The Guardians: The explosive new thriller from international bestseller John Grisham - John Grisham Page 0,101

island is Martinique, French West Indies. The getaway is called Oriole Bay Resort, owned by one of a million faceless companies domiciled in Panama.” She splits the screen and the face of Mickey Mercado appears. “Three days ago our friend here used a Honduran passport to fly to Martinique where he met with Vasquez at the resort. We showed up but couldn’t get in, and that was probably a good thing. The next day Mercado used a Bolivian passport to return to Miami through San Juan.”

It hits hard. “Vasquez was the boyfriend of Diana Russo,” I say.

“Still is. They’ve been together since about the time of her dear husband’s untimely death.” She clicks again. Mercado disappears and half of the screen is black. The other half is still the island. “No pictures of Diana. According to what we’ve been able to piece together, and I won’t bore you with stories of how shaky intelligence can be anywhere in the Caribbean, they spend most of their time living in luxurious seclusion at their resort. She sort of runs the place but keeps an extremely low profile. They also travel a lot, all over the world. DEA is not sure if their travels are related to trafficking, or if they just want to get off the island. They think Vasquez is past his prime but still does a little consulting. Could be that the Russo murder happened on his watch and he’s expected to clean up the mess. Or, it could be that he is still active in the business. Whatever he does, he’s extremely careful.”

I back to a chair, fall into it, and mumble, “So she was involved.”

“Well, we don’t know for sure, but she suddenly looks a lot guiltier. She renounced her American citizenship fifteen years ago and became a full-fledged citizen of Panama. Probably cost her fifty grand. New name is Diana Sanchez but I’ll bet she has others. Who knows how many passports. No record that she and Ramon have ever officially tied the knot. Apparently, they have not reproduced. Seen enough?”

“Is there more?”

“Oh yes.”

The FBI was monitoring Mercado and was preparing to arrest him when he made an inexplicable blunder. He picked up the wrong phone and made a call to a number that cannot be traced. The conversation, though, was recorded. Mercado suggested to the man on the other end that they meet at a crab shack in Key Largo for lunch the following day. Moving with a speed that is remarkable and makes me happy to be on the same side as the FBI, Nolton got a warrant and her agents arrived first. They photographed Mercado in the parking lot, filmed him eating crabs with his contact, and photographed both as they got into their cars. The late-model Volvo SUV is registered to Bradley Pfitzner.

On film, he looks to be in decent shape, with a gray goatee and waves of gray hair. Retiring in luxury seems to be suiting him well. He’s almost eighty years old, but moves like a much younger man.

Nolton says, “Congratulations, Post. We finally have the link.”

I am too stunned to speak. She says, “Of course we can’t indict Pfitzner for having lunch, but we’ll get warrants and we’ll know when he takes a pee.”

I say, “Be careful. He’s pretty savvy.”

“Yes, but even the smartest criminals do dumb things. Meeting with Mercado is a gift.”

“No clue that Pfitzner has any contact with DiLuca?” I ask.

“None whatsoever. I’ll bet my paycheck that Pfitzner does not even know DiLuca’s name. Mercado moves in the dark world where he knew about the Aryans and arranged the hit. Pfitzner probably supplied the cash, but we’ll never prove it unless Mercado sings. And guys like him do not rat.”

I’m overwhelmed and struggle to keep things in order. My first reaction is “What a train wreck. In the span of three days Mercado leads you to Ramon and Diana Russo, and then to Bradley Pfitzner.”

Agnes nods along, quite proud of their progress but too businesslike to gloat. “Some of the puzzle is coming together, but there’s a long way to go. Gotta run. I’ll keep you posted.” She’s off to another meeting, and the tech guy leaves me alone in the room. For a long time I sit in the dim light and stare at the wall and try to process these bombshells. Agnes is right in that we suddenly know a lot more about the conspiracy to murder Keith, but how much can be proven? And