The day's mail was summarized in two pages, then given to an agent who took off to Langley. Deville had it in hand by 7 P.M.

The first call of the afternoon, at three-ten, came when Chap was washing windows. Wes was still in Trevor's office, grilling him with one question after another. Trevor was weary. He'd missed his nap and he desperately needed a drink.

"Law office." Chap answered.

"Is this Trevor's office?" the caller asked.

"It is. Who's calling?"

"Who are you?"

"I'm Chap, the new paralegal."

"What happened to the girl?"

"She no longer works here. What can I do for you?"

"This is Joe Roy Spicer. I'm a client of Trevor's, and I'm calling from Trumble."

"Calling from where?"

"Trumble. It's a federal prison. Is Trevor there?"

"No sir. He's in Washington, and he should be back here in a couple of hours."

"Okay Tell him I'll call back at five."

"Yes sir."

Chap hung up and took a deep breath, as did Klockner across the street. The CIA had just had its first live contact with one of the Brethren.

The second call came at exactly five. Chap answered the phone and recognized the voice. Trevor was waiting in his office. "Hello."

"Trevor, this is Joe Roy Spicer."

"Hello, Judge."

"What'd you find in Washington?"

"We're still working on it. It's gonna be a tough one, but we'll find him."

There was a long pause, as if Spicer didn't like this news and was uncertain about how much to say. "Are you comin tomorrow?"

"I'll be there at three."

"Bring five thousand dollars cash."

"Five thousand dollars?"

"That's what I said. Get the money and bring it here. All in twenties and fifties."

"What are you gonna do-"

"Don't ask stupid questions, Trevor. Bring the damned money. Put it in an envelope with the other mail.You've done it before."

"All right."

Spicer hung up without another word. Then Trevor spent an hour discussing the economics of Trumble. Cash was prohibited. Every inmate had a job and his wages were credited to his account. Expenditures, such as long-distance calls, commissary charges, copying expenses, stamps, were all debited against his account.

But cash was present, though seldom seen. It was smuggled in and hidden, and it was used to pay gambling debts and bribe guards for small favors. Trevor was afraid of it. If he, as the attorney, got caught sneaking it in, his visiting privileges would be permanently eliminated. He'd smuggled on two previous occasions, both times $500, in tens and twenties.

He couldn't imagine what they wanted with $5,000.

TWENTY-EIGHT

After three days of stepping over and around Wes and Chap, Trevor needed a break. They wanted breakfast, lunch, and dinner together. They wanted to drive him home and pick him up for work, very early in the morning. They were running what was left of his practice-Chap the paralegal,Wes the office manager, both of them drilling him with endless questions because there was precious little lawyering to be done.

So it was no surprise when they announced they would drive him to Trumble. He didn't need a driver, he explained: He'd made the trip many times, in his trusty little Beetle, and he'd go it alone. This upset them, and they threatened to call their client for guidance.

"Call the damned client, for all I care," Trevor yelled at them, and they backed down. "Your client is not running my life."

But the client was, and they all knew it. Only the money mattered now. Trevor had already performed his Judas act.

He left Neptune Beach in his Beetle, alone, followed by Wes and Chap in their rental car, and behind them was a white van occupied by people Trevor would never see. Nor did he want to see them. Just for the hell of it, he made a sudden turn into a convenience store for a six-pack, and laughed when the rest of the caravan slammed on brakes and barely avoided a wreck. Once out of town, he drove painfully slow, sipping his beer, savoring his privacy, telling himself he could suffer through the next thirty days. He could suffer through anything for a million bucks.

As he neared the village ofTrumble, he had the first pangs of guilt. Could he pull this off? He was about to face Spicer, a client who trusted him, a prisoner who needed him, a partner in crime. Could he keep a straight face and act as if things were fine, while every word was being captured by a high-frequency mike in his briefcase? Could he swap letters with Spicer as if nothing had changed, knowing that the mail was being monitored? Plus, he was throwing away his law career, something he'd worked hard to attain and had once been proud of.

He was selling his ethics, his standards, even his morals for money. Was his soul worth a million bucks? Too late now. The money was in the bank. He took a sip of beer and washed away the fading twinges of guilt.

Spicer was a crook, and so were Beech and Yarber, and he, Trevor Carson, was just as culpable. There's no honor among thieves, he kept repeating silently.

Link got a whiff of the beer wafting off Trevor as they walked down the hall and into the visitors' area.

At the lawyers' mom Trevor looked inside. He saw Spicer, partially hidden by a newspaper, and was suddenly nervous. What kind of low-life lawyer carries an electronic listening device into a confidential meeting with a client? The guilt hit Trevor like a brick, but there was no turning back.

The mike was almost as big as a golf ball, and had been meticulously installed by Wes in the bottom of Trevor's beaten-up and scruffy black leather briefcase. It was extremely powerful, and would easily transmit everything to the faceless boys in the white van. Wes and Chap were there too, ready with their earphones, anxious to hear it all.

"Afternoon, Joe Roy," Trevor said.

"Same to you," Spicer said.

"Lemme see the briefcase," Link said. He gave a cursory look, then said, "It looks fine." Trevor had warned Wes and Chap that Link sometimes took a peek into the briefcase. The mike was covered by a pile of papers.

"Here's the mail," Trevor said.

"How many?" Link asked.

"Eight."

"You got any?" Link asked Spicer.

"No. None today." Spicer replied.

"I'll be outside." Link said.

The door closed; feet shuffled, and suddenly there was silence. A very long silence. Nothing. Not a word between lawyer and client. They waited in the white van for an eternity, until it was obvious something had gone wrong.

As Link stepped from the small room, Trevor quickly and deftly set the briefcase outside the door, on the floor, where it rested benignly during the remainder of the attorney-client conference. Link noticed it, and thought nothing about it.

"What'd you do that for?" Spicer asked.

"It's empty." Trevor said, shrugging. "Let the closed circuit see it.We have nothing to hide." Trevor had had one final, brief attack of ethics. Maybe he'd bug the next chat with his client, but not this one. He'd simply tell Wes and Chap that the guard took his briefcase, something that happened occasionally.

"Whatever." Spicer said, rifing through the mail until he came to two envelopes that were slightly thicker. "Is this the money?"

"It is. I had to use some hundreds."

"Why? I plainly said twenties and fifties."

"That's all I could find, okay. I didn't anticipate needing that much cash."

Joe Roy studied the addresses on the other letters. Then he asked, rather caustically, "So what happened in Washington?"

"It's a tough one. One of those rent-a-box outfits in the suburbs, open twenty-four hours, seven days a week, always somebody on duty, lots of traffic. Security is tight. We'll figure it out."