He turned, reentered the doctor’s office, approached the receptionist window, and asked to speak to the billing clerk. His name should be familiar, as he was one of the few patients her boss allowed to pay later. Everyone else either was covered by insurance or paid as they went, a sign tacked to the wall next to the window affirmatively proclaimingPAYMENT FOR SERVICES TO BE SATISFIED WHEN RENDERED.
The woman approached from the other side of the glass and he politely explained that he did not want either the office visit or the hospital time from the previous weekend billed to him.
Instead, for the first time ever, he handed her his Southern Republic insurance card.
8:36P.M.
THELEARJET LIFTED OFF THE RUNWAY ATATLANTA’SHARTSFIELD-JACKSONand climbed into the darkening sky. The ride started bumpy, summer thermals playing havoc, but the advantage of jet engines and a pressurized cabin allowed a quick escape above the cloud deck.
Jon settled into one of the comfy seats and enjoyed the flight, content with the luxury of a twin-engine jet that he knew cost millions of dollars. It was one of Southern Republic’s many toys. This one particularly impressive. Cordovan leather interior, wraparound stereo system, digital television, and full, in-flight internet access. Two pilots were employed around-the-clock, the aircraft routinely used by the board and company officers for both business and pleasure. Hamilton Lee liked it as a way to impress a newmistress. Larry Hughes appreciated the speed in which he could get to his Smoky Mountain hideaway. It had proven particularly convenient for quick trips to Concord since the nearest commercial service was seventy miles south in Savannah. Yet Jon rarely utilized the amenity. His line of work called for a more covert form of travel. In and out, unnoticed. That was generally by car. But tonight he needed to get to Concord quickly, and didn’t have time to drive the nearly four hours it took.
Forty minutes later the jet descended.
The Woods County airport was nothing more than two metal buildings and a single concrete runway. Even so, the facility was a vast improvement over the stretch of open field that had served the area in the years before Southern Republic’s arrival. He knew that during Hank Reed’s tenure at city hall the company had lobbied hard for the creation of the Concord Airport Authority to finance needed improvements, revenue bonds eventually issued that paid for upgrades, most notably the concrete strip, two hangars, a fuel depot, and lights to allow night use.
The jet’s wheels kissed the asphalt.
Three minutes later the aircraft was nestled inside the hangar Southern Republic leased from the authority, engines whining down. He stepped from the plane and headed straight for the Ford F-150 the company kept on hand. He drove six miles east to the mill, Southern Republic Boulevard nearly deserted. Evening shift wouldn’t end until 11:00P.M. Then a procession of mill cars would cruise in and out, graveyard shift arriving for another night’s work to morning.
He passed through the main gate. The night security supervisor was there and quickly provided a status report he cared nothing about. Ten minutes later he excused himself, ostensibly to take a walk around and observe. Through the years he’d deliberately fostered a reputation for liking to see his department’s operation firsthand. Many times he appeared at the mill and bag plant, at all hours of the day and night. Twice he’d fired a guard caught sleeping. Tonight’s visit would simply be chalked up to another one of his surprise inspections.
He walked straight to administrative Building A. Beyond, the mill blazed with light and smoke, its intricate combination of concrete and steel unaffected by time or weather.
And it wasn’t a quiet beast.
The roar from three churning paper machines blared even from several hundred yards away. He’d often thought it akin to working inside an internal combustion engine running at full power. He stared up at the towering main smokestack piercing the night sky, a dark plume of precipitant rising that, despite multi-million-dollar scrubbers, wafted of sulfur.
Building A loomed quiet. Prior to leaving Atlanta he’d checked the overtime roster and learned that none had been authorized past 6:00P.M.Which was exactly why he’d waited until now for a visit. He’d brought a master key, so it was easy to enter through the front doors.
Inside, he hopped the granite stairs two at a time.
The third floor was occupied almost exclusively by the industrial relations department. At the door markedDATA ENTRYhe again used his master key. The shadowy room harbored four desks, computer terminals, and a row of filing cabinets. He switched on no overhead lights, more than enough illumination spilling in from the mill through the open blinds. He headed straight to Marlene Rhoden’s workstation and jerked the plastic cover off her monitor. He switched on the machine and entered the appropriate commands to display the hard drive directory.
The screen lit up with a long list arranged chronologically.
He scrolled down for last week’s dates. On June 6 the directory indicated that an access file had been created at 10:05P.M.The next entry showed a copy made ofUNIONfrom theINTERCORPsubdirectory in the central banks. He recognizedUNIONas the file containing the memos Hamilton Lee had planted, hoping Rhoden would find them. The next entry indicated that a copy had been made.
The notation immediately after was the problem.
At 10:11P.M., the directory revealed that another access file was created. But this time from theSECURED FOLDER. He was awarethat one of the files in theSECURED FOLDER, tucked deep behind a heavy firewall, was titledPRIORITY. Most disturbingly, Rhoden had labeled her own access file with the same designation. Unfortunately, the directory was not detailed enough to indicate if the entire thing had been copied, but the next entry confirmed that a copy of something had been made. So he assumed at least part, if not all, of thePRIORITYfolder had been breached.
He’d seen enough.
Fear just became reality.
Maybe it was what Lee had told him about Hank Reed. Maybe it was just his inbred paranoia. No matter.
They now had a much more serious problem than a nosy union president trying to make a deal.
DAY EIGHT
TUESDAY, JUNE 13
7:03A.M.
HUNTING INGEORGIA REQUIRED A LICENSE.THERE WERE RULES.Regulations. Specific times of year when specific things could be killed.
And all with defined limits.
