word.
“Suit yourself,” he said.
A moment later, Betty hurried into his office and shut the door. She stood as far from him as possible, pressing her plump rear end against the doorknob. Her glasses had heavy frames with arched points at the hinges. They usually gave her an aspect of slyness, but now along with the ashen color of her cheeks they simply added to her look of concern.
She put her fist to her mouth and held her other hand over the swell of her tummy as though she had eaten something bad. “Two men are here from the FBI,” she said in a near-whisper. “They asked to see Mr. Biddle, but he’s already out of touch. Mr. Wofford is on vacation as well, and I can’t reach him. They want to talk about one of your accounts.”
Brent frowned. “Which one?”
“Dr. Faisal.”
Brent had no idea what it could be about, but he wanted no part of handling it alone. “Who’s our counsel?”
“Spencer McDonald at Tweed, Barker and Rowe. I’ve already put in a call, but he’s not available.”
“Tell the FBI guys I’ll talk to them when Mr. McDonald can be present.”
Betty shook her head. “They insist on seeing you right away.”
“Tell them I’m not here.”
She pointed over her shoulder. “They know you are. They followed me up here,” she said in a hoarse whisper. With that, she opened the door and hurried out.
Right away, a man with a linebacker’s neck, square jaw, and small eyes set into a flat face stepped into view. “Mr. Lucas,” he said. “We need to see you, sir. Right away.”
“I’ll be ready in a second,” Brent said.
“Please do not use your phone, sir,” the man said.
Brent felt his neck grow hot. “What the hell is going on?” he demanded.
“We’ll explain when you talk to us.”
“Well, I’m not ready yet!”
“Please be quick, sir,” the agent said, as he backed out and closed the door.
Brent looked out the window through the blur of a sudden downpour. What the hell was going on? The FBI had no right to tell him not to make calls! He grabbed his cell phone and hit the autodial.
Simmons answered on the second ring. “What?”
“Some guys from the FBI are outside my office waiting to talk to me about one of my accounts. Do you know anything about this?”
There was a pause. “No.”
“What do I do?”
“Talk to them. I’ll make some calls and check it out.”
Brent rang off, but instead of opening his office door, he called Betty Dowager, got Spencer McDonald’s direct number, and dialed.
“Spencer McDonald’s office,” a woman’s voice said.
“This is Brent Lucas at Genesis Advisors, I need to speak with him.”
“I’m sorry, but he’s in conference.”
“Please interrupt him. It’s extremely important.”
She put him on hold, and after a moment a man picked up. “This is McDonald. What’s this about an emergency?”
“The FBI is outside my office, wanting to talk about one of my clients. I don’t want to do it alone,” Brent said.
“I’m afraid I can’t get there until sometime this afternoon.”
“They won’t wait. They didn’t even want me to make this call.”
“Who is the client?”
“An Egyptian. Dr. Khaled Faisal.”
“Foreign national.” McDonald let out a heavy sigh. “You don’t have a choice in that case. Hear them out and find out what they want. Before you agree to anything at all, call me back.” He gave Brent a cell number.
“Just so you know, Dr. Faisal is one of our largest accounts,” Brent said.
“Be as cooperative and respectful as possible,” McDonald responded. “Your first responsibility is to protect the firm. You don’t want the FBI to suspect you’ve got something to hide.”
Brent hung up, went around his desk, and opened his office doorto find two men in dark suits, white shirts, and sober ties. The big guy who’d already stuck his head in the office stepped forward. “Agent Tom Anderson,” he said in a clipped voice. He was maybe six-two, a little shorter than
“Suit yourself,” he said.
A moment later, Betty hurried into his office and shut the door. She stood as far from him as possible, pressing her plump rear end against the doorknob. Her glasses had heavy frames with arched points at the hinges. They usually gave her an aspect of slyness, but now along with the ashen color of her cheeks they simply added to her look of concern.
She put her fist to her mouth and held her other hand over the swell of her tummy as though she had eaten something bad. “Two men are here from the FBI,” she said in a near-whisper. “They asked to see Mr. Biddle, but he’s already out of touch. Mr. Wofford is on vacation as well, and I can’t reach him. They want to talk about one of your accounts.”
Brent frowned. “Which one?”
“Dr. Faisal.”
Brent had no idea what it could be about, but he wanted no part of handling it alone. “Who’s our counsel?”
“Spencer McDonald at Tweed, Barker and Rowe. I’ve already put in a call, but he’s not available.”
“Tell the FBI guys I’ll talk to them when Mr. McDonald can be present.”
Betty shook her head. “They insist on seeing you right away.”
“Tell them I’m not here.”
She pointed over her shoulder. “They know you are. They followed me up here,” she said in a hoarse whisper. With that, she opened the door and hurried out.
Right away, a man with a linebacker’s neck, square jaw, and small eyes set into a flat face stepped into view. “Mr. Lucas,” he said. “We need to see you, sir. Right away.”
“I’ll be ready in a second,” Brent said.
“Please do not use your phone, sir,” the man said.
Brent felt his neck grow hot. “What the hell is going on?” he demanded.
“We’ll explain when you talk to us.”
“Well, I’m not ready yet!”
“Please be quick, sir,” the agent said, as he backed out and closed the door.
Brent looked out the window through the blur of a sudden downpour. What the hell was going on? The FBI had no right to tell him not to make calls! He grabbed his cell phone and hit the autodial.
Simmons answered on the second ring. “What?”
“Some guys from the FBI are outside my office waiting to talk to me about one of my accounts. Do you know anything about this?”
There was a pause. “No.”
“What do I do?”
“Talk to them. I’ll make some calls and check it out.”
Brent rang off, but instead of opening his office door, he called Betty Dowager, got Spencer McDonald’s direct number, and dialed.
“Spencer McDonald’s office,” a woman’s voice said.
“This is Brent Lucas at Genesis Advisors, I need to speak with him.”
“I’m sorry, but he’s in conference.”
“Please interrupt him. It’s extremely important.”
She put him on hold, and after a moment a man picked up. “This is McDonald. What’s this about an emergency?”
“The FBI is outside my office, wanting to talk about one of my clients. I don’t want to do it alone,” Brent said.
“I’m afraid I can’t get there until sometime this afternoon.”
“They won’t wait. They didn’t even want me to make this call.”
“Who is the client?”
“An Egyptian. Dr. Khaled Faisal.”
“Foreign national.” McDonald let out a heavy sigh. “You don’t have a choice in that case. Hear them out and find out what they want. Before you agree to anything at all, call me back.” He gave Brent a cell number.
“Just so you know, Dr. Faisal is one of our largest accounts,” Brent said.
“Be as cooperative and respectful as possible,” McDonald responded. “Your first responsibility is to protect the firm. You don’t want the FBI to suspect you’ve got something to hide.”
Brent hung up, went around his desk, and opened his office doorto find two men in dark suits, white shirts, and sober ties. The big guy who’d already stuck his head in the office stepped forward. “Agent Tom Anderson,” he said in a clipped voice. He was maybe six-two, a little shorter than
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