jg.thefirm-第39部分

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　　〃I　got　six　thousand；〃　Mitch　said。
　　〃Stick　with　me　and　you'll　be　in　the　big　leagues　soon　enough。〃
　　〃Yeah；　but　first　I　gotta　get　my　continuing　legal　education。〃
　　Ten　minutes　later　the　limo　turned　into　a　drive　that　led　to　a　row　of　hangars。　Memphis　Aero；　the　sign　said。　A　sleek　silver　Lear　55　taxied　slowly　toward　the　terminal。　〃That's　it；〃　Avery　said。
　　The　briefcases　and　luggage　were　loaded　quickly　onto　the　plane；　and　within　minutes　they　were　cleared　for　takeoff。　Mitch　fastened　his　seat　belt　and　admired　the　leather…and…brass　cabin。　It　was　lavish　and　luxurious；　and　he　had　expected　nothing　less。　Avery　mixed　another　drink　and　buckled　himself　in。
　　An　hour　and　fifteen　minutes　later；　the　Lear　began　its　descent　into　Baltimore…Washington　International　Airport。　After　it　taxied　to　a　stop；　Avery　and　Mitch　descended　to　the　tarmac　and　opened　the　baggage　door。　Avery　pointed　Jto　a　man　in　a　uniform　standing　near　a　gate。　〃That's　your　chauffeur。　The　limo　is　in　front。　Just　follow　him。　You're　about　forty　minutes　from　the　Capital　Hilton。〃
　　〃Another　limo？〃　Mitch　asked。
　　〃Yeah。　They　wouldn't　do　this　for　you　on　Wall　Street。〃
　　They　shook　hands；　and　Avery　climbed　back　on　the　plane。　The　refueling　took　thirty　minutes；　and　when　the　Lear　took　off　and　turned　south；　he　was　asleep　again。
　　Three　hours　later；　it　landed　in　Georgetown；　Grand　Cayman。　It　taxied　past　the　terminal　to　a　very　small　hangar　where　it　would　spend　the　night。　A　security　guard　waited　on　Avery　and　his　luggage　and　escorted　him　to　the　terminal　and　through　customs。　The　pilot　and　copilot　ran　through　the　post　flight　ritual。　They　too　were　escorted　through　the　terminal。
　　After　midnight；　the　lights　in　the　hangar　were　extinguished　and　the　half　dozen　planes　sat　in　the　darkness。　A　side　door　opened；　and　three　men；　one　of　them　Avery；　entered　and　walked　quickly　to　the　Lear　55。　Avery　opened　the　baggage　partment；　and　the　three　hurriedly　unloaded　twenty…five　heavy　cardboard　boxes。　In　the　muggy　tropical　heat；　the　hangar　was　like　an　oven。　They　sweated　profusely　but　said　nothing　until　all　boxes　were　out　of　the　plane。
　　〃There　should　be　twenty…five。　Count　them；〃　Avery　said　to　a　muscle…bound　native　with　a　tank　top　and　a　pistol　on　his　hip。　The　other　man　held　a　clipboard　and　watched　intently　as　if　he　was　a　receiving　clerk　in　a　warehouse。　The　native　counted　quickly；　sweat　dripping　onto　the　boxes。
　　〃Yes。　Twenty…five。〃
　　〃How　much？〃　asked　the　man　with　the　clipboard。
　　〃Six　and　a　half　million。〃
　　〃All　cash？〃
　　〃All　cash。　U。S。　dollars。　Hundreds　and　twenties。　Let's　get　it　loaded。〃
　　〃Where's　it　going？〃
　　〃Quebecbanq。　They're　waiting　for　us。〃
　　They　each　grabbed　a　box　and　walked　through　the　dark　to　the　side　door；　where　a　rade　was　waiting　with　an　Uzi。
　　The　boxes　were　loaded　into　a　dilapidated　van　with　CAYMAN　PRODUCE　stenciled　badly　on　the　side。　The　armed　natives　sat　with　guns　drawn　as　the　receiving　clerk　drove　away　from　the　hangar　in　the　direction　of　downtown　Georgetown。
　　Registration　began　at　eight　outside　the　Century　Room　on　the　mezzanine。　Mitch　arrived　early；　signed　in；　picked　up　the　heavy　notebook　of　materials　with　his　name　printed　neatly　on　the　cover　and　went　inside。　He　took　a　seat　near　the　center　of　the　large　room。　Registration　was　limited　to　two　hundred；　the　brochure　said。　A　porter　served　coffee；　and　Mitch　spread　the　Washington　Post　before　him。　The　news　was　dominated　by　a　dozen　stories　of　the　beloved　Redskins；　who　were　in　the　Super　Bowl　again。
　　The　room　filled　slowly　as　tax　lawyers　from　around　the　country　gathered　to　hear　the　latest　developments　in　tax　laws　that　changed　daily。　A　few　minutes　before　nine；　a　clean…cut；　boyish　attorney　sat　to　Mitch's　left　and　said　nothing。　Mitch　glanced　at　him　and　returned　to　the　paper。　When　the　room　was　packed；　the　moderator　weled　everyone　and　introduced　the　first　speaker。　Congressman　something　or　other　from　Oregon；　chairman　of　a　House　Ways　and　Means　submittee。　As　he　took　the　podium　for　what　was　supposed　to　be　a　one…hour　presentation；　the　attorney　to　Mitch's　left　leaned　over　and　offered　his　hand。
　　〃Hi；　Mitch；〃　he　whispered。　〃I'm　Grant　Harbison；　FBI。〃　He　handed　Mitch　a　card。
　　The　congressman　started　with　a　joke　that　Mitch　did　not　hear。　He　studied　the　card；　holding　it　near　his　chest。　There　were　five　people　seated　within　three　feet　of　him。　He　didn't　know　anyone　in　the　room；　but　it　would　be　embarrassing　if　anyone　knew　he　was　holding　an　FBI　card。　After　five　minutes；　Mitch　shot　a　blank　stare　at　Harbison。
　　Harbison　whispered；　〃I　need　to　see　you　for　a　few　minutes。〃
　　〃What　if　I'm　busy？〃　Mitch　asked。
　　The　agent　slid　a　plain　white　envelope　from　his　seminar　notebook　and　handed　it　to　Mitch。　He　opened　it　near　his　chest。　It　was　handwritten。　Across　the　top；　in　small　but　imposing　letters；　the　words　read　simply：　〃Office　of　the　Director　…FBI。〃
　　The　note　read：
　　Dear　Mr。　McDeere：
　　I　would　like　to　speak　with　you　for　a　few　moments　during　lunch。　Please　follow　the　instructions　of　Agent　Harbison。　It　won't　take　long。　We　appreciate　your　cooperation。
　　Thanks。
　　F。　DENTON　VOYLES
　　Director
　　Mitch　folded　the　letter　in　the　envelope　and　slowly　placed　it　in　his　notebook。　We　appreciate　your　cooperation。　From　the　Director　of　the　FBI。　He　realized　the　importance　at　this　moment　of　maintaining　his　posure；　of　keeping　a　straight；　calm　face　as　if　it　was　simply　routine。　But　he　rubbed　his　temples　with　both　hands　and　stared　at　the　floor　in　front　of　him。　He　closed　his　eyes　and　felt　dizzy。　The　FBI。　Sitting　next　to　him！　Waiting　on　him。　The　Director　and　hell　knows　who　else。　Tarrance　would　be　close　at　hand。
　　Suddenly；　the　room　exploded　in　laughter　at　the　congressman's　punch　line。　Harbison　leaned　quickly　toward　Mitch　and　whispered；　〃Meet　me　in　the　men's　room　around　the　corner　in　ten　minutes。〃　The　agent　left　his　notebooks　on　the　table　and　exited　amid　the　laughter。
　　Mitch　flipped　to　the　first　section　of　the　notebook　and　pretended　to　study　the　materials。　The　congressman　was　detailing　his　courageous　battle　to　protect　tax　shelters　for　the　wealthy　while　at　the　same　time　easing　the　burden　on　the　working　class。　Under　his　fearless　guidance；　the　submittee　had　refused　to　report　legislation　limiting　deductions　for　oil　and　gas　exploration。　He　was　a　one…man　army　on　the　Hill。
　　Mitch　waited　fifteen　minutes；　then　another　five；　then　began　coughing。　He　needed　water；　and　with　hand　over　mouth　he　slid　between　the　chairs　to　the　back　of　the　room　and　out　the　rear　door。　Harbison　was　in　the　men's　room　washing　his　hands　for　the　tenth　time。
　　Mitch　walked　to　the　basin　next　to　him　and　turned　on　the　cold　water。　〃What　are　you　boys　up　to？〃　Mitch　asked。
　　Harbison　looked　at　Mitch　in　the　mirror。　〃I'm　just　following　orders。　Director　Voyles　wants　to　personally　meet　you；　and　I　was　sent　to　get　you。〃
　　〃And　what　might　he　want？〃
　　〃I　wouldn't　want　to　steal　his　thunder；　but　I'm　sure　it's　rather　important。〃
　　Mitch　cautiously　glanced　around　the　rest　room。　It　was　empty。　〃And　what　if　I'm　too　busy　to　meet　with　him？〃
　　Harbison　turned　oflf　the　water　and　shook　his　hands　into　the　basin。　〃The　meeting　is　inevitable；　Mitch。　Let's　not　play　games。　When　your　little　seminar　breaks　for　lunch；　you'll　find　a　cab；　number　8667；　outside　to　the　left　of　the　main　entrance。　It　will　take　you　to　the　Vietnam　Veterans　Memorial；　and　we'll　be　there。　You　must　be　careful。　Two　of　them　followed　you　here　from　Memphis。〃
　　〃Two　of　whom？〃
　　〃The　boys　from　Memphis。　Just　do　as　we　say　and　they'll　never　know。〃
　　The　moderator　thanked　the　second　speaker；　a　tax　professor　from　New　York　University；　and　dismissed　them　for　lunch。
　　Mitch　said　nothing　to　the　taxi　driver。　He　sped　away　like　a　maniac；　and　they　were　soon　lost　in　traffic。　Fifteen　minutes　later；　they　parked　near　the　Memorial。
　　〃Don't　get　out　yet；〃　the　driver　said　with　authority。　Mitch　did　not　move。　For　ten　minutes；　he　did　not　move　or　speak。　Finally；　a　white　Ford　Escort　pulled　alongside　the　cab　and　honked。　It　then　drove　away。
　　The　driver　stared　ahead　and　said；　〃Okay。　Go　to　the　Wall。　They'll　find　you　after　about　five　minutes。〃
　　Mitch　stepped　to　the　sidewalk；　and　the　cab　left。　He　stuck　his　hands　deep　in　the　pockets　of　his　wool　overcoat　and　walked　slowly　to　the　Memorial。　Bitter　wind　gusts　from　the　north　scattered　leaves　in　all　directions。　He　shivered　and　flipped　the　collar　of　his　coat　around　his　ears。
　　A　solitary　pilgrim　sat　rigidly　in　a　wheelchair　and　stared　at　the　Wall。　He　was　covered　with　a　heavy　quilt。　Under　his　oversized　camouflage　beret；　a　pair　of　aviator's　sunglasses　covered　his　eyes。　He　sat　near　the　end　of　the　wall；　near　the　names　of　those　killed　in　1972。　Mitch　followed　the　years　down　the　sidewalk　until　he　stopped　near　the　wheelchair。　He　searched　the　names；　suddenly　oblivious　of　the　man。
　　He　breathed　deeply　and　was　aware　of　a　numbness　in　his　legs　and　stomach。　He　looked　slowly　downward；　and　then；　near　the　bottom；　there　it　was。　Engraved　neatly；　。matter…of…factly；　just　like　all　the　others；　was　the　name　Rusty　McDeere。
　　A　basket　of　frozen　and　wilted　flowers　sat　on　its　side　next　to　the　monument；　inches　under　his　name。　Mitch　gently　laid　them　to　one　side　and　knelt　before　the　Wall。　He　touched　the　engraved　letters　of　Rusty's　name。　Rusty　McDeere。　Age　eighteen；　forever。　Seven　weeks　in　Vietnam　when　h