London

by A. C. Fuller

  Warren focused on the bald man's trench coat. It bulged on the sides and was too big for the size of his head, like a skinny teenager wearing his dad's suit.

  Explosives.

  Warren ducked under the police tape and sprinted for the boy.

  The man in the trench coat reached the entrance.

  Warren grabbed the boy from behind, swiveled on his heels, and dove back toward the police tape. In the air, he cradled the boy's head against his chest with one hand and used his wide body to shield him from the fiery blast exploding from the entryway.

  The next thing he knew, Warren was on the ground, ears buzzing, knuckles burning. The boy had rolled out from under him. His parents were there. They picked the boy up and carried him away.

  The smell. Warren knew that smell. The acrid scent of explosives mingled with the horrid stench of burning flesh. He'd smelled it too many times in Afghanistan.

  He sat up and looked toward the hotel entrance, now a caved-in shell surrounded by broken glass, chunks of rock, and metal fragments. Bodies and pieces of bodies.

  In the distance, sirens wailed. The sirens in London were a little different, like the police tape.

  Strange, the things he noticed.

  Warren let his head fall back and opened his eyes wide. Staring into the sky, he let out a single scream, almost a roar, as though all his frustration and rage had been channeled into a single sound.

  5

  Curtains drawn, the desk lamp casting a pale glow over her laptop, Cole worked. She started with the victims, asking herself one simple question: Who benefits financially from their deaths?

  She dug into the archives of every newspaper she could access. She read business magazines, political magazines, and a few dozen international publications.

  She read every interview with Raj Ambani she could find. On YouTube, she found videos of him speaking at tech conferences on topics such as cryptocurrency and blockchain technology. He was a firm believer that the world was on its way to a single currency managed by an international financial council. At one point he even joked that he expected a spot on that council when all this came to pass in twenty or thirty years. "The rate at which the world is unifying is astounding," he said with quiet confidence. "Sure, we'll have some hiccups along the way, but the unity of all mankind is coming—governments, currencies, maybe even religions—and I'm happy to be alive for it."

  She dug back through the political history of Alvin Meyers. A moderate Democrat, he was known as a practical man who favored compromise over rancor. In his twenty-two years as a senator, he built a reputation for "reaching across the aisle" and "putting country over party." He voted in favor of every U.S. military intervention during his tenure, and fought his party's every move to the left. One phrase he'd repeatedly used struck Cole, and she jotted it on another notecard. "Incremental change leads to revolutionary results." After his time in the senate, he'd served eight years as governor of Virginia. Like any politician, he had his share of scandals, but nothing major. The only one that made national headlines involved a Chinese company that wanted to buy a locally-owned TV station in his state. According to reports, Meyers pressured the state legislature to allow the deal, despite objections from both Republican and Democratic colleagues.

  Ana Diaz was tougher to research. On the internet, her name was often whispered, but she'd given no interviews. To Cole's surprise, three days after Diaz's death, a Miami reporter named Alexa Frias had released an excerpt of a book about the drug kingpin.

  She'd been working on the book for a while and Diaz's murder brought the literary agents to Miami. After inking a six-figure deal for the book, set to be published next year, they'd released a teaser chapter to push pre-orders.

  Cole read the chapter with rapt attention. It painted a picture of a woman who hungered for legitimacy in the world's eyes. Diaz wanted to be known as a businesswoman, not a criminal, and was willing to commit as many crimes as necessary to get there. This was nothing new. Most criminals saw themselves as the good guys. Forced by circumstances and an unjust system into a life of crime, always one job away from going straight. Pablo Escobar amassed a drug fortune of $30 billion, ordered the murder of six-hundred police officers and thousands of others, but also built parks, soccer fields, and homes for the poor. Ana Diaz controlled the drug trade in Miami with brutal violence, but also gave small business loans to minority entrepreneurs.

  The excerpt ended with an enticing quotation from Diaz. "Miami was built on crime and has become the greatest American city. If you build enough buildings, paint enough colorful murals, spawn sports stars and musicians… if you contribute… people forget everything else. They want to forget. They have to forget. If they love you enough, not only are they willing to forget where you came from, they need to forget." It was about Miami, but clearly about Diaz herself as well. How in hell had Frias gotten the quote? Was it even real?

  Cole had to contact the author, so she sent an email requesting a quick, off-the-record chat.

  Next she combed through the Twitter accounts of the few Middle-Eastern journalists who posted in English, looking for any mention of Mohammad bin Muqrin. The royal family had released an official statement of sorrow and outrage, promising to coordinate with American and European law enforcement to catch the perpetrators. Plenty of rumors floated around, but not much actual news. One problem was that Saudi Arabia lacked a free press and few foreign reporters were granted entry into the country. But bin Muqrin had been on a campaign of persuasion in the United States for the last two years. In one of the oddest pieces of journalism she'd ever read, he'd partnered with a tabloid newspaper to produce a 160-page booklet about the history and culture of Saudi Arabia. The booklet was pure propaganda, and all of bin Muqrin's public appearances were polished and well-scripted. In New York City, on MSNBC, and at public forums on the future of venture capital in Silicon Valley, every word he spoke seemed designed to soften the ground as the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia moved more and more of its money into western companies and investments. Saudi Arabia had an extra $100 billion and, eventually, the oil would dry up. Mohammad bin Muqrin was in charge of making sure that money kept growing in a diverse, international portfolio.

  She stood, placing her hands on the back of the chair and staring down at her laptop, then up at the cork board. Something had to tie these four people together, but what? The central claim of the manifesto was true—these three men and one woman were all powerful. All moved in circles of high finance and world events. All but Diaz had explicit pro-globalization stances. All had, in their own way, played a part in breaking down walls between nations. Diaz was the smallest player, and a bit of an outlier.

  Cole fell onto the bed and closed her eyes. She allowed the research to float around in her mind. There had to be something else. Something deeper. Gabby’s words played over and over. "What if the stated aims of the terrorists, the mission they articulated in the manifesto, is just a sideshow?" The problem was that the targets did tie into the manifesto, they tied in perfectly, and she was having trouble not seeing the case that way.

  Her phone rang and she bolted across the room to retrieve it from the desk. A number she didn't recognize but an area code she did. Pipo's gold chain appeared in her mind, the gold "305" encrusted with fake diamonds. Miami's area code.

  "Hello?" Her voice was eager.

  "Jane Cole? Alexa Frias returning your call from the Miami Weekly Dispatch."

  Cole returned to the bed. "Thanks for calling me back. I know this is a little unorthodox, but—"

  "Don't mention it, Jane. I applied to The Sun three times and you're the first person who's ever called me back."

  "I… I'm not at The Sun anymore."

  Frias laughed. "Oh, that was just a joke. But I really did apply to The Sun."

  Cole wasn't sure how to proceed. She assumed Frias, like her, guarded scoops jealously. "Congratulations on the book deal. My max is five-thousand words. I don't know how you'll do it."

  "
Already have it half done. Don't know how I'll finish it. Before Diaz was killed, I couldn't get a publisher to give me the time of day."

  Cole laughed.

  Frias's tone turned serious. "I'd be remiss if I didn't ask, did you kill Ana Diaz?"

  Cole nearly dropped the phone. "What?"

  Frias didn't respond. It took Cole a few seconds to catch up. "You know I was in Miami?"

  "Yes."

  Cole's mind raced. "How'd you know?"

  "Rumors."

  "I was in the hotel just after Diaz was killed."

  "I know"

  "How?"

  "Like I said, rumors. Did you kill her?"

  "No."

  "Didn't think so, but I had to ask. You know how it is. What a scoop it would have been if you'd said, 'Yup! I killed her.'"

  "Ever gotten a scoop like that?" Cole tried to sound light as she tried to figure out what rumors Frias had heard.

  "I know where you're going," Frias said. "You want my Diaz book. You were in Miami. You almost had the story."

  "Off the record, deep background. I'll erase the call log, forget your name…" She let it hang in the air. "Is there anything you can tell me? I read the chapter your publisher released. Now I'm looking at possible connections between Diaz and the other victims."

  The line was silent. Cole buzzed with anticipation. The unique situation might persuade Frias to give her something—after all, Cole wasn't a competitor anymore. She was something else. A subject, or potential subject. Frias had something to offer Cole, but Cole thought she had something to offer Frias as well. "Still thinking?" Cole asked.

  "I think you can guess the calculations going on in my head right now."

  Cole smiled. "Oh yeah."

  "Then have at it."

  Cole walked to the window and opened the curtains. She stared down at a park in a small square where a man threw bread to a bird. She gradually raised her gaze to the gray sky, allowing it to turn to static in her mind's eye. Then she closed her eyes, allowing the static to fill her. Frias, she thought. Frias, Frias, Frias. "You knew I wasn't involved in the Diaz murder before you asked, correct?"

  "Correct."

  "And you knew I was in D.C., and in Wragg's apartment. You Googled me and read the false smears about me and Warren?"

  "Correct."

  "So you know I'm close to this story?"

  "Correct."

  "You know I'm good at this, and that I have a lot of information I haven't put in print."

  "Correct."

  Cole tilted her head to the side, eyes still closed. "You also have a lot you haven't written."

  "A book full."

  "You've been working on this book for—what—eight months?"

  "Fourteen."

  Cole opened her eyes. "At first you were thrilled that Diaz's death would raise the profile of your book. You signed a six-figure deal."

  "Right."

  "But any scoops you may have had are about to get investigated by every reporter with a pulse and a byline. If a hundred good reporters are on this story, your book may be irrelevant by the time it comes out. So your publisher dropped chapter one now to push pre-orders before the story passed you by?"

  "Wait, wait, wait," Frias said. "That's not quite it."

  "Well then?"

  "I have things no one else has, or will ever have now that Diaz is dead. I have… pieces."

  Cole knew what she meant by pieces, and she let the word hang in the silence. Frias had pieces that tied into the nine murders plot. Interviews, facts, documents. Things she had before Diaz was killed that made new sense in the context of the murders.

  Frias continued, "I signed a two-book deal. My guess is that by the time we go to market with my Diaz book, the story will have passed me by. You were right about that. I might even change the nature of that book, depending on what happens. Instead of making it about her rise in the crime world, I could make it a story about the woman herself. Her motivations, her upbringing."

  "Smart. The hard news angles will be eaten up, but you'll be able to fill in all the color. There'll still be a market for that." Cole liked Frias more and more the longer she spoke with her. She was clearly a good reporter, smart and practical. "What about the second book?"

  "That's why I'm considering telling you what I know."

  Cole understood. "They signed your next book and you haven't set on a topic?"

  Frias sighed. "Yeah."

  "You know I know more than anyone else about the murders, and you want me to be part of the book?"

  "Here's what I… no, lemme think for a moment." Frias was careful with her words, an attribute Cole appreciated. Finally, she said, "When an event is big enough, and when journalists play a special role in bringing that event into the light, books can be written about the role of journalism in the story."

  "Watergate," Cole agreed. "All the President's Men is about reporting more than about Nixon."

  "Exactly." Her voice turned conspiratorial. "I have a feeling this may end up being one of those. The story, on its own, is huge. But if the press gets this story—if you get this story—as it's happening, there's a book there as well."

  "A trade?" Cole asked. It wasn't really a question. Her tone conveyed understanding, and agreement.

  Frias let it hang there for a moment, then said, with finality, "A trade."

  6

  The last thing Cole wanted was to be the subject of a book, but that's what she ultimately agreed to.

  It took half an hour to negotiate the terms—terms that would never be written down or shared with anyone. In the course of negotiation, they got off topic a few times, but it wasn't accidental. They had to develop trust for this to work.

  Frias asked about Cole's husband. Cole told her the circumstances of his death, and Frias looked up Matt's obituary while they were on the phone. Cole asked about Frias, who was Cuban-American. Her parents escaped Cuba in the late-seventies, and she'd been born and raised in Miami. She was divorced and had a son who was a freshman at the University of Miami.

  The pact required total trust—either had the power to screw the other over. Frias would tell Cole everything she knew about Diaz, along with any possible connections to the nine murders. Cole promised not to write a single word of it without meeting two conditions. First, it had to be connected to the larger plot of the nine murders. Second, she had to get approval from Frias, at which point Frias would release the "background" agreement and allow Cole to put it in the story. Most importantly to Frias, Cole agreed to credit her in any story she wrote that used her material. Frias agreed not to use any of Cole's information in any articles written before the eventual book.

  For the book, Cole agreed to be interviewed—on the record—but only if she ended up playing a significant role in breaking the nine-murders story. Part of that agreement was walking Frias through the scoops that had led her from New York to D.C., to Miami and Las Vegas, and now to London.

  "Here's what I'm thinking,” Cole said, eager to get to the matter at hand. "I'll tell you what I know, then you tell me what you know about Diaz that might fill in some holes."

  "Good. I'm recording now, alright?"

  "Fine." Cole took a deep breath. "It started with nine rifles and a tip from a cop named Robert Warren."

  It took an hour to summarize the events that brought her to London. She took her time, and told it slowly and carefully because she sensed Frias's mind at work. In journalism, sometimes the tiniest detail triggered a line of questioning that unraveled a story.

  After another half-hour, she'd summarized her research into the victims and why she was doing that research in the first place. "So where I want to start," Cole said, "is what was Diaz up to that could have gotten her killed, assuming the motive in the manifesto isn't the real motive?"

  Beginning with the drug kingpin's birth as Maria Battle, Frias told the story like a master. She was the illegitimate daughter of Miguel Battle Sr., who ran Miami's largest organized crime family, The Cor
poration. But Battle had wanted the best for his daughter. That meant she had to succeed in the legitimate world. He noticed early that she was smart, much smarter than his sons, both well known screw-ups around Miami. So he sent her to boarding schools in the northeast for high school, then paid for her to get an economics degree from the University of Miami. There, she became a financial wizard, and in the early 2000s she began using an independent film production company to launder money for drug dealers. It was a smart move because the high budgets allowed her to funnel millions through the company without leaving a trace. Diaz wasn't working directly for her father at this time, but she must have had his permission because he controlled most of the drugs in Miami.

  Around age twenty-five, things changed. Her inept brothers had pushed their father out of The Corporation and tarnished the operation and the family name. Maria Battle decided to take the business from her two brothers. She changed her name to Ana Diaz and began going as Lady Chicharron, a nickname that appeared after Diaz had a snitch thrown into a vat of boiling oil at a pork rinds factory.

  Cole interrupted her story. "Warren told me she drove a car through a rival's storefront, too. A pizzeria or something. That true?"

  Frias laughed. "He got that off her Wikipedia page, right?"

  "Why's that funny?"

  "Diaz had people edit her Wikipedia page. She wanted that information out there to cultivate an air of violence without admitting to anything too incriminating."

  "So, did she do it?"

  "Yeah, but that isn't the whole story, and it wasn't a pizzeria. C'mon, this is Miami. It was 2008. She and her brother Mikey were having a spat over a chain of walk-up empanada stands that were—in addition to being legit good food—used to launder coke money. It was a cool setup, if you're into the whole money laundering thing. Next to each empanada stand, they had a liquor store under a different name. In the back of each liquor store, a Western Union terminal. And that's how they made the money disappear."