ZACHARIAH HAD WAITED LONG ENOUGH. THIRTY MINUTES WAS plenty of time. What was taking so long? He and Rocha were parked a kilometer away, far enough that no one would know they were there, but close enough to act. He’d instructed the lawyer that once she held the packet she was to provide Sagan with a telephone number for a disposable phone he’d bought yesterday that would allow a call to lure the former journalist to where Rocha could deal with him.
Hopefully, Sagan would save them all the trouble and kill himself. That was why he’d returned the gun. A suicide would make things so much easier. He should have kept Alle Becket alive at least until today, but with Brian Jamison in Vienna, no chances could be taken. The last thing he needed was for Bene Rowe to know any more of his business. He’d told the Jamaican only what had been absolutely necessary, and he had to keep it that way. He’d not come this far to have everything snatched away. Especially by a Caribbean hood only interested in some mythical gold.
His phone rang.
“Sagan took the packet and left,” the female voice said.
“And you allowed him?”
“How was I to stop him?”
Useless. “Did you give him the phone number?”
“There was no time. He said he would contact you through me.”
“When he does, give him the number.”
He ended the call and faced Rocha.
“Seems Mr. Sagan has decided to grow a backbone. He should be along here shortly. Take care of him before he drives too far.”
———
ALLE WATCHED AS HER FATHER RAN TOWARD A CAR PARKED IN the graveled lot just beyond the outer brick wall.
“Tell me the layout there,” Brian said.
She stared at him.
“The layout,” he said, voice rising. “The road in and out. Where does it go? What’s on it?”
She searched her memory. “The cemetery sits about three miles off the highway. There’s a paved road to it that passes farms and orange trees. A few lakes parallel the road for a while.”
“Houses?”
She shook her head. “Not many. Pretty lonely out there. That’s why the cemetery is there.”
“You get all that?” Brian asked to the computer.
“I’m on it.”
Her father was in his car, backing out and leaving. The woman from earlier appeared at the doorway with a cell phone in hand.
“You know who she’s calling,” Brian said to the computer. “Follow him.”
Movement on the screen confirmed that the car with the camera was leaving its position.
“What’s happening?” she asked.
“Your father is trying to save your hide. He probably figures that keeping whatever he was holding made more sense than just turning it over. And he’s right. But he has a problem. Rocha’s there.”
Her heart pounded.
Which surprised her.
“He took your flight last night. Your father’s in a whole lot of crap.”
———
TOM SPED AWAY FROM THE CEMETERY.
He’d made his escape.
His father had meant that literally and what lay on the passenger’s seat was apparently those secrets. He wanted to pierce the vacuum bag and see for himself, but not now. He had to get out of here. He wheeled the car away from the cemetery and caught site of the lawyer leaving the building.
Making a call.
To Simon?
Who else.
He’d wait an hour or so, then make contact through the lawyer. He didn’t own a cell phone. No need for one. Who’d call him? So he’d find a phone somewhere. Going back to his house was not an option since Simon surely knew where he lived.
He sped down the drive between groves of live oaks. Palmetto scrubs hugged the shoulder. The putrid smell of death lingered in his nostrils. At the highway he turned left and headed for Mount Dora, the asphalt winding a path through orange country. Most central Florida orchards were gone, growers long ago switching to squash, cabbage, lettuce, or strawberries.
