphones and opened a channel to Briggs’s men on the ground.

  “Why the morgue?”

  “Don’t know,” said the Mole.

  Ian had his own ideas, and they centered on the probability that Potter had discovered that Bennett’s version of the events in Dripping Springs differed significantly from the actual record. “Bring up Potter’s call history.”

  A list of phone numbers appeared on the monitor. Ian scrolled through and noted that Tank Potter had spoken to Carlos Cantu, the man he’d phoned minutes earlier, the night before.

  “Potter send any texts?”

  “One,” said the Mole. “Transmitting now.”

  The text appeared on the screen in a pop-up window. It read: “Here. Waiting out front.” The timestamp showed 21:07.

  “Dig down and get me a GPS fix on that text.”

  “Sent from 1213 Sabine. Travis County Medical Examiner’s Office.”

  Peter Briggs stood beside Ian. “Potter must have visited the morgue last night. According to the after-action report, Grant and Stark were each killed with a single shot from a sniper’s rifle. If Potter examined the bodies, he knows that Bennett’s version of events is incorrect. No wonder he visited Mary Grant. He thinks he has a story.”

  Ian took off the headphones and moved to a quiet corner of the cabin to place a private call.

  “Mason.”

  “Hello, Ed. You’re about to have some visitors.”

  “What’s going on?” asked Edward Mason.

  “Mary Grant and a reporter from the Statesman are headed your way. She’s not too keen on your moving her husband to Quantico.”

  “How the hell does she know anything about that? For that matter, how do you?”

  “Give us some credit. We’re the ones that hacked into your mainframe. Just get used to the idea that we know everything.”

  “Limey prick.”

  “What was that, Ed? I didn’t quite catch it.”

  “Nothing.”

  “I suggest you hurry up your business. Mrs. Grant is currently moving into the right lane of I-35 to take the Twelfth Street exit. I estimate that you have six minutes.”

  44

  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 Brow
n 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.”

  45

  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 k
illed 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.”