The Racketeer Page 0,64

We'll have the confession, and we have Malcolm Bannister. We'll get a conviction."

"Now you're talking."

"By the way, what's up with our boy Bannister?"

"Safe and sound, buried deep by the U.S. Marshals."

"Where is he?"

"Sorry, Stan. Some things we cannot talk about. But have no worries. He'll be here when we need him."
Chapter 23
Pat Surhoff's replacement is Diana Tyler. I meet them for lunch after a long morning at the hospital, where I was examined and was told to return in a month. Ms. Tyler is a tall, pretty woman of about fifty, with a short haircut, little makeup, a navy blazer, and no wedding band. She's pleasant enough and over salads gives me her spiel. She lives "in the area" and works with a few others who share my situation. She is available 24/7 and would like to have a chat by phone at least once a week. She understands what I'm going through and says it's natural to keep looking over my shoulder. With time, though, those fears will go away, and my life will become quite normal. If I leave town, and they stress this is something I can now do whenever I want, she would like the details of my trip in advance. They want to keep close tabs on me until long after I testify against Quinn Rucker, and they persist in painting the picture of a safe and pleasant future that I will know one day when all of the initial hurdles have been cleared.

They mention the two job interviews, and I throw a curve by explaining I'm not ready for employment. With cash in the bank and unrestrained freedom, I'm just not ready to start a new career. I want to travel some, take long drives, and maybe go to Europe. Traveling is fine, they agree, but the cover works best if I have a real job. We decide to talk about it later. This leads to a conversation about a passport and an updated driver's license. Another week and my face should be ready to be photographed, and Diana promises to arrange the documentation.

Over coffee, I give Pat a letter to my father. The return address is the federal correctional facility in Fort Wayne, Indiana. He will send it to the prison there, and someone will mail it to Henry Bannister in Winchester, Virginia. In the letter I explain to old Henry that I screwed up at Frostburg and have been busted back to a regular prison. I am in solitary confinement and can have no visitors for at least three months. I ask him to notify my sister, Ruby, in California and my brother, Marcus, in D.C. I tell him not to worry; I'm fine and I have a plan to work my way back to Frostburg.

Pat and I say our farewells. I thank him for his courtesies and professionalism, and he wishes me well. He assures me my new life will be rewarding and secure. I'm not sure I believe this, because I'm still looking over my shoulder. I strongly suspect the FBI will monitor me for some time, at least until the day when Quinn Rucker is convicted and sent away.

The truth is I cannot afford to trust anyone, including Pat Surhoff, Diana Tyler, the U.S. Marshals Service, and the FBI. There are a lot of shadows back there, not to mention the bad guys. If the government wants to watch me, there's little I can do. They can obtain court orders to snoop into my bank account, to listen to my phone calls, to monitor my credit card activity, and to watch everything I do online. I anticipate all of the above, and my challenge in the near future is to deceive them without letting them know they are being deceived. Taking one of the two jobs would only allow them another opportunity to spy.

During the afternoon, I open another checking account at Atlantic Trust and move $50,000 from the SunCoast account. Then I do the same thing at a third bank, Jacksonville Savings. In a day or two, once the checks have cleared, I will begin withdrawing cash.

As I putter around the neighborhood in my little Audi, I spend as much time looking in the mirror as I do watching the road. It's already a habit. When I walk the beach, I check out every face I see. When I walk into a store, I immediately find cover and watch the door I just came through. I never eat