Walters’s eyes stopped cold on the phone messages. Three messages in particular, three different callbacks Jenson was supposed to make to the same name.

Bellweather caught his reaction. “That her?” he asked, pointing at the name as though Walters had missed it.

O’Neal leaned closer. “Eva Green. Does she work here?”

“In accounting,” Walters admitted, but nothing more.

“That’s where the leaks are coming from.” Bellweather bent forward and studied the name more closely. “I don’t know her.”

O’Neal, standing with his arms crossed and watching Walters’s distressed face, asked in an insinuating tone, “Who is she, Mitch?”

Mitch looked like someone had just stuffed a fat golf ball down his throat. His face was red. He couldn’t seem to find his voice, and when he did, he yelled, “Bullshit. That’s impossible.”

“Why is it impossible?”

“It can’t be Eva. She’s been working for me.”

“Meaning what?”

“I sent her up with Feist last summer to escort Wiley to the White House shindig. Feist said Wiley seemed impressed with her, so we worked out an arrangement.”

“Describe this arrangement,” O’Neal asked, rolling his eyes. He hated amateurs dabbling in his field, getting in over their heads.

“Eva’s one of those hyperambitious Harvard B-School types, always willing to go the extra mile to get ahead. She kept an eye on Wiley for me. We wanted to find out more about him and she filled in a few details. It was easy and cheap.”

“Easy, cheap? What’re you talking about?” Bellweather bellowed, slamming a hand against the wall. Whatever plot this idiot had hatched up now seemed to be biting them all in the ass.

“Nothing complicated, Dan. All she had to do was drop in. Visit him occasionally. Go out on a few dates. Build trust, get Wiley to confide in her.”

“She was a mole?” O’Neal asked. This idiot didn’t even know the nomenclature of the trade.

“Sort of, yeah, I guess. Update me on what Wiley was doing and thinking. If something more developed, I promised her a fifty grand bonus.”

“And did it… uh, did she?” Bellweather asked, tiptoeing into the rich, lurid details.

Walters bunched his shoulders and shrugged. “Not really. He treated her like a sister. The arrangement ended months back. Eva had a sort of breakdown. Seemed like a good idea to end it.”

Bellweather traded a quick glance with Martie. “Sounds like she was a double agent,” he suggested.

That’s exactly what it sounded like, but Walters refused to believe it. “Look,” he said defensively, “I’ll bring her in. Hit her up with a few questions and get to the bottom of this. If it’s her, I know we can cut a deal. If it’s not-”

O’Neal finished his thought-“Then we’re back at square one.”

“And you just wasted another million bucks,” Bellweather said.

Jack was finding it hard not to burst out in laughter as he sat at the console and listened. The arrogance of these people was appalling, their stupidity worse. They had no compunction about delving into his life, sneaking into his home, bugging his phones, and paying people to destroy his reputation and his life. Yet they had no idea, not even a suspicion, that the same things could be done back. He had tapes going back seven months of Eva huddled in Mitch’s office, making her reports and seeking fresh instructions. He particularly enjoyed listening to Mitch offering her tips on how to seduce Jack.

He removed the tape, carefully affixed the date, time, location, and names of the subjects, then placed it on top of his growing stack. He inserted a fresh tape, stretched his back, then went to the kitchen to make supper.

Best to call his lawyer on a full stomach.

The time had come for him to make his move.

29

Less than twenty-four short hours after Harvey Crintz committed his first burglary, the gang of FBI agents showed up in his office. Three in all, grim-faced men in a mixture of nice blue and gray suits, holding a warrant and arresting Harvey in front of his coworkers. The agents weren’t in a conversational mood.

Harvey’s supervisor rushed out of his cubbyhole and began barking questions but got no answers. They flashed the warrant, pinned Harvey’s arms behind his back, slapped him in cuffs, and marched him out. Harvey tried making noise about calling his lawyer and was rudely told to shut up. He had no right to a lawyer until he was booked, charged, and processed, they told him with menacing frowns. In any event, he was informed, he didn’t need a lawyer, he needed a priest.

An hour later, after the three agents gave Harvey a glimpse of the ten photographs displaying his face and his body rifling through Mia Jenson’s safe-apparently it had been wired and connected to a tiny camera of some sort, a camera he had triggered in his clumsy search the day before-he agreed with them.

A priest was his only hope.

At almost the same instant, another group of Feds conducted a much larger raid on the offices of TFAC. They burst through the entrance, waving subpoenas and warrants, barking at employees to line up against walls and spread them.

Accompanying them was a large forensics team that raced upstairs and jumped on the firm’s computers and preserved everything on the hard drives. After another few minutes, the moving men with boxes showed up and began hauling out loads of papers, spy equipment, virtually anything not nailed to the walls and floors.

Martie O’Neal was hiding in his office when Special Agent Danny Ryan, an old pal from Bureau days, burst through the door.

“Hey, Danny, what’s up?” he asked, trying to stifle his shock. He was leaning back in his chair, legs crossed on his desk, trying hard to look and act cool rather than terrified.

“How ya doin’, Martie?” Ryan answered as if they were regular golf partners. Ryan’s eyes shifted around the office-what a dump.

“You tell me.”

“I’d say not well, buddy.”

“I’m assuming you got a warrant or a subpoena to justify this unwarranted intrusion into private premises. I wanta be sure I sue the right folks.”

“Can the big threats, Martie. Makes you sound silly.”

“Like that, huh?”

Ryan nodded. “You’re so totally screwed I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

“Oh.”

“You remember the procedures or do I need to explain them?”

O’Neal slowly eased out of his chair. In his early days in the Bureau he’d been a field hand; how many times had it been him on the other end of this process, watching the weird mixture of emotions on their faces, often wondering how he’d react in their place. He placed his hands on his desk and bent forward with his legs spread apart. He made a silent vow to himself that he would remain calm and unaffected. There would be no cracks in the hard veneer. He would show his old Bureau buddies how a real badass behaved. “Yeah, yeah,” he said, “I got the right to remain silent, blah, blah, blah. Should I call my mouthpiece now?”

“It’d be a waste of time.”

“Can I least call my wife and tell her I won’t be home for dinner?”

“She knows, Martie. Another van of agents is at your house with a search warrant. I’m sure she gets the message.”

Martie was suddenly fighting back an almost unstoppable urge to cry. His knees went weak, his voice thick and whiny. He squeezed his eyes shut and muttered, “When will I get home for dinner?”

Ryan understood the question. “Assuming sterling behavior and an Emmy performance in front of three absolute chumps on a parole board, about twenty years. Sorry, Martie, no deals. Don’t need ’em. We got the burglars who hit Jenson’s home. They all talked. We got Crintz and he’ll talk, too. We got a burglary in a private home up in Jersey seven months ago, and… hell, truth is, we got more evidence and charges than we know what to do with. You’ve been a very bad boy.”