Midas w-2

by Russell Andrews

  The Middle Eastern man patted him gently on the arm, a sign that Justin didn’t have to speak.

  “I’m here because a guard was bribed,” he said. And when Justin’s eyes narrowed questioningly, the man continued, “No, not by me. I am just the messenger.”

  “Who. .?” Justin’s voice was still raspy. But it definitely sounded like a word this time.

  “The message is from someone named Pecozzi.”

  Justin’s eyes widened. “Bruno. .”

  “Yes. Bruno Pecozzi. Please, let me speak. I don’t know how much time we will have.”

  Justin nodded. The man’s whisper continued.

  “The message is, ‘We know where you are. They know that we know. So they won’t kill you.’ Does that make sense?”

  “More?” Justin breathed.

  “The woman is okay. I was told to say that, also.”

  “Which woman?”

  “The one who was with you.”

  Justin closed his eyes, a moment of thanks. The weight that had been pressing down his chest, suffocating him whenever he thought of Reggie, shot, lying on the bed, disappeared. No word about Wanda, though, and the weight was replaced with another sensation, a tightening around his heart. “Whole. . message?” he rasped again.

  “Yes. It is very hard to communicate, so that is all. But it makes sense?”

  Justin closed his eyes. Bruno had let him know that Reggie was alive. That was to provide comfort and satisfaction. But Bruno was also telling him that whatever they did to him down here, however brutal it got, he didn’t have to be afraid. They wouldn’t kill him. Justin wasn’t sure how Bruno could know that, but this was an area in which he trusted the big man completely. So all he had to do was tolerate the pain. Torture only worked when there was the thought of no end in sight-or an end that no one would ever want. That was not going to be the case. So Justin opened his eyes and nodded. It made sense.

  “How?” he now asked the man crouching down next to him. “How. .”

  “I will tell you everything I know. I don’t know who this man Pecozzi is, or how he was able to do this, but I have a lawyer. I believe she once represented him.”

  “Lawyer. .?” Justin managed to say.

  “A very good woman. Shirley Greene.”

  “Read. . about. . her. Terrorists.”

  “She represents Arabs. And people think all Arabs are terrorists.”

  “You. .?”

  “I am not a terrorist. And my brothers are not terrorists. But we are being treated as such. And I believe we will be deported as such. If we live to be deported.” He hesitated and shook his head sadly. “We are not being treated as terribly as you. We are not in isolations. This is very bad.”

  “Where. . am I?”

  “You don’t know?”

  Justin shook his head.

  “Guantanamo Bay,” the man said.

  Justin managed a long exhale. “You. .,” he said, “. . how long. .?”

  “My brothers and I have been here for several weeks. Many weeks. I don’t know exactly. Some men have been here for two, three years.”

  The slit in the cell’s door slid open and a quick, quiet whistle came from the other side.

  “I would have brought you water if I had known. I’m sorry.”

  Another whistle.

  “I’ve got to go,” the man said. “If I can, I will come again.”

  “Thank you,” Justin whispered.

  “Go with God,” the man answered.

  And as he left, Justin closed his eyes. Better to go with the devil, he thought. Much more useful when you’re in hell.

  29

  No one showed up in the cell after that for some time. Justin had several hours of relative peace. During that time, he made a decision. Bruno’s message had had its desired effect. All they could do was hurt him, and he could survive that. There was no way to fight back, not in these circumstances, not in the condition he was in. There was only one thing he could do that would help him survive, or at least help keep him from going crazy.

  He could use his brain. He could spend every moment sifting through information and putting the pieces together. He remembered Billy DiPezio, his onetime mentor in Providence, talking about the power brokers up there, saying, “You can only take what they give you.” Well, they were only giving him one thing: time.

  So Justin decided he’d take it. And use it to try to figure out the puzzle.

  He began by placing his finger in the dirt he was sitting on and slowly scratching out a series of names. To the left he put the dead men: Collins, Cooke, Heffernan, Billings, and Lockhardt. Below them, he dug out the name Theresa Cooke and under that wrote “Reysa” and “Hannah.” Hannah was still alive, but she more than counted as a victim. He moved his finger slowly, somehow drawing some importance from the texture of the visual in the dirt. To the right, he began tracing the names of the people he believed were connected to the deaths. Stuller and Dandridge.

  To their right he put a new column. Justin listed every name he could think of in conjunction with the case. First, he tried to remember every person he’d spoken to: Martha Peck, Colonel Zanesworth, Hubbell Schrader, the son of a bitch. He hoped that someday he’d get a chance to get his hands on Schrader. Justin forced himself to stop thinking of revenge, then he calmly drew all those last names in the dirt. Then he added one more column. He tried to visualize all the names he’d come across in Roger Mallone’s reports and lawsuits, some of which he’d read, some of which Reggie had encapsulated for him. He did better than he thought: writing down the last names of the Yale attendees: President Thomas Anderson; the head of the EPA, Stephanie Ingles; Stuller and Dandridge again. He added Elliot Brown, the New York City comptroller. And he tried to think of the name of the Saudi, the one who was so connected to EGenco, but he could only recall the first name: Mishari. He remembered that it was followed by “al” something. . but he couldn’t come up with it. He knew he had all the time in the world, let himself relax, trying to visualize the name on Mallone’s report, but it wouldn’t come. So he just scratched out “Mishari” in the dirt. He was reasonably sure that Arabs didn’t go by their last names anyway, it was the first name that mattered, so he decided that was good enough.

  And then he added one more word. They seemed so concerned with Midas. It was definitely worth adding. He gave it its own separate column.

  He looked at the hastily drawn names as he’d laid them out:

  Collins Peck Stuller Anderson Brown MIDASCookeZanesworth Dandridge InglesMishari Heffernan Schrader Stuller Billings Dandridge Lockhardt T. Cooke Reysa Hannah

  He stared at them, not trying to make sense of anything, not trying to form any patterns, just memorizing them. Putting them into groupings inside his head so he could call them up at will. In his current state, it had taken him over an hour just to put the list together. He wanted to be able to do it in seconds, without having to think. So he burned them into his memory, until he felt himself falling asleep again, and before he conked out, he ran his hands through all the names, erasing them, leaving no trace, and then he fell asleep. Immediately the door burst open, two men came rushing in, and the torture began again.

  Justin thought it was three days later, but it could have been two. Or four. Or even five. But to keep himself sane, he called it as three and decided that’s what it was, no matter what. Three days later-absolutely, three days, final, done deal.

  That’s when he began to figure it out.

  He started going meticulously, step by step, as he’d done many times by now, and each step focused him, kept his mind off the pain and the fear. Each step, each piece, bringing him closer to the puzzle’s solution. He turned every angle over in his mind. There was no limit to the amount of time he spent on any one aspect of the puzzle. Time was what he had. The longer the better. Every minute he spent thinking about the case was every minute he wasn’t going to go crazy.

  Each exhaustive thought process began with an event. Then he tried to
explain to himself the reality behind the event: exactly why it had occurred. Then he listed questions raised by each event and tried to formulate a coherent and structured line of reasoning to propel himself toward the most logical answers. With each answer, he felt as if he’d reached a level plateau after having climbed one small segment of a mountain. He viewed each plateau as a rest stop at which he then catalogued and isolated each one of the answers, keeping them separate in his mind, making them part of the next process, which would take him further up the mountain to the next plateau. At some point, the goal was to reach the peak. There at the top would be all the facts, neatly laid out, and all the names he needed to put the entire puzzle together. To that end, for every question he answered to his own satisfaction-at each new plateau-he tried to link a name to it, using the list of names he’d originally drawn with his fingers on the dirt floor. Every day, while he was thinking, he would redraw the list, sometimes in the original configuration, sometimes in different columns and rows. Whenever he moved the names around, he could find new ways to connect certain people to other people, and connect the right names to the right facts.

  He understood that there was a chance it was all gibberish, that his mind was not functioning properly after his weeks of imprisonment. But he also understood that his only choice was to keep going. He often thought of the words uttered by Theresa Cooke: Everything’s muddy.

  More than muddy, he decided quite a few times during the days and nights. Muddy, dirty, smelly, and painful.

  Right. And on that note he had decided to begin.

  Step One: An Iraqi walks into Harper’s Restaurant and detonates-or is used to detonate-a bomb, killing dozens of people, including himself.

  Theory: The dozens of innocent people were decoys. The purpose of the explosion was to kill one person: Bradford Collins, CEO of EGenco. Maybe two. Elliot Brown, New York City comptroller, might have been a primary target, might have just been gravy. Or even an innocent lure to get Collins into the restaurant.

  Theory: It was not a suicide bombing, as the FBI claimed. The Iraqi was a dupe. He did not expect to die (proof: he was moving away from the intended target when the bomb went off). The bomb was activated by someone outside the restaurant. Cell phone-activated.

  Question: Why kill Collins?

  Thought Process: Because he was going to talk. About what? About EGenco’s illegal business practices. And that’s worth killing over? At this level, yes. What would he talk about? The lawsuit brought against EGenco by the City of New York. He’d reveal the shell game and the dummy companies used so they could do business with terrorist-supporting nations. And? And he’d talk about the illegal deals EGenco has made with members of the administration. Why would he talk? To make a deal with the federal prosecutors and either cut or eliminate jail time. Okay. Makes sense. Definitely makes sense. But who would want to keep him quiet? Who would want to kill him? Anyone he implicated in the upcoming scandals. Anyone who had something big to lose.

  Question: Why make the murder so elaborate? Why the devastation to kill one person?

  Thought Process: Everything has a reason. We know the entire process, so work backwards. . What was the result of the Harper’s bombing? There were so many deaths that they hid the real purpose, which was to kill Collins. What else? Mass hysteria. General fear. Was that just an unplanned-for side effect or was that part of the intention? I don’t know. I just don’t know. Well, let’s say it was deliberate. Who did it benefit? Terrorists. It planted the seed that they were winning the war. Who else? To be cynical about it, certain politicians. The administration. The people in power. Why? Because the explosions created nationwide fear. And people don’t like change when they’re afraid. Who benefits from lack of change? The president. The vice president. The attorney general. Why?

  That was a hell of a question. Justin figured the Triumph of Freedom Act had passed in Congress while he’d been incarcerated. It was on the verge of passing, and if it had, it made sense that he hadn’t been allowed to contact a lawyer or be in touch with the outside world. He had no rights whatsoever now-that’s what the T.O.F. Act was meant to accomplish. It was like the RICO laws put in place to stop the mob. There was no recourse.

  So back to the question: Why did those three benefit? Because the government could do whatever it wanted now. If Anderson passes the Triumph of Freedom Act, it becomes his legacy, his holy grail of legislation. And it sets up his party as the one to turn to in times of fear and danger. There’s an even greater benefit for VP Dandridge: He’s running for president. He was losing-now he’s a shoo-in. Attorney General Stuller reaps the same benefit. The Triumph of Freedom Act gives him extraordinary power. Lots to gain for all three of them, particularly the last two. Lots to gain. .

  But how can this be? The heads of the U.S. government perpetrating terrorist acts on their own people? It can’t be. It doesn’t make sense. It can’t make sense. There’s something wrong, there’s got to be a gap in the logic.

  And yet. . Why the cover-ups? Why the misinformation? Why else would there be so much resistance to and so much obstruction in the way of the truth?

  Okay. Let’s go with it for the moment. As crazy as it seems, say it’s real. It still doesn’t solve the second part of the Harper’s equation: Who’s masterminding the bombing? Who was on the other end of the cell phone? That’s the key because even assuming the crazy assumption that Anderson, Dandridge, and Stuller-or any combination of the three-are involved, they couldn’t possibly be hands-on. They’d have to be many times removed from the physical reality of the plan. The FBI? Hard to imagine. Even someone as bloodless as that guy Schrader. . no. Just can’t see it. They might cover up the investigation under orders, but to actually perpetrate a terrorist act. Uh-uh. .

  Hold it. Take a break. Getting ahead of yourself. Getting too complicated. Keep things simple. One step at a time. Time to see where we are. .

  First Plateau: The explosion at Harper’s Restaurant was designed specifically to kill Bradford Collins. Collins was murdered to stop him from talking about EGenco’s illegal business dealings. His revelations would have implicated people who could not afford to be implicated-the list possibly goes as high as the attorney general, the vice president, and the president of the United States.

  Unanswered Questions: Who was actually behind the bombing? Who made the cell phone call? And what was the specific information that Collins had that was so dangerous to such important people?

  Okay, go to the next step. It’s related. It’ll help pull you up the mountain.

  Step Two:. .

  The door to the room opened, Justin was so absorbed in his thought process that he didn’t hear the initial sound, but when he realized that someone was coming in, before he even looked up, he stretched out casually on the floor, obliterating his scribblings in the dirt. As he slowly stood, he dragged his foot over the same area, further obscuring any trace that he’d been doing something other than staring blankly off into space.

  His interrogator stood just inside the doorway. He was still wearing fatigues. They’d been washed and newly pressed.

  “Tell me about Hutchinson Cooke,” he said.

  Justin nodded accommodatingly. “What do you want to know?”

  “Why were you talking to Martha Peck?”

  “Looking for information.”

  “What information?”

  “Cooke was killed in my town. I was trying to solve the case.”

  “Who killed him?”

  He thought about his answer, decided to go with the truth. He had nothing to gain by lying. Not now. “I’m not positive. I didn’t get far enough. But I think it was someone who worked for Martha Peck. Someone named Martin Heffernan. He either rigged the plane or knew who did it and decided to cover it up, I don’t know which.”

  “Did you kill Hutchinson Cooke?”

  “For Christ’s sake.” He would have screamed but his throat was still too raw. Then he just nodded and said, “Yeah. I killed Hutch Cooke, and
to throw everyone off the track, I decided to spend the rest of my life pretending to find out who did it. I arranged for myself to get thrown in here ’cause I knew that would really confuse the hell out of everybody.”

  Justin waited for the attack, but it didn’t come. The man in the fatigues didn’t change his expression, just waited a moment or two, then said, “Tell me everything you know about Midas.”

  For a moment, Justin thought he might burst into tears. Forget the pain and the horrendous conditions. He was being driven mad by the idiotic repetition, the boredom. “Look,” he said, “I’d like to tell you about Midas. I’d really like to tell you about Midas. But I don’t know what it is, where it is, or who it is. All I know is they paid Hutch Cooke’s salary. That’s it. I swear to God.”

  “Who runs Midas?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Who owns it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Where does their money come from?”

  Justin shook his head slowly. “I don’t know.”

  “Tell me about Theresa Cooke.”

  Justin closed his eyes for a moment. He opened them before answering. “Some stupid bastard killed her because he thought she told me something. That’s all I know about her.”

  “What did she tell you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What did Theresa Cooke tell you?”

  “She didn’t tell me a goddamn thing.”

  “You’d tell me, wouldn’t you? If you knew something, you’d tell me.”

  “Yes.”

  “Because you want to get out of here.”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t want to be beaten anymore, do you?”

  “No,” Justin said quietly. “I don’t.”

  “And you’d like to be clean. And have a good meal.”

  “Yes,” he breathed. “I would like that very much.”

  “Then just tell me what you know.”

  Justin took a deep, long breath. The air that came in through his mouth and his nostrils felt particularly tropical. Warm and wet. “I don’t know anything,” he said. “I don’t know a thing.”