Enemies Within

by J. S. Chapman

  “Try this name on for size. John Jackson Finlay.”

  He repeated it twice before swiveling his head and giving her a ponderous glare. “The vanilla name?”

  She nodded. “John Jackson Finlay is his birth name. When his aunt and uncle adopted him, he got a new name. John Jackson Coyote.”

  This time he gave her a longer, harder look.

  “I tracked down the original birth certificate, the reissued birth certificate, and the adoption decree.”

  Excitement lit up his eyes. “Jack Coyote?”

  She blinked her affirmation.

  “Tell me more.”

  She mechanically went through his bio. She knew it by heart. “Thirty-two. Born San Antonio to Jackson Finlay and Eleanor Coyote Finlay. After dad abandoned the family and mom died from metastatic cancer, twelve-year-old Jack was adopted by his mother’s brother and his wife. He grew up like any normal kid. Dabbled in computer code. Hacked computers for the fun of it. Drifted from a community college in Tucson to a single semester at MIT before landing a job with a multinational tech concern. Took another position with a major software company specializing in enterprise applications. The State Department eventually grabbed him and sent him overseas to supervise network security. After returning to the States, he held several government positions troubleshooting security breaches. He signed on at HID as a cybersecurity expert last year. His uncle passed but his aunt is a lawyer in good standing. She’s been fighting to prove his innocence. Whether she had any influence on his release, I wouldn’t know. But I found out something interesting, all rumor and speculation. I’m still trying to confirm.”

  With his best game face, he said, “Back room deals and handshakes?”

  “Something like that.”

  In a crisscrossing network of banks, wire transfers, and corporate trust accounts, the hacked funds were sent around the globe to several offshore tax havens, all linked to John Jackson Finlay aka Jack Coyote, former security analyst with the Homeland Intelligence Division and the subject of a nationwide manhunt. “The money trail starts in the Cayman Islands. It’s reasonable to assume he’d go there first. There’s also a bank in Kansas City attached to a corporate shell. I tracked down the accountant who set up everything.”

  Taggert sniffed in a thoughtful breath, as much to relieve tension as to draw her out. “If I remember correctly, DNA results exonerated him.”

  “Inconclusive. He shouldn’t have been let out of jail. I don’t know why he was.”

  “Pressure brought to bear?”

  She had already considered the possibility, which got her to wondering. “But why?”

  “Why do you think?”

  It was too nefarious, too underhanded, and too bizarre. “They want to follow him? Find out who he works for?”

  “Or feed him to the wolves,” he said. “He’d make a convenient scapegoat.”

  “What if we get to him first?”

  It was a curve ball he hadn’t expected.

  “Running him down will take legwork,” she said. “And an expense account.”

  He gave her a level stare, his dark eyes vague, his mind crunching the pros and cons, mostly the cons. “He’s a dangerous man. He’s already killed once. Maybe two or three times.”

  “My count is up to four. Possibly five.”

  He swore under his breath.

  “Just sign off, Taggert. Let me do the rest.”

  “I’ll run it past management.” He turned his head, curious, and changed the subject. “Heard you broke up with what’s-his-name.”

  She didn’t want to think about Jason Pucinski. “He broke up with me.”

  He pulled her into his arms. She settled against his warmth, her arm folded over his chest, the crown of her head snuggled into the nook beneath his chin. The sensation of his breaths rising and falling beneath her was comforting. Nearly twenty years separated them, the difference between maturity and immaturity. He had seen more, experienced more, understood more. But in her heart, where it counted, she was the mature woman and he was the insecure boy. If management signed off on her proposal, she’d have an enormous job ahead of her, facing who knows what. She knew one thing for certain. Taggert would have her back. She took comfort in that at least. He was a moral man who held moral principles that couldn’t be compromised or broken. Unusual in this town, where principles be damned. Except, she had to remind herself, when it came to casual affairs.

  He sat up and lightly spanked her. “Better get back to the office. Things to do.”

  Taggert had gotten under her skin. Part of her said he was using her. Another part said she was using him. He was always surprising her, one of the reasons she kept seeing him, despite her better judgment and conservative upbringing. Their secretive dates had been going on for nearly a year. Feeling pangs of guilt for being the ‘other woman’, she vowed to break off their casual relationship. Eventually. In her mind, she had banged the door shut on his smug face a thousand and one times. Every time, she unlocked the door and kept it wide open for him to walk through whenever he wanted. She really didn’t want to put an end to the affair. Most especially she didn’t want to walk away from his endearing mumblings, the earthy fragrance of his skin, his soothing embraces, his shuddering breaths of satisfaction, the hundred kisses he sprinkled on her lips, the allure of his depthless eyes, and the drift of his hands when they swelled around her hips. With Taggert, it had never been the bump and grind of adolescent lovemaking but the darlings and sweethearts he intoned in between, and the satisfied stirrings he made while lying next to her in the aftermath. She hoped that when she finally found that special someone, he would be a man as passionate as Jon Taggert.

  “Something else I have to tell you.”

  He was tying his tie but stopped before pushing the knot snugly against his throat. “Oh?”

  She had heard it from a friend of a friend of a friend. She didn’t put much credence in it. Still, she couldn’t ignore it. On the day Coyote was arrested, a director at the Homeland Intelligence Division got a heads-up on the electronic transfer of several million dollars to a Grand Cayman bank. The director immediately picked up the phone and volunteered the information to a Maryland official in exchange for political payback down the road. The information went up the line to the governor’s office. The governor informed the state’s attorney, who was elected on the opposing party’s ticket and expected a favor down the line. The assistant state’s attorney assigned to the case expected a different kind of favor, one that breached the fine line between public service and personal ambitions. As the lead prosecutor in the case, she held back the facts until the day of arraignment. And a splendid display of showmanship it was. The defendant was denied bond and returned to solitary confinement. Handshakes and winks worked back in the opposite direction. Two weeks later, new evidence putting into doubt the defendant’s guilt became known. Against the steadfast objections of this same assistant state’s attorney, he was released on bail based on prima facie evidence that he could not have been the killer.

  “Yet the murder charge wasn’t dropped,” she pointed out.

  Taggert placed his hands on her shoulders and looked unblinkingly into her eyes. “And you’re wondering who was behind the deal, why, and who benefited from it.”

  “The important thing is this,” she said. “Days after Coyote was released, he fled the jurisdiction. To where, no one knows. But I’ll bet his first stop will be the Cayman Islands.”

  6

  Grand Cayman, Cayman Islands

  Monday, August 11

  IN THE EARLY morning hours of a tropical sunrise, John Fox stepped off the jumbo airliner in George Town, Grand Cayman, arriving from New York City.

  He appeared to be a typical American tourist, here to soak up Caribbean sunshine and score with fetching ladies. A tall and good-looking man in his early thirties, he melted seamlessly into crowds of tourists, bankers, and business types.

  The multiple ethnicities passed down to him from divergent
bloodlines gave him an indefinable look. Anthropologists would likely identify his indigenous heritage along with traits from his European grandparents. Casual observers only saw an interesting man, handsome to a fault, lean and trim, built like a long-distance runner, a guy who kept to himself. In some ways, he was a man apart. In other ways, he was Everyman. Strangers generally saw what they wanted to see. Those of Latino descent viewed a man of Latino parentage. Asians felt comfortable looking into his narrow-lidded eyes. Those with Celtic or Irish ancestry recognized the ethnic idiosyncrasies of their own lineages. Yes, he was Everyman. Fitting in wherever he went. Yet, a loner.

  None would know that he was a quintessential American whose family went back generations. Or that he was a child of separated parents. Or an orphan by the tender age of twelve. Or a lover of women, slightly rebellious, wild, adventurous, instantly familiar, and sometimes dangerous. A captivating man, some would say. Mysterious and extremely private, others would surmise. With his rough and tumble manner, his penchant for pranks and practical jokes, and his quiet reserve, men recognized him as a kindred spirit, someone to get to know. Women often smiled at him with starry eyes, visualizing romantic evenings and steamy nights.

  The international airport was bustling with activity and noisy with chatter. Fox swept his mouth into a broad smile and approached one of the customs stations.

  Fully aware he possessed one of those friendly faces which immediately put others at ease, he knew how to look wholly harmless, humorous and blasé, searching for his next laugh and his next lay. A resilient man who relied on his better instincts, he never stood out, instead appearing bland and self-effacing. In truth he was a man made of sterner stuff, a man who could defend himself, a man always thinking several steps ahead, a man who could outwit and outthink nearly everybody. ‘Nearly’ being the key word. Very recently he had been fooled by a woman who met his match.

  Casually he removed his sunglasses and held out his passport, his joints loose, his gestures flamboyant, his air cheery. The humorless customs agent received the passport even while his eyes stayed riveted on the passport holder. After several moments of sharp inspection—his dark face implacable, his expression unreadable, his uniform starched, and his bearing officious—he lowered his eyes, comparing the passport photo with the man standing before him.

  Jack smiled a close-lipped smile.

  The agent asked the traveler for the purpose of his visit, his speech a crisp British accent mixed with island patois.

  Fox told him he was on holiday, and wore the baggy shorts and island shirt to prove it. He held reservations at the Grand Britannia Resort, he said, fully intending to impress the agent.

  The agent remained unimpressed and skeptical. It was his job to be unimpressed and skeptical. Fox appreciated that. Appreciated men who took their jobs seriously. What he didn’t appreciate was the agent’s attitude. Again he studied the passport, breathing evenly, his dark mustache fixed, the pupils of his eyes constricted.

  Fox blithely rattled on, mentioning he planned to visit Stingray City, take in some snorkeling near the coral reef, maybe visit one of the rain forests a friend told him about.

  The agent asked after his occupation.

  Fox answered truthfully. “Software engineer.”

  The customs agent searched his backpack for illicit drugs, digging deep, fat fingers exploring every niche and recess. He found nothing more suspicious than a paperback book, a laptop computer, a cell phone, a change of clothes, and aspirin. Finally satisfied, he nodded, stamped the passport, and flicked his eyes sideways for Fox to proceed.

  John Fox wished the agent a good day and joined all the other tourists who passed inspection. He didn’t have to pick up luggage. He traveled light.

  When he stepped outside, he was greeted by powerful tropical heat. It felt good on his skin. It felt like freedom. It felt like he had just escaped from jail, which wasn’t a lie.

  He hailed a taxicab. On the way to his hotel—which wasn’t the Grand Britannia but a more moderately priced tourist destination—he made a call through a voice-over-internet service that masked his location.

  He shed the John Fox guise and assumed the Jack Coyote personality, grin wiped off his face, body compact as a board.

  Vikki Kidd answered on the first ring. “You received my message.” She relayed her news briskly, mincing no words. John Sessions was dead. “He was your boss, wasn’t he?”

  “Liz’s.” Jack wasn’t terribly surprised by the news. He almost expected it.

  “And Liz was your boss,” she said.

  Liz Langdon hadn’t only been his boss. Once upon a time they were college sweethearts, though what they had together ended long ago. Or so they told themselves. Repeatedly. And as recently as two weeks ago. “She okay?”

  “As far as I know. Listen. It gets worse.”

  Her news was already unsettling. Like a needle stuck in the groove of a record album, the words replayed in his mind. John Sessions was dead. John Sessions was dead. It wasn’t the whole story. When it involved the Homeland Intelligence Division, it was never the whole story. Calmly he said, “I’m listening.”

  “They found his body on the plaza. On the Taylor Street side. With his brains splattered across the sidewalk. Looks like he jumped. They’re claiming it was suicide.”

  Her words caught up to him like distant echoes. Whenever she moved onto the next piece of information, he was still digesting the previous one. The human part of him was unable to grasp the magnitude, but his lizard brain, the primitive emotional center where the fight or flight response resided, understood all too well. John Sessions, deputy director of the Technical Bureau, had been executed. A little sloppily, but executed all the same. And there it was. A study in black and white. No getting around it. No wiping away the mess. No cleaning up the gore.

  “The inaugural article hit the morning edition a few hours earlier.” Panic edged her voice, tight but breathy, as if she were hyperventilating, as if she desperately wanted to scream.

  “I saw it,” he said. “I read it.”

  “You know what this means, don’t you? They’re running scared. John Sessions was a fixture at HID, wasn’t he? Respected. I can only think he was ready to turn. Do you think he would have? Do you think he had it in him?”

  He remembered their last conversation. He dared John to do the right thing. To become a whistleblower. To shout out the truth loud enough and clear enough so everyone could hear. At the time he didn’t think his suggestion made any impact. “Maybe people were afraid he would. He knew too much. Now they can blame everything on him.”

  It made sense. Milly Whitney was killed. Jack was on the run for her murder. Harrison Tobias was still missing in action. And Sessions was the one who ordered everything.

  “And Langdon?”

  If Liz were smart, she would tender her resignation and move back to Georgia. But she was stubborn. And ambitious. When it was offered, she would take the position tragically vacated by John. Do it in a heartbeat. To hell with the risks. “She’s a cinch for promotion.”

  “Do you think she knows anything?”

  Liz was an idealist. She saw stars on cloudy nights and sandcastles in blizzards. Even if she understood the downfalls of staying with the Firm, she also knew how to play the game. “I don’t think so.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “What I have to do.”

  “Follow the money.”

  “If you don’t hear from me―”

  “I’ll assume you found a tropical island paradise, a hut, and a beautiful wench.” She disconnected.

  He lifted both hands, palms down, fingers fanned, thumbs meeting. Nothing trembled, not even a hair. He understood why. Mental anguish attacks a man only when he’s standing at a crossroads, one path leading right and the other heading left. For him, there was only one road and one direction. Straight ahead.

  A little more than a month ago, he wasn’t wearing tropical clothing or sunglasses or an inane smile. Instea
d he was a straight-laced, completely boring, mild-mannered cybersecurity expert working for a little-known federal agency. Everything changed when his eyes were blinded by a femme fatale. Days later he was taken into custody, charged with the murder of his girlfriend, and incarcerated in a supermax prison. After evidence showed he might not be the killer after all, he was released on bail until all facts could be gathered. Such facts would have completely exonerated him. Except he didn’t trust the system. Why should he? Every day, perfectly innocent men were convicted of crimes they didn’t do. He could have been another sad statistic.

  There had been moments when Jack believed he must have killed Milly. He had lost a chunk of his memory that night. Something could have gone haywire in his head. He could have killed her and not remembered killing her. He could have been acting out a dream. Instead of taking Kathy Heathland home, he could have gone to Milly’s apartment and overpowered her. Or called her in the middle of night and asked her to come over. He could have had his way with her and ignored her pleas for mercy. Choked the life out of her. Arranged the two of them together in a love embrace. And not remembered anything until he woke up the next morning to see her lying beside him, dead. He could have been the monster of every woman’s nightmares.

  But he wasn’t. He took Katerine Cécile Arnaud Madoc home that night. She drugged him and set him up for murder, afterwards exiting on cat’s paws and bringing along her partner in crime, the Frenchmen with the smiley face and maddened eyes.

  “Hey, buddy. We’re here.”

  Jack snapped back to the here and now. He paid his fare and stepped into the hot sunshine of a glorious day in paradise.

  7

  London, England

  Monday, August 11

  MRS. HAZEL ROUBIDOUX seemed a tough old bird of another generation, the kind who brooked nothing unconventional except her own peculiarities.