Mitch was alone in his office late that night when a short, fat man
walked in. 'My name's DeVasher,' he said.
'What can I do for you?' Mitch asked.
'You can listen for a while. I'm in charge of security for the firm . .
.'
'Why does the firm need security?' Mitch asked.
'Bendini was crazy about security. Anyway, we believe the FBI are
trying to get a man inside the firm to help in their investigations of
some of our clients. It's important that you tell us whenever they
attempt to make contact with you.'
'Yes, I already know that.'
Suddenly DeVasher was smiling evilly. 'I brought something with
me to show you,' he said. 'Something that will keep
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you honest.' He reached inside his jacket and pulled out an envelope.
Mitch opened it nervously. Inside were four photographs, black
and white, very clear. On the beach. The girl.
'Oh, my God! Who took these?' Mitch shouted at him.
'What difference does that make?'
Mitch tore the photographs up and let the pieces fall on to his desk.
'We've got plenty more upstairs,' DeVasher said calmly. 'We don't
want to use them, but if we catch you talking to Mr Tarrance or some
other FBI agent, we'll send them to your wife. How would you like
that, Mitch? The next time you and Tarrance decide to shop for shoes,
think about us, Mitch. Because we'll be watching.'