later,” Crawford said.
Claire gave him a look of withering contempt, then said: “I don’t want a perp walk. No showy arrests in a public place, no leading away in handcuffs, no guns drawn, no manacles or shackles.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Since he’s arranged to meet me at Logan Airport, the surrender will take place in the parking lot at Logan across the street from the terminal. I’ll make sure either he’s unarmed, or he throws away his weapon, and you’ll be able to confirm it.”
Massie nodded.
“Now, before the surrender, I’ll want time alone with him first—a minimum of one hour.” Massie raised his eyebrows. “In private, so we can talk. Your guys can keep a close watch, so you can make sure he’s not going to run, but I want privacy.”
“That may be a problem,” Crawford said.
“If it is, you can forget taking him in. Or seeing his letter.”
“I think,” Massie said, “we may be able to arrange it.”
“Good. Next, I want assurances from you that you will not freeze his assets.”
“Professor,” Crawford said, “I don’t think that’s—”
“Make it happen, gentlemen. It’s nonnegotiable.”
“We’ll have to talk to Washington.”
“And I don’t want the FBI charging him with violating the False Identity Act. In fact, I’ll want all civilian charges dropped.”
Crawford glanced at Massie in astonishment.
“And I’ll want all of these assurances in writing, signed by an assistant director of the Bureau. No one lower. I want complete accountability. No one’s going to try to wriggle out of this by claiming they didn’t have the proper authority.”
“I think we may be able to arrange this,” Massie said. “But it’s going to take some time.”
“You take too much time, the window of opportunity slams shut on your fingers,” Claire said. “I’ll want signed documents by noon tomorrow. Our rendezvous is early evening.”
“Noon tomorrow?” Crawford said. “That’s—that’s impossible!”
Claire shrugged. “Do your best. Once we come to terms, you can read Tom’s letter. And then you can take him into custody.”
* * *
Claire left the house early the next morning wearing a bright royal-blue coat she’d bought once at Filene’s Basement in a fit of fashion dementia. She took Annie to school, walked her into the building and to her classroom, then returned to her Volvo and drove to her office. Two Crown Victorias followed like faithful sheepdogs.
At eleven-forty-five in the morning, a package arrived by courier from the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Boston field office. It contained the letter she had requested, signed by an assistant director of the FBI, whose signature was an indecipherable jagged up-and-down EKG.
Half an hour later a messenger came by to pick up a sheet of paper and take it to Massie at the FBI office downtown.
When Connie went off for lunch a little after one, Claire gave her a shopping bag, which contained the bright-blue coat, neatly folded, and asked her to leave it with the waiter at the bustling fern bar/restaurant where Connie invariably ate lunch with her regular luncheon companions, two other Harvard Law administrative assistants.
Claire then taught a class, and canceled several afternoon meetings.
At four-thirty she packed up her briefcase, closed her office, said good night to Connie, and walked to the elevator. If a watcher was lingering in the waiting area on her floor, she didn’t notice. She took the elevator to the basement and wandered through the tunnels beneath the Law School campus for a while until she was certain no one was following her. They knew the tricks of their trade, they knew surveillance and patterns of pursuit, but she knew the entrails of the Law School.
At precisely five o’clock, just as Claire had promised the FBI agents, her Volvo pulled slowly out of the faculty parking garage. As she passed on foot, from a good distance away, Claire could see the
Claire gave him a look of withering contempt, then said: “I don’t want a perp walk. No showy arrests in a public place, no leading away in handcuffs, no guns drawn, no manacles or shackles.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Since he’s arranged to meet me at Logan Airport, the surrender will take place in the parking lot at Logan across the street from the terminal. I’ll make sure either he’s unarmed, or he throws away his weapon, and you’ll be able to confirm it.”
Massie nodded.
“Now, before the surrender, I’ll want time alone with him first—a minimum of one hour.” Massie raised his eyebrows. “In private, so we can talk. Your guys can keep a close watch, so you can make sure he’s not going to run, but I want privacy.”
“That may be a problem,” Crawford said.
“If it is, you can forget taking him in. Or seeing his letter.”
“I think,” Massie said, “we may be able to arrange it.”
“Good. Next, I want assurances from you that you will not freeze his assets.”
“Professor,” Crawford said, “I don’t think that’s—”
“Make it happen, gentlemen. It’s nonnegotiable.”
“We’ll have to talk to Washington.”
“And I don’t want the FBI charging him with violating the False Identity Act. In fact, I’ll want all civilian charges dropped.”
Crawford glanced at Massie in astonishment.
“And I’ll want all of these assurances in writing, signed by an assistant director of the Bureau. No one lower. I want complete accountability. No one’s going to try to wriggle out of this by claiming they didn’t have the proper authority.”
“I think we may be able to arrange this,” Massie said. “But it’s going to take some time.”
“You take too much time, the window of opportunity slams shut on your fingers,” Claire said. “I’ll want signed documents by noon tomorrow. Our rendezvous is early evening.”
“Noon tomorrow?” Crawford said. “That’s—that’s impossible!”
Claire shrugged. “Do your best. Once we come to terms, you can read Tom’s letter. And then you can take him into custody.”
* * *
Claire left the house early the next morning wearing a bright royal-blue coat she’d bought once at Filene’s Basement in a fit of fashion dementia. She took Annie to school, walked her into the building and to her classroom, then returned to her Volvo and drove to her office. Two Crown Victorias followed like faithful sheepdogs.
At eleven-forty-five in the morning, a package arrived by courier from the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Boston field office. It contained the letter she had requested, signed by an assistant director of the FBI, whose signature was an indecipherable jagged up-and-down EKG.
Half an hour later a messenger came by to pick up a sheet of paper and take it to Massie at the FBI office downtown.
When Connie went off for lunch a little after one, Claire gave her a shopping bag, which contained the bright-blue coat, neatly folded, and asked her to leave it with the waiter at the bustling fern bar/restaurant where Connie invariably ate lunch with her regular luncheon companions, two other Harvard Law administrative assistants.
Claire then taught a class, and canceled several afternoon meetings.
At four-thirty she packed up her briefcase, closed her office, said good night to Connie, and walked to the elevator. If a watcher was lingering in the waiting area on her floor, she didn’t notice. She took the elevator to the basement and wandered through the tunnels beneath the Law School campus for a while until she was certain no one was following her. They knew the tricks of their trade, they knew surveillance and patterns of pursuit, but she knew the entrails of the Law School.
At precisely five o’clock, just as Claire had promised the FBI agents, her Volvo pulled slowly out of the faculty parking garage. As she passed on foot, from a good distance away, Claire could see the
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