“Yeah,” Bevins says. “But what about you?”
“I’d pretend to be insulted but, really, what’s the point?”
“Okay, fine. If you work for Nantz you must be okay. Here’s the deal. When I spoke to you in Washington, I was under the impression that the Bureau never had Professor Keener on its radar, and that we certainly had nothing to do with Shane’s rendition, if that’s what it was. The latter is still true, but I was mistaken about Keener. He’s been a subject of interest.”
Instantly, Dane focuses. “In what way a subject of interest?”
“An anonymous memo came through Homeland, alerting the Bureau to the fact that Keener, whose company is apparently involved in top-secret research, had made at least two unexplained visits to China. The inference being, he might be passing information to Chinese intelligence agents.”
“And was he?”
Bevins shrugs her wide shoulders. “I have no way of knowing. The Bureau did due diligence, concluded the subject had no contact with foreign agents. He’d been seen conversing with quite a number of Chinese people-not exactly surprising if you’re visiting China-but none were identified as agents of the Chinese government. Therefore no evidence that he was passing secrets, either in China or here in the U.S., and therefore no further action was warranted. That information was bounced back to Homeland, as required, and there it stayed, with access restricted to the highest levels.”
“So the professor was no longer under surveillance?”
“Not by the Bureau, no. It’s still within FBI purview to take the lead in espionage cases, but in the real world, post-911, and with the exception of the odd batch of Russians infiltrating the suburbs, the emphasis has been on counterterrorism, not spy catching. We’re focused on the guy with the bomb strapped to his underwear, not the scientist with the laptop full of data. That’s just how it is.”
“So the Bureau isn’t interested, but others might be. Are you saying Professor Keener was under investigation by another agency? Can you be more specific?”
Bevins shakes her head. “Sorry, no. Can’t, because I don’t know for sure. Just a rumor of interest, you might call it. Persistent questions about Keener’s connections to China-it was known that he had a Chinese girlfriend-but no actual evidence to warrant FBI involvement. Somebody in the community didn’t trust him, that’s for sure.”
“This ‘rumor of interest,’ did it mention the boy?”
Monica Bevins looks down, studying her large but somehow elegantly shaped hands. Elegant but for the fact that some of her nails are chewed to the quick. “There was a mention, yes, in the context of family vulnerabilities. It was noted that agents of the People’s Liberation Army are known to intimidate their targets by making threats, usually very vague, about the well-being of family members who still reside in China.”
“That’s it? No mention that Joey Keener was actually missing?”
Bevins shakes her head. “The circulated memo was a simple series of questions, the point of which was to stimulate an active response from interested agencies. Why had Professor Keener frequently emailed an address in Hong Kong? Why did he go there? What was he doing in mainland China? Who did he meet there? Was the mother of his illegitimate child an agent of the PLA? Was the child being used as leverage? Like that.”
“And you have no idea who circulated this memo?”
“I can guess, but sharing the specific source would be a felony, and I can’t go there, not even for Naomi Nantz.”
“Not even for Randall Shane?”
Bevins’s cold glare makes Dane feel like she’s been drenched by a bucket of ice water. “The Bureau looks out for its own,” the big woman says, hotly. “We’re now fully involved. There’s an FBI alert out for the missing child, as of this morning. That’s all you need to know.”
Before the young lawyer can apologize-testing and probing, that’s her job, nothing personal-the patient groans from his hospital bed. They both turn to see Shane attempting to sit up.
“Monica!” he cries in a ragged whisper.
A moment later the two old friends are embracing, faces wet with tears, and this time Dane Porter follows her best instincts and steps out of the room for a few minutes. Texting quietly as she goes.
Chapter Twenty-Four
He always carries his own bag. No cart, no caddy, and the best part, today he’s playing alone. Not quite a scratch golfer, but close, and perfectly capable of birdieing this, the seventeenth hole. Salt water on two sides, as blue as the sky above. Seagulls wheel like silent drones in the high summer air. Unarmed, he hopes, chuckling to himself. On this course, with so many ducks and seabirds in the general vicinity, members wear hats to avoid the splat.
Taylor Gatling, Jr., finds himself in an excellent mood, savoring life. It helps that he owns the course, and that he’s arranged to have this part of it to himself. Nobody ahead, nobody behind. Could a man ask for more?
Oh yes, a chilled martini back at the clubhouse. That will make it a perfect day for bananafish, as his dad used to say, in reference to some silly story Taylor never bothered to read. Taylor has never cared for fiction. Why bother, when reality is so much more interesting?
With no other players pressing he can take his own sweet time, savoring the moment, imagining his triumph. Two hundred and fifteen yards to the pin, no problem, sir, consider it done. He selects his club, extracts it from the bag. An easy three-wood will impart the necessary backspin, placing the ball tight on the green.
Taylor can feel the birdie, has it firmly in his mind. He’s in the act of bending down to place the ball on the tee when he detects the putt-putt of an approaching tractor mower, and curses softly. He waits, assuming that the groundskeeper, upon seeing the owner himself poised to drive, will turn around and leave the area.
The tractor keeps coming, chugging up the slope. Oddly enough, the blades in the rig are not engaged. The damned fool isn’t even mowing. Taylor focuses on remaining calm. The man must be a simpleton, don’t let him ruin the moment. The tractor approaches a long bunker, one the machine can’t possibly traverse, but instead of swinging around to leave, the groundskeeper sets the brake and climbs down from the little green bucket seat and strides up toward the tee.
Taylor can’t quite make out the man’s face-the sun is behind him-but he recognizes the type of wide straw hat often worn by those who maintain the fairways and greens. And then, jarringly, he suddenly recognizes the jaunty stride of a man who is most certainly not one of the groundskeepers.
“Hey, boss, how they hanging?”
“What the hell are you doing here? I told you never to-”
“Yeah, yeah,” says the man who insists on calling himself Kidder. “Never speak to you in public. Well, this isn’t public, is it? This is a private course and you own it. Plus there’s nobody here but us chickens. Or ducks or seagulls or whatever.”
“Son of a bitch,” Taylor says, scanning the area to make damn sure they’re alone. “Are you out of your mind? What do you want?”
“I tried you at, what do you call it, your bad little boys club? Nobody home. And you won’t give me a cell phone number, which is just a tiny bit insulting.”
“You were at the boathouse?” Taylor hisses, throttling his three-wood. “Were you seen?”
“I’m sure your security cameras clocked me, but you can erase that, right? The point is, we need to have a conversation, so I made it happen.”
“This is beyond the pale!”
Kidder chuckles. “Really?
“Leave my father out of this!”
“Hey, no problem.” Kidder zips his lips. “Total silence in the father department. I could care less about fathers, if you want to know the truth. My concern is mother and child.”
