and upgraded them over the years, it was easy work. Within forty-eight hours he was sending F. Max encrypted emails with financial info so rich and detailed, Agent Ross Mayfield and his task force were soon drooling. Flaxacill was indeed a cheap drug. Grattin spent, on average, eighty million a year for it, paid through a web of offshore companies and accounts to the same trade broker in Singapore, who, of course, eventually forwarded the loot to the lab in Fujian Province.
The treasure trove of documents soon became an avalanche as Sid sold his company’s soul to impress his new handlers and, hopefully, squeeze them for an even better deal. After the first leak he became a traitor, and once a traitor there was no turning back. After seventy-two hours, he had buried the FBI with more raw data than they could process, all of it wonderfully admissible in a court of law.
Then, the squeeze. F. Max called Agent Ross Mayfield and requested a one-on-one meeting. They met in a fancy bar near Darden’s office late in the afternoon. F. Max ordered red wine; Mayfield, on duty, stayed with coffee. As soon as the drinks arrived, F. Max got to the point. “We want immunity, complete and unrestricted immunity. No indictment, no arrest, nothing. Sid walks away free and clear.”
Mayfield shook his head. “We’ve had this conversation.”
“We have. But there’s more to the story. What if Sid can deliver the goods on all of Ken Reed’s offshore accounts and properties? He has over half a billion stashed in banks from here to New Zealand and Sid can provide the details. He can also deliver the toys—the homes, yachts, airplanes.”
“I’m listening.”
“Think of the litigation when this goes down. Tens of thousands of lawsuits against the company. Reed will pull a Trump, file for bankruptcy and hide behind the courts for protection. But what if the plaintiffs and their hungry lawyers have access to his hidden fortune? Sounds like justice to me. Reed ends up broke, bankrupt, in jail for the rest of his life. Sid can deliver, but only with immunity.”
“I don’t know.”
“Come on, Ross. Look at the trainload of delicious gossip Sid’s already delivered. You guys can’t process it fast enough, right? He knows what he’s doing and he wants to do more, but at a price. What’s the benefit of indicting him and ruining his name?”
Mayfield smiled and nodded and glanced around. He liked it—that much was obvious. “What about the Nelson Kerr matter?”
“Nothing. Not a dime. Sid is convinced Reed did a one-off and paid for the job through some other account, or maybe cash. He kept it far away from the company. He’s not that stupid.”
Mayfield glanced at his watch and said, “It’s five after five. Quitting time. Order me a beer while I take a leak.”
The beer arrived before Mayfield returned. He took a gulp and said, “I’m in. I’ll call Washington tonight and get it done.” He offered a hand and F. Max squeezed it.
13.
On a rainy Tuesday afternoon in mid-May, Bruce was at home on the veranda enjoying the sounds of water splashing on his tin roof and dripping into his pool, and he was reading, off and on, when he wasn’t napping. He should have been at the store but there was even less traffic with rain than on normal days. More and more he found the place, and the business, depressing. Noelle had fled the island and was shopping for antiques in New Orleans.
He heard the distant noise from his cheap phone, a rare sound. Once he realized what it was he scrambled into the kitchen and grabbed it.
Dane said, “Hello, Bruce. Got a minute?”
“Of course. Why else would I answer this phone?”
“Something’s happening. I’m at home in Houston and I’m safe. Ken’s planning to leave in the morning, taking a long trip, to Rio I believe. I’ve checked my sources and verified as much as I can. Listen carefully.”
“Do I need a pen?”