sure of the protocol here. Whose territory? Who’s included? Who stays and who leaves? As I’ve already learned, these cross-agency turf fights can be confusing.
Raynor does the talking. “Max, I’m afraid there’s been a breach. To put it bluntly-your cover has been blown. We have no idea how this happened.”
I sit down and wipe my forehead. “Who knows what?” I ask.
Raynor says, “We don’t know much, but there are some folks flying in from Washington right now. They should be here in an hour or so. Evidently, the FBI picked up something last night from a wiretap. There was some chatter among the Rucker family, and the FBI heard it.”
“They know where I am?”
“They do. They know exactly where you’re living.”
“We’re very sorry about this, Max,” Diana says, and I glare at her and her stupidity as if I could strangle her.
“Gosh, that means so much,” I say. “Why don’t you just shut up?”
“I’m sorry.”
“That’s twice you’ve said that. Please don’t say it again, okay? It means nothing. It’s totally useless.”
She’s stung by my harshness, but I really don’t care. My only concern right now is my own skin. The four people staring at me, along with their higher-ups and their entire government, are all responsible for the “breach.”
“Would you like some coffee?” Diana asks meekly.
“No, I’d like some heroin,” I say. They find this funny, but then we could all use a laugh. Coffee is poured and a platter of cookies makes the rounds. We begin the process of waiting. As surreal as it is, I begin thinking about where to go next.
Raynor says they’ll get my car after dark. They’re waiting on a black male agent from the Orlando office who will be my double for the next day or so. Under no circumstances will I be allowed to return to my condo to live, and we haggle about how to retrieve my sparse belongings. The Marshals Service will take care of the lease and turn off the utilities. Raynor thinks I’ll need a different vehicle, but I push back initially.
The FBI agents leave and return with sandwiches. The clock seems to stop as the walls close in. Finally, at 3:30, Mr. Victor Westlake walks in the front door and says, “Max, I’m sorry.” I do not stand, nor do I offer a hand to shake. The sofa is all mine. He has three other dark suits with him and they scramble for kitchen chairs and stools. When everyone is introduced and seated, Westlake begins, “This is highly unusual, Max, and I don’t know what to say. As of now, we have no idea where the breach occurred, and we may never find out.”
“Just tell me what you do know,” I say.
Westlake opens a file and pulls out some papers. “Here’s the transcript of a phone conversation we caught last night between Dee Ray Rucker and someone named Sully. Both were on cell phones. Dee Ray was in D.C. Sully made the call from somewhere around here.”
I read the transcript while the rest of them hold their breath. It takes a few seconds, then I place it on the coffee table. “How’d they do it?” I ask.
“We’re still working on it. One theory is that they used a private company to track you down. We monitor a handful of firms that specialize in corporate espionage, surveillance, missing persons, private snooping, and the like. These are ex-military types, ex-spies, and, I’m ashamed to say, a few ex-FBI agents. They’re good and they have the technology. For the right fee, they could gather a lot of information.”
“From where? From the inside?”
“We don’t know yet, Max.”
“If you did know, you wouldn’t tell me. You would never admit it if the breach was caused by someone within the government-the FBI, the Marshals Service, the U.S. Attorney’s Office, the Department of Justice, the Bureau of Prisons. Hell knows who else. How many people are plugged into this little secret, Mr. Westlake? Several dozen, maybe more. Did the Ruckers find me because they picked up my scent, or did they follow the FBI because the FBI was following me?”
“I assure you there was no internal breach.”
“But you just said you don’t know. Your assurances mean nothing at this point. The only certainty right now is that everyone involved will cover their ass and point fingers, starting right now. I don’t believe anything you say, Mr. Westlake. You or anybody else.”
“You have to trust us, Max. This situation is urgent, perhaps lethal.”
“I trusted you until this morning, and look where I am now. There’s no trust. Zero.”
“We have to protect you until the trial, Max. You understand this. After the trial, we lose interest. But until then, we have to make sure you’re safe. That’s why we tapped the phones. We were monitoring the Ruckers and we got lucky. We’re on your side, Max. Sure, there was a screwup somewhere, and we’ll find out what happened. But you’re sitting here in one piece because we were doing our jobs.”
“Congratulations,” I say, and go to the bathroom.
The real fight breaks out when I inform them I’m leaving witness protection. Dan Raynor rants about how dangerous my life will be if I don’t allow them to scoop me up and deposit me a thousand miles away, under yet another name. Too bad. I’ll take my chances hiding on my own. Westlake begs me to stay with them. My testimony will be crucial at trial, and without it there may be no conviction. I remind him repeatedly that they have a confession, and no federal judge is going to suppress it. I promise I’ll show up for the trial. I argue that my life will be safer when only I know where I’m hiding. There are simply too many agents involved in protecting me. Raynor reminds me more than once that the Marshals Service has never lost an informant within its protection, over eight thousand and counting, and I repeatedly remind him someone will be the first casualty. Someone other than me.
The discussion is often heated, but I’m not backing down. And all they can do is argue. They have no authority over me. My sentence was commuted and I’m not on parole. I agreed to testify, and I plan to do so. My agreement with the Marshals Service plainly states that I can leave witness protection anytime I want.
“I’m leaving,” I declare and get to my feet. “Will you be so kind as to drive me back to my car?”
No one moves. Raynor asks, “What are your plans?”
“Why would I share my plans with you?”
“What about the condo?”
“I’ll leave in a couple of days, then it’s all yours.”
“So you are leaving the area?” Diana asks.
“I didn’t say that. I said I’m leaving the condo.” I look at Westlake and say, “And please stop following me. There’s a good chance someone is watching you as you watch me. Give me a break here, okay?”
“That’s not true, Max.”
“You don’t know what’s true. Just stop following me, okay?”
Of course he does not say yes. His cheeks are red and he’s really pissed, but then again this is a man who usually gets his way. I walk to the door, yank it open, and say, “If you won’t give me a ride, I’ll just walk.”
“Take him back,” Westlake says.
“Thanks,” I say over my shoulder and leave the cottage. The last thing I hear is Raynor calling out, “You’re making a big mistake, Max.”
I ride in the backseat of the Jeep as the same two agents chauffeur me in silence. In the parking lot outside the gym, I get out and say nothing. They drive away, but I doubt they go far. I get into my little Audi, put the top down and go for a drive along the beach on Highway A1A. I refuse to look in the rearview mirror.
Victor Westlake returned to Washington on a government jet. When he arrived in his office after dark, he was briefed on the news that Judge Sam Stillwater had denied the defense motion to suppress the confession of Quinn Rucker. While no great surprise, it was still a relief. He called Stanley Mumphrey in Roanoke and congratulated him. He did not inform the U.S. Attorney that their star witness was about to leave witness protection and disappear into the night.
CHAPTER 26
