Midas w-2

by Russell Andrews

  Cartel President Parnum Yasianto of Indonesia blamed hedge fund speculators, who have bet heavily on oil markets this year, and refinery bottlenecks in the United States.

  “While the oil market still holds above $50 a barrel. . that is due to factors beyond OPEC’s scope,” Parnum told a press conference in London.

  Analysts agree that low stocks of gasoline in the United States are leading prices now.

  But they say OPEC has helped create the conditions for an overheated market by restraining supplies so tightly that crude stocks are failing to rebuild as normal during the third and fourth quarters.Gasoline Record

  In the United States gasoline inventories rose slightly in the week to November 14 but remain four percent lower than a year ago, a substantial deficit when demand is running three percent higher year-on-year.

  “There is a short-run situation that is very much associated with the problems of the U.S. gasoline market; problems that OPEC can do very little about,” said Dan Gross of Barnum Capital. “The U.S. gasoline inventory situation remains highly precarious.”

  U.S. gasoline futures traded on Thursday at a new record of $2.368 a gallon.

  A firm decision on output is not expected until a full OPEC meeting in Beirut on January 3, by which time $50 a barrel oil and above could be more firmly established.

  Spare cartel capacity is estimated at about 2.5 million bpd, limited mostly to Saudi Arabia. Real extra volumes might need to be added to change market psychology and prevent prices rising further later in the year, analysts say.

  24

  The coffee was cold, had been for a good twenty minutes, but Justin took another sip, peered down into the dregs of the paper cup, tilted his head back and drained the dark, bitter liquid. There was still a bit of black ooze clinging to the side, so he swirled it onto his finger and licked it off. It didn’t make him feel any more awake.

  It was now ten-fifteen in the morning. Things should be happening pretty soon. At least he hoped so. Justin had been sitting in the car since 7:30 A.M. He’d flown into D.C. the night before, the ten o’clock shuttle, checked into some crummy hotel near Dulles Airport, paid cash, just in case anyone tried to trace him, and set the alarm for five-thirty. In the two hours he’d been awake he’d driven back and forth over the route he expected to be using later, familiarizing himself as much as possible with the streets, looking for the right spot to do what he’d decided he was going to do. He was exhausted. Getting up that morning was about as difficult as anything he could remember doing in a long time. Maybe the second most difficult. First was leaving Reggie Bokkenheuser the night before.

  She’d said, “Do you need any more help?” and then they’d gone back to his place. He saw the way she was watching him, hungry, as if something had changed between them and she couldn’t wait to comfort him. Or devour him. He wasn’t sure which. He probably would have let her. No, that wasn’t right. He was as hungry as she was, maybe even hungrier. He wouldn’t have just let her, he would have gone right at her. But he was sitting by his desk and he began flipping through his mail, just for something to do, just so he didn’t have to look her in the eye quite yet, and stuck in with his bills was a letter-size manila envelope, no return address on it. He ignored the rest of the mail, carefully tore the envelope open. Inside was a small piece of paper, memo pad size. The message on the paper was typed:

  You don’t call, you don’t write, you don’t e-mail. But who’s complaining?

  My phones are tapped and I’m under surveillance. If you want to get in touch with me, call Bruce’s Gym. Ask for Leyla. She’ll give me any message.

  You were right.

  Jacks were found at La Cucina. A whole bunch of ’em.

  You always were a smart boy.

  — W

  That was the end of his hunger. At least the hunger for Reggie. The note from Wanda Chinkle made his throat tighten and his stomach roil with pain. The last time he’d felt this way he’d killed four people and beaten another one close to death. So he looked up at Reggie and told her the kind of help he wanted her to give him now. She didn’t say a word, just nodded and smiled. A smile that said they both knew what additional kind of help would be waiting when he wanted it. Then he made a call. To Colonel Eugene T. Zanesworth. He wasn’t put through at first, but he stressed how urgent it was, and finally Zanesworth got on the phone. Chilly at first. No. Icy. Justin told him he had crucial information about Hutchinson Cooke’s murder, and when the colonel still resisted, Justin said he knew what had happened and they needed to talk. He wouldn’t go to Andrews, he insisted they meet someplace neutral, someplace, he said, where he’d be sure to be safe. He wanted a restaurant, he told Zanesworth, someplace with a lot of people, very public. The colonel scoffed, said, “Are you saying you don’t trust me?” and Justin, knowing he had to play this just right, knowing he had to appear smart but not too smart, said, “That’s exactly what I’m saying, Colonel. Try not to take it personally. Right now I don’t trust anyone. And I want a suit-and-tie kind of place. Calm and fancy, so if there’s a disturbance it’ll be obvious.” So Zanesworth picked a place, Justin agreed, said he’d fly out in the morning, would get to the restaurant by twelve-thirty.

  And that’s when he said good-bye to Reggie, because he had no intention of leaving in the morning. He was, he hoped, a lot smarter than that. He threw a toothbrush, a shirt, a pair of socks, and some underwear into a gym bag, then he drove straight to La Guardia, caught the 10 P.M. shuttle to D.C., checked into the hotel. Justin knew that as soon as they’d arranged their meeting, Zanesworth would call someone, FBI or private cops, whoever had been talking to him up until now. And he knew the cops would immediately make a precise and detailed plan. He figured they’d want Zanesworth to get to the restaurant an hour and a half early, maybe even two hours, hoping to set up before Justin could. But he didn’t believe in taking any chances whatsoever, so he’d prepared for as many alternatives as he could, and was in position several hours before he expected Zanesworth to move. There could be no mistakes.

  Of course, while he waited, he did nothing but think of all the things that could go wrong.

  He’d mapped out the route from Andrews to the restaurant Zanesworth had chosen, and driven it, round trip, seven times before he felt comfortable. He knew it only made sense for the colonel’s car to make a right turn coming out of the Air Force base. And he was certain Zanesworth would come to the base in the morning-he was a business-as-usual kind of guy. That’s why Justin had made the meet for lunch, so the officer wouldn’t just take the first part of the day off. And Justin knew the way cops handled this sort of thing-they’d be at the meeting place, have it staked out from hell to high water, expecting Justin to show up there early if he were trying to be clever. He had it all figured out, absolutely. Unless Zanesworth knew a shortcut and made a left or the colonel decided to stay home until the big meal or unless these cops were different and smarter and came with Zanesworth, picked him up from the departure point rather than at the meet.

  No. He had to try to put all that out of his mind. This would work. It would definitely work. Wouldn’t it?

  Yes.

  It was working.

  At least so far.

  Ten-twenty-two and there was Zanesworth’s car. He had a driver, which Justin had figured on, probably the young officer who’d escorted Justin to his parking space the time he’d come to meet the colonel. Justin started up the engine of his rental car. Waited. Let them get half a block ahead. There didn’t seem to be any cars accompanying the colonel. It was definitely working.

  About five blocks from the base, they reached one of the streets that Justin had decided would suffice-it was quiet but not too quiet; he wanted a few people around so things didn’t appear suspicious right from the start-and then he stuck the baseball cap he’d brought along on his head, and sped up. When Colonel Zanesworth’s driver stopped at the stop sign, Justin didn’t slow down. He rammed straight into the back of the officer’s car. Without h
esitating, Justin hopped out of his car, sauntered up to the car with the smashed-in back fender. He knew the colonel was expecting him to be in a suit and tie-as Justin had specified over the phone-so he figured he had an extra few moments before he was recognized in his jeans and baseball cap. He went to the driver’s window, saw that Zanesworth’s chauffeur was indeed the same officer escort Justin had already met, but it was the back door that opened a few inches. The colonel stuck his head outside and started his sentence with, “We’re involved in government business right now, we can’t-” but he stopped speaking when the muzzle of Justin’s gun was placed firmly up against his left eye.

  “Shove over, Colonel,” he said. And when the officer hesitated, Justin added, “I probably won’t shoot you in the head but I sure as shit’ll put one right in your knee or someplace that’ll hurt like hell. So just do what I say and it’ll be fine.” And as he slid inside the car to sit next to Zanesworth, Justin said to the driver, “Keep both hands on the wheel until I tell you different. If one finger so much as comes loose, I’ll cripple your colonel for life. You got that?”

  The young officer said, “Yes, sir,” and Justin closed the door behind him.

  “Make a right turn,” he told the driver. “Go slow, as if you’re just pulling away from the accident so you don’t block traffic. Then go two blocks and make another right.”

  The colonel started to talk but Justin tapped him with the gun-not as lightly as he might have, he wanted it to hurt. “Shut up,” he said, and he was almost embarrassed how satisfying it was to speak those words. He then did a quick frisk, took a pistol out of Zanesworth’s shoulder holster.

  The driver had now made the second right. Justin told him to go one more block and make a left. They went about ten blocks farther, turning a few more times. Justin saw that no one was following them, so he told the driver to stop and pull over. They were in a business area near a strip mall and a few small stores.

  “Colonel,” Justin said, “get down on the floor, facedown, hands interlaced behind your back. Once you’re there, if I see you move, I’ll shoot you.”

  Justin opened the car door on his side, stepped outside, and watched Zanesworth settle into his position. Then he tapped the driver on the back of the head with his gun, said, “Okay, Junior, I’m going to open your door. Keep your hands completely visible at all times and get out of the car.”

  They managed that maneuver. Justin took a pistol off the driver, made sure he had no other weapons, then he said, “Step behind the car here and get undressed.”

  “What?”

  “Give me the keys to the car first, then take your clothes off.”

  “Why?”

  “Here’s the way it works in the real world. Say another word and I’ll beat you senseless. Now get out of your clothes. Fast.”

  The officer clamped his mouth shut, kicked off his shoes and removed his shirt and pants.

  “Underwear and socks, too,” Justin told him.

  The young officer glared but said nothing. And then he was completely naked.

  “Okay,” Justin said. “Crouch down behind the car, here on the curb side.”

  The young officer followed instructions. Then Justin went around to the street side, opened the door, reached inside the car, and grabbed Zanesworth by the neck. He pulled the colonel roughly out onto the street, then quickly shoved him back into the passenger seat in the front.

  Justin strode quickly back to the driver’s side, got in, and started up the engine. “Have a nice day,” he said to the naked officer, and drove away.

  Half a block later, Zanesworth said quietly, “There was no need to humiliate the lieutenant like that.”

  “Sure there was,” Justin said. “I’m hoping I don’t need you for long, Colonel, I just need one piece of information. And it’s going to take a naked guy with no ID at least fifteen or twenty minutes to get anyone to pay attention to anything he says. Hopefully you’ll be heading home long before then.”

  When Zanesworth didn’t respond, Justin said, “Thinking of all kinds of threats to make? Hard to think of any that don’t sound really cliched, isn’t it?”

  “You can’t possibly get away with this,” Zanesworth answered.

  “See what I mean?”

  “You’re as good as dead.”

  “Colonel, I’ve been as good as dead for a pretty long time, so that doesn’t exactly get me shaking in my boots.”

  “I’m not giving you any information.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Son, I don’t know what the hell you’re thinking-”

  “I’ll tell you what I’m thinking, Colonel. I’m thinking that you’re an arrogant, egotistical, pompous asshole who’s boxed himself into a corner. You’ve spent so many years giving orders and taking orders that you don’t know your ass from your elbow. I also don’t think you’re all that smart. How am I doing so far?”

  Zanesworth didn’t answer. Justin shrugged and went on. “But you’re a military lifer, right? So I do think you’re smart enough to know when it’s time to retreat. And it’s time, Colonel. You picked the wrong side. I don’t think you even knew you were picking a side, that’s how well you were played. Somebody called you about eighteen months ago, said they needed a pilot. That it was business but it was patriotic business. Whoever it was sold you a pretty good case that this was a matter of national security. Must have been someone pretty high up, who could get your attention. You want to hear more?”

  “I’m listening,” Zanesworth said.

  “Maybe it was someone who Captain Cooke had flown, someone who was comfortable with Cooke. And who Cooke trusted. Shit,” Justin said, “I think I just answered my first question. No wonder you paid attention.”

  “I’m not confirming anything,” Zanesworth told him.

  “And I’m not done talking.” Justin told him about Hutchinson Cooke now, about the rigged manifold in his plane, about going to talk to Cooke’s wife and how, a day later, they were the targets of the McDonald’s suicide bomber. When he heard about the timing of the bomb, Colonel Eugene Zanesworth’s whole body seemed to collapse into the seat.

  “You want me to tell you about the other bombs, Colonel? About how they aren’t what you’re being told they are? How the first one was used to murder Bradford Collins and the second one to kill a nasty little guy who worked for the FAA?”

  Zanesworth was white as a ghost. “Martin Heffernan?”

  “Is he the one who called to tell you that Cooke was dead?”

  Zanesworth was staring straight ahead. Justin could tell he was considering his options.

  “I can’t prove it, Colonel, but I’m reasonably sure that Heffernan’s the one who killed your captain.” And over the next silence, “If you’re in on it, I promise you I’ll bring you down. If you were just a dupe, which is what I think, I’ll do my best to leave you out of it. But I need the pieces. Now. It’s a big, dangerous puzzle and I’m missing too many pieces to solve it. So first tell me who arranged for Cooke to go to work for Midas.” Then quietly, “Was it the vice president, Colonel? Was it Phil Dandridge?”

  “Yes. Yes it was.”

  “And who called you to say that Cooke was dead?”

  “Heffernan.”

  Justin nodded, instantly pulled out his cell phone and dialed. “Hey,” he said when Gary Jenkins answered the phone at the East End police station. “Your brother in school?”

  “Chief?”

  “Let’s skip the formalities, okay? Is your brother in school?”

  “Well. . sure. . I guess.”

  “I want you to get him out of class.”

  “Now?”

  “Not just now. Five minutes ago. The school’s what, five blocks from the station?”

  “I guess.”

  “Well I don’t want you to walk. I want you to drive. And I want you to use your siren. Go ninety. Then get him out of class, take him to the station, and tell him I want him to hack into New York phone company records. He’s don
e it for me before.”

  “Sure. Okay. What do you want him to get?”

  “I want the records for all calls coming in and out of Martin Heffernan’s apartment on November sixth, seventh, and eighth. I’m particularly interested in any calls he made to Washington, D.C., on those dates. You got it?”

  “Yeah, sure. . uh. .”

  “Gary, stop talking and get in the fuckin’ car. You got my cell number?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well call me as soon as he has the info. If I know Ben he’ll have it in about ten minutes.” He hung up.

  Zanesworth was staring at Justin as if he were a madman. “A schoolboy,” he said. “That’s who you’ve got on your side?”

  “You’d be surprised,” Justin said, “what the youth of America is capable of.”

  It took thirteen minutes for Gary Jenkins to call back.

  “Ben did it,” he said. “But he-”

  “Yeah, I know. Whatever he wants is fine.”

  “TiVo. The one that tapes eighty hours.”

  “Okay. As soon as I get back.”

  “He wants the lifetime guarantee, too.”

  “Just give me the information, Gary.”

  “Okay, okay. There are two calls to D.C.” He read off the first number. “That one was called in the afternoon of the seventh.”

  “What’s your phone number?” Justin said to Colonel Zanesworth. “Your office number.”

  Zanesworth told him and Justin impatiently said into the phone, “Okay, that one’s confirmed. What’s the next one?” He listened as Gary rattled off the next number. Justin asked him to repeat it one more time. As soon as he heard it again, he hung up without even saying thank you, and immediately dialed.

  He heard the voice answer on the other end of the phone, just one word, uttered in that bureaucratic monotone, then three more words, a little bit of life put into those, and Justin didn’t answer. The voice on the other end of the line waited a moment, when there was no response said, “Hello?” and Justin flicked his cell phone shut.