The Firm

'Where are you, Ray?'

'A joint called the Floribama lounge. Right on the state line.'

'Where's Abby?'

'She's in the car. She's fine.'

Mitch breathed easier and grinned into the phone. He listened.

'We had to leave the hotel. A woman followed Abby in—same woman you saw in some bar in the Caymans. Abby is trying to explain everything. The woman followed her all day and showed up at the hotel. I took care of her, and we disappeared.'

'You took care of her?'

'Yeah, she wouldn't talk, but she's out of the way for a short time.'

'Abby's fine?'

'Yeah. We're both dead tired. Exactly what do you have in mind?'

'You're about three hours away from Panama City Beach. I know you're dead tired, but you need to get away from there. Get to Panama City Beach, ditch the car and get two rooms at the Holiday Inn. Call me when you check in.'

'I hope you know what you're doing.'

'Trust me, Ray.'

'I do, but I'm beginning to wish I was back in prison.'

'You can't go back, Ray. We either disappear or we're dead.'

Chapter 36

T he cab stopped at a red light in downtown Nashville, and Mitch hopped out on stiff and aching legs. He limped through the busy intersection dodging the morning traffic.

The Southeastern Bank Building was a thirty-story glass cylinder, designed along the same lines as a tennis-ball can. The tint was dark, almost black. It stood prominently away from the street corner amidst a maze of sidewalks and fountains and manicured greenery.

Mitch entered the revolving doors with a swarm of employees rushing to work. In the marble-laden atrium he found the directory and rode the escalators to the third floor. He opened a heavy glass door and walked into a large circular office. A striking woman of forty or so watched him from behind the glass desk. She offered no smile.

'Mr. Mason Laycook, please,' he said.

She pointed. 'Have a seat.'

Mr. Laycook wasted no time. He appeared from around a corner and was as sour as his secretary. 'May I help you?' he asked through his nose.

Mitch stood. 'Yes, I need to wire a little money.'

'Yes. Do you have an account at Southeastern?'

'Yes.'

'And your name?'

'It's a numbered account.' In other words, you don't get a name, Mr. Laycook. You don't need a name.

'Very well. Follow me.' His office had no windows, no view. A row of keyboards and monitors sat on the credenza behind his glass desk. Mitch sat down.

'The account number, please.'

It came from memory. '214-31-35.'

Laycook pecked at his keyboard and watched a monitor. 'That's a Code Three account, opened by a T. Hemphill, with access only by her and a certain male meeting the following physical requirements: approximately six feet tall, one seventy-five to one eighty-five, blue eyes, brown hair, about twenty-five or twenty-six years old. You fit that description, sir.' Laycook studied the screen. 'And the last four digits of your Social Security number are?'

'8585.'

'Very well. You are accessed. Now what can I do for you?'

'I want to wire in some funds from a bank in Grand Cayman.'

Laycook frowned and took a pencil from his pocket. 'Which bank in Grand Cayman?'

'Royal Bank of Montreal.'

'What type of account?'

'It's a numbered account.'

'I presume you have the number?'

'499DFH2122.'

Laycook wrote the number and stood. 'I'll be just a moment.' He left the room.

Ten minutes passed. Mitch tapped his bruised feet and looked at the monitors across the desk.

Laycook returned with his supervisor, Mr. Nokes, a vice president of something. Nokes introduced himself from behind the desk. Both men appeared nervous. They stared downward at Mitch.

Nokes did the talking. He held a small sheet of computer paper. 'Sir, that is a restricted account. You must have certain information before we can start the wire.'

Mitch nodded confidently.

'The dates and amounts of the last three deposits, sir?' They watched him intently, knowing he would fail.

Again, it came from memory. No notes. 'February third of this year, six and a half million. December fourteenth, last year, nine point two million. And October eighth, last year, eleven million.'

Laycook and Nokes gaped at the small printout. Nokes managed a tiny professional smile. 'Very well. You are cleared to the Pen number.'

Laycook stood ready with his pencil.

'Sir, what is your Pen number?' Nokes asked.

Mitch smiled and recrossed his damaged legs. '72083.'

'And the terms of the wire?'

'Ten million dollars wired immediately into this bank, account 214-31-35. I'll wait.'

'It's not necessary to wait, sir.'

'I'll wait. When the wire is complete, I've got a few more for you.'

'We'll be a moment. Would you like some coffee?'

'No. Thanks. Do you have a newspaper?'

'Certainly,' Laycook said. 'On the table there.'

They scurried from the office, and Mitch's pulse began its descent. He opened the Nashville Tennessean and scanned three sections before he found a brief paragraph about the escape at Brushy Mountain. No picture. Few details. They were safe at the Holiday Inn on the Miracle Strip in Panama City Beach, Florida.

Their trail was clear, so far. He thought. He hoped.

Laycook returned alone. He was friendly now. A real backslapper. 'Wire's complete. The money is here. Now what can we do for you?'

'I want to wire it out. Most of it, anyway.'

'How many transfers?'

'Three.'

'Give me the first one.'

'A million dollars to the Coast National Bank in Pensa-cola, to a numbered account, accessible to only one