"I'm nervous about me, too, but witness protection?"
"Sure. You're convinced they can't find Bennie. They're convinced they can. If they do, and they haul him back for a trial, with an incredible list of charges, then you're the star. If you're not around to testify, then the government's case falls flat."
A pleasant morning at the beach was becoming complicated. And why not? Nothing had been simple for a long time now.
"That'll take some serious thought and consideration," Kyle said.
"Then start thinking."
"I'll call you later."
Kyle dressed in the khakis and a T-shirt, not a bad fit, then ate two bowls of cereal. He read the Pensacola News Journal and the New York Times. The Times had nothing about last night's excitement at the Oxford Hotel. Of course not, Kyle said to himself. It happened far too late, and it was far too clandestine. Then why was he looking for it?
After breakfast and the papers, Todd joined him at the kitchen table. "We have a few rules," he said with a jovial face but a hard smile.
"What a surprise."
"You can make calls, obviously, but only on that phone. Can't reveal your whereabouts. You can walk on the beach, but we have to follow, at a distance."
"You're kidding? I'm walking down the beach, and there's a guy with a machine gun tagging along. How relaxing."
Todd caught the humor and enjoyed a laugh. "No machine gun, and we won't be conspicuous."
"You're all conspicuous. I can spot an agent a mile away."
"Anyway, stay close to the house."
"How long will I be here?"
Todd shrugged and said, "I have no idea."
"Am I in protective custody or witness protection?"
"Custody, I think."
"You don't know, Todd? Come on. Custody implies that I'm a suspect of some variety, doesn't it, Todd?"
Another shrug.
"But I'm not a suspect. I'm a witness, but I have not agreed to enter the witness protection program. So, according to my lawyer, the one I just talked to, I'm free to walk out that door anytime I want. Whatta you think about that, Todd?"
"That machine gun you just mentioned? We have at least six on the premises."
"So I should stay here, right?"
"Right."
"Okay, it's noon. What are we going to do?"
Barry had been hovering nearby, not missing a word. He walked to the table with a large basket of the usual board games the owners of all beach rentals leave behind. Barry said, "We have Monopoly, Risk, Rook, Scrabble, Chinese checkers, your call, Kyle."
Kyle studied the basket. "Scrabble."
Chapter 41
The flu raged unabated into Friday. Doug Peckham, while claiming to be sympathetic, was curious about any "improvement." They were getting hammered with motions in the Trylon case, and everyone was needed. His sympathy did not extend to a curiosity about where Kyle was staying, who, if anyone, was tending to him, what medications he was taking, and so on. Part of Kyle's ruse was the forbidding diagnosis that his particular strain of the flu was "hotly contagious." Since New York was going through its annual December flu warning, his story was easily digestible. Dale believed it, too, though she was much more sympathetic.
The temperature hit eighty degrees in the early afternoon, and Kyle was bored with the beach house. He said to Todd, "I'd like to take a walk. Would you please prepare the beach?"
"My pleasure. Which way are you going?"
"East, toward Miami."
"I'll round up the gang. They're getting bored with you."
Kyle walked for an hour, and passed fewer than ten beachcombers going the opposite way. Thirty yards behind him were two of his guardians, a male and a female, a happy couple with receivers in their ears and handguns in their pockets.
He heard music, and saw a small crowd under a fake thatched roof. It was the Gator Hotel, a 1950s-style mom-and-pop motel with a small pool and low rates, a depressing little place, but it had the only action on the beach. Just for the hell of it, and to torment his followers, he sauntered away from the water, walked between two small dunes, and pulled up a chair at Pedro's Bar. Jimmy Buffett was singing softly about life in a banana republic. The bartender was mixing rum punch specials. The crowd numbered seven, all over the age of sixty, all overweight, all chatting in crisp northern accents. The early snowbirds.
Kyle sipped a rum punch and ordered a cigar. Between the dunes he saw his trailing couple stop and gawk and try to figure out what to do. Within minutes, another agent appeared from the front of the motel. He walked through the open bar, winked at Kyle, and kept going. We're here, buddy.
He drank and smoked for a while, and tried to convince himself that he was relaxed. No worries. Just another overworked professional enjoying a few days at the beach.
But there was too much unfinished business in New York.
AFTER THREE DAYS of thorough protection, Kyle was fed up. The Lear landed at Teterboro just after 6:00 p.m. on Saturday, December 6. At Kyle's insistence, he was booked into a suite at the Tribeca Grand Hotel, between Walker and White, near the Village. And at his request, all FBI agents remained below, in the lobby and atrium. He was tired of their overkill and silly rules - silly in his opinion.
Dale arrived promptly at eight. She was driven over by two agents and sneaked in through a service entrance. When they were alone,
Kyle started with the fake flu and worked his way backward. It was a long journey, and she listened with the same disbelief that had been shared by Roy Benedict and John McAvoy. They ordered room service, lobster and a fine white burgundy, compliments of the government, and kept talking. He was leaving the firm, and not sure where he was headed. She was leaving the firm, a nice lateral transfer to a better life in downtown Providence. He wanted to talk about her future, but she was determined to finish up with his past. She found it fascinating, incredulous, frightening, and said over and over, "Why didn't you tell me?" The best response he could offer was "I didn't tell anyone."
They talked until well past midnight. The back-and-forth was more a conversation between two good friends than between two casual lovers. They said goodbye with a long kiss and a serious promise to meet in a few weeks, as soon as Kyle settled some issues.
At 1:00 a.m., he called downstairs and informed the boys that he was going to sleep.
KYLE McAVOY entered the opulent offices of Scully & Pershing for the last time at noon on Sunday. He was accompanied by Roy Benedict, Mr. Mario Delano of the FBI, and Mr. Drew Wingate with the Department of Justice. They were led to a conference room on the thirty-fifth floor, yet another room Kyle had never seen. They were met by half a dozen of the firm's partners, all with very somber faces. All offered stiff introductions. Only Doug Peckham showed the slightest trace of warmth to Kyle, and only for a second. They took seats on opposite sides of the table like enemies glaring across the battlefield: Howard Meezer, the managing partner; Peckham; Wilson Rush, who looked particularly upset; a retired legend named Abraham Kintz; and two slightly younger partners from the firm's management committee, men Kyle had never laid eyes on.
Late Saturday evening, Roy Benedict had sent them a twenty- five-page, detailed summary of Kyle's big adventure, and there was little doubt that every word had been read more than once by all six of the partners. Attached to the narrative was Kyle's letter of resignation.
Meezer kicked things off with a pleasant "Mr. McAvoy, your resignation is unanimously accepted."