Ricky
Since York had had the responsibility of investigating every aspect of Lake's life, he felt compelled to try and speak first. But he could think of nothing to say. They read the letter in silence again, and again.
Finally, Deville broke the ice by saying, 'Here's the envelope.' He flashed it on the wall. It was addressed to Mr. Al Konyers, at Mailbox America. The return address was: Ricky, Aladdin North, PO. Box 44683, Neptune Beach, FL 32233.
'It's a front.' Deville said. 'There's no such place as Aladdin North. There's a telephone number, and you get an answering service. We've called ten times with questions, but the operators know nothing. We've called every rehab and treatment clinic in North Florida, and no one's heard of this place.'
Teddy was silent, still staring at the wall.
'Where's Neptune Beach?' York grunted.
'Jacksonville.'
Deville was excused, but told to stand by Teddy began making notes on a green legal pad. 'There are other letters, and at least one photo,' he said, as if the problem were just part of the routine. Panic was a state unknown to Teddy Maynard.
'We have to find them.' he said.
'We've done two thorough searches of his home,' York said.
'Then do a third. I doubt if he would keep such stuff at his office.' 'How soon-' 'Do it now. Lake is in California looking for votes. We have no time on this,York. There may be other secret boxes, other men writing letters and bragging about their tans and waistlines.'
'Do you confront him?'
'Not yet.'
Since they had no sample of Mr. Konyers' handwriting, Deville made a suggestion that Teddy eventually liked. They would use the ruse of a new laptop, one with a built-in printer. The first draft was composed by Deville andYork, and after an hour or so the fourth draft read as follows:
Dear Ricky,
I got your letter of the twenty-second; forgive me for not writing sooner. I've been on the road , a lot lately, and I'm behind on everything. In fact, I'm writing this letter at thirty-five thousand feet, somewhere over the Gulf, en route to Tampa. And I'm using a new laptop, one so small it almost fits in my pocket. Amazing technology. The printer leaves something to be desired. I hope you can read it okay.
Wonderful news about your release, and the halfway house in Baltimore. I have some business interests there, and I'm sure I can help you find a job.
Keep your head up, only two months to go. You're a much stronger person now, and you're ready to live life to its fullest. Don't be discouraged.
I'll help in any way possible.When you get to Baltimore, I'll be happy to spend some time with you, show you around, you know.
I promise I'll write sooner. I can't wait to hear from you.
Love,
Al
They decided Al was in a hurry and forgot to sign his name. The letter was marked up, revised, redrafted, pored over with more care than a treaty. The final version was printed on a piece of stationery from the Royal Sonesta Hotel in New Orleans, and placed in a thick, plain brown envelope with optic wiring hidden along the bottom edge. In the lower right-hand corner, in a spot that looked as if it had been slightly damaged and knotted in transit, a tiny transmitter the size of a pinhead was installed. When activated, it would send a signal a hundred yards for up to three days.
Since Al was traveling to Tampa, the envelope was stamped with a Tampa postmark, dated that day. This was done in less than half an hour by a team of very strange people down in Documents on the second floor.
At 4 P.M., a green van with many miles on it stopped at the curb in front of Aaron Lake's townhouse, near one of the many shade trees on Thirty-fourth, in a lovely section of Georgetown. Its door advertised a plumbing company in the District. Four plumbers got out and began removing tools and equipment.
After a few minutes, the only neighbor who'd noticed grew bored and returned to her television. With Lake in California, the Secret Service was with him, and his home had yet to qualify for round-the-clock surveillance, at least by the Secret Service. That scrutiny would come quickly, though.
The ploy was a clogged sewer line in the small front lawn, something that could be done without entering the home. An outside job, one that would pacify the Secret Service in case they happened to drop by
But two of the plumbers did indeed enter the home, with their own keys. Another van stopped by to check on progress, and to drop off a tool. Two plumbers from the second van mixed with those already there, and a regular unit began to form.
Inside the house, four of the agents began their tedious search for hidden files. They moved from room to room, inspecting the obvious, prying for the secrets.
The second van left, and a third one came from the other direction and parked with its tires on the sidewalk, as service vans often do. Four more plumbers joined the sewer cleaning, and two eventually drifted inside. After dark, a spotlight was rigged in the front yard, over the sewer cover, and directed into the home so the lights inside would not be noticed. The four men left outside sipped coffee and told jokes .and tried to stay warm. Neighbors hurried by on foot.
After six hours the sewer was clean, as was the home: Nothing unusual was found, certainly no hidden file with correspondence from one Ricky in rehab. No sign of a photo. The plumbers turned off their lights, packed their tools, and disappeared without a trace.
At eight-thirty the next morning, when the doors opened at the Neptune Beach post office, an agent named Barr walked hurriedly in as if he were late for something. Barr was an expert on locks and keys, and he'd spent five hours the previous afternoon at Langley studying various boxes used by the Postal Service. He had four master keys, one of which he was certain would open number 44683. If not, he'd be forced to key it, which might take sixty seconds or so and could possibly draw attention. The third key worked, and Barr placed the brown envelope, postmarked the day before from Tampa, addressed to Ricky with no last name, care ofAladdin North, inside the box. There were two other letters already there. For good measure, he removed a piece of junk mail, then closed the door to the box, wadded up the mail, and threw it in the wastebasket.
Barr and two others waited patiently in a van in the parking lot, sipping coffee and videoing every postal customer. They were seventy yards away from the box. Their handheld receiver beeped with the faint signal from the envelope. A diverse group came and went with the flow-- black female in a short brown dress, a white male with a beard and leather jacket, a white female in a jogging suit, a black male in jeans--all agents of the CIA, all watching the box without a clue about who wrote the letter or where it was going.
Their job was simply to find the person who'd rented the box.
They found him after lunch.
Trevor drank his lunch at Pete's, but only two beers. Cold drafts with salty peanuts fiorn the community bowl, consumed while losing fifty bucks on a dogsled race in Calgary. Back at the office, he napped for an hour, snoring so loudly his longsuffering secretary finally had to close his door. She slammed it actually, but not loud enough to wake him.
Dreaming of sailboats, he made his trek to the post office, this time choosing to walk because the day was beautiful, he had nothing better to do, and his head needed clearing. He was delighted to find four of the little treasures angled neatly in Aladdin North's box. He placed them carefully in the pocket of his wellworn seersucker jacket, straightened his bow tie, and ambled forth, certain that another payday was fast approaching.
He'd never been tempted to read the letters. Let the Brethren do the dirty work. He could keep his hands
