On Wednesday, June 15, Westlake was in a staff meeting when he was summoned to the phone. It was urgent, and within minutes he was in a conference room with technicians who were working quickly to prepare the audio. One of them said, “The call came to Dee Ray’s cell phone last night at 11:19, not sure where it came from, but here it is. The first voice is Dee Ray, the second is Sully. We have not yet identified Sully.” Another technician said, “Here it is.”

      DEE RAY: Yeah.

      SULLY: Dee Ray, Sully here.

      DEE RAY: What you got?

      SULLY: Got the snitch, man. Bannister.

      DEE RAY: No shit, man.

      SULLY: No shit, Dee Ray.

      DEE RAY: Okay, don’t tell me how, just tell me where.

      SULLY: Well, he’s a beach bum now, in Florida. Name is Max Baldwin, lives in a little condo in Neptune Beach, east of Jacksonville. Seems to have some money, taking it easy, you know. The good life.

      DEE RAY: What’s he look like?

      SULLY: A different dude. Lots of surgery. But the same height, down a few pounds. Same walk. Plus we got a fingerprint and a match.

      DEE RAY: A fingerprint?

      SULLY: Our firm is good. They followed him down the beach and saw him toss a water bottle in the trash. They picked it up, got a print.

      DEE RAY: That is good.

      SULLY: Like I said. What now?

      DEE RAY: Sit tight. Let me sleep on it. He ain’t going nowhere, right?

      SULLY: No, he’s a happy boy.

      DEE RAY: Beautiful.

Westlake slowly fell into a chair, slack-jawed and pale, too shaken to speak for a moment. Then, “Get me Twill.” A flunky disappeared, and while he waited, Westlake rubbed his eyes and contemplated his next move. Twill, the top assistant, arrived in a rush, and they listened to the tape again. For Westlake, it was even more chilling the second time around.

“How in the …,” Twill mumbled.

Westlake was recovering. “Call Bratten at the Marshals Service.”

“Bratten had surgery yesterday,” Twill said. “Newcombe is in charge.”

“Then get Newcombe on the phone. We can’t waste time here.”

I’ve joined a gym and I spend an hour there each day around noon, walking uphill on a treadmill and doing reps with light weights. If I plan to spend so much time on the beach, I need to look the part.

After some steam and a long shower, I am dressing when the cell phone starts buzzing in the top of my locker. It’s dear Diana, and an odd time for her to be calling. “Hello,” I say quietly, though the locker room is not busy.

“We need to talk,” she says abruptly, the first-ever hint that something might be out of place.

“About what?”

“Not now. There are two FBI agents in the parking lot in a maroon Jeep Cherokee, parked next to your car. They’ll give you a ride.”

“And how exactly do you know where I am at this moment, Diana?”

“Let’s discuss it later.”

I sit in a folding chair. “Talk to me, Diana. What’s going on?”

“Max, I’m ten minutes away. Follow orders, get in the Jeep, and I’ll tell you everything I know as soon as I see you. Let’s not do it over the phone.”

“Okay.” I finish dressing and try to act as calm as always. I walk through the gym and smile at a yoga instructor I’ve been smiling at for a week now and make my way to the front door. I glance outside and see the maroon Jeep parked next to my car. At this point it’s fairly obvious that something dreadful has happened, so I swallow hard and step into the blinding midday sun. The driver hops out and, without a word, opens a rear door. I ride for seven minutes in complete silence until we park in the driveway of a quaint duplex cottage with a “For Rent” sign in the front yard. It’s a block from the ocean. As soon as the engine is turned off, both agents jump out and scan the periphery, as if snipers might be up there, just waiting. The knot in my stomach feels like a bowling ball.

We make it inside without getting shot, and Diana is waiting. “Nice place you have here,” I say.

“It’s a safe house,” she replies.

“Oh, okay. And why are we hiding in a safe house in the middle of a perfectly fine day?”

A gray-haired man enters from the kitchen and thrusts out a hand. “Max, I’m Dan Raynor, U.S. Marshal, supervisor for this area.” We shake hands like old friends and he’s actually smiling as if we’re about to have a long lunch.

“A real pleasure,” I say. “What’s going on?”

There are four of them—Raynor, Diana, and the two nameless FBI agents—and for a few seconds they’re not sure of the protocol here. Whose territory? Who’s included? Who stays and who leaves? As I’ve already learned, these cross-agency turf fights can be confusing.

Raynor does the talking. “Max, I’m afraid there’s been a breach. To put it bluntly—your cover has been blown. We have no idea how this happened.”

I sit down and wipe my forehead. “Who knows what?” I ask.

Raynor says, “We don’t know much, but there are some folks flying in from Washington right now. They should be here in an hour or so. Evidently, the FBI picked up something last night from a wiretap. There was some chatter among the Rucker family, and the FBI heard it.”

“They know where I am?”

“They do. They know exactly where you’re living.”

“We’re very sorry about this, Max,” Diana says, and I glare at her and her stupidity as if I could strangle her.

“Gosh, that means so much,” I say. “Why don’t you just shut up?”

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s twice you’ve said that. Please don’t say it again, okay? It means nothing. It’s totally useless.”

She’s stung by my harshness, but I really don’t care. My only concern right now is my own skin. The four people staring at me, along with their higher-ups and their entire government, are all responsible for the “breach.”

“Would you like some coffee?” Diana asks meekly.

“No, I’d like some heroin,” I say. They find this funny, but then we could all use a laugh. Coffee is poured and a platter of cookies makes the rounds. We begin the process of waiting. As surreal as it is, I begin thinking about where to go next.

Raynor says they’ll get my car after dark. They’re waiting on a black male agent from the Orlando office who will be my double for the next day or so. Under no circumstances will I be allowed to return to my condo to live, and we haggle about how to retrieve my sparse belongings. The Marshals Service will take care of the lease and turn off the utilities. Raynor thinks I’ll need a different vehicle, but I push back initially.

The FBI agents leave and return with sandwiches. The clock seems to stop as the walls close in. Finally, at 3:30, Mr. Victor Westlake walks in the front door and says, “Max, I’m sorry.” I do not stand, nor do I offer a hand to shake. The sofa is all mine. He has three other dark suits with him and they scramble for kitchen chairs and stools. When everyone is introduced and seated, Westlake begins, “This is highly unusual, Max, and I don’t know what to say. As of now, we have no idea where the breach occurred, and we may never find out.”

“Just tell me what you do know,” I say.

Westlake opens a file and pulls out some papers. “Here’s the transcript of a phone conversation we caught last night between Dee Ray Rucker and someone named Sully. Both were on cell phones. Dee Ray was in D.C. Sully made the call from somewhere around here.”

I read the transcript while the rest of them hold their breath. It takes a few seconds, then I place it on the coffee table. “How’d they do it?” I ask.

“We’re still working on it. One theory is that they used a private company to track you down. We monitor a handful of firms that specialize in corporate espionage, surveillance, missing persons, private snooping, and the like. These are ex-military types, ex-spies, and, I’m ashamed to say, a few ex–FBI agents. They’re good and they have the technology. For the right fee, they could gather a lot of information.”