Midas w-2

by Russell Andrews

  “Bruno,” Justin said, “you remember that envelope I mailed you? From Washington?”

  “It’s already in your house.”

  “What?”

  “Hey, if you’re mailin’ me somethin’ from D.C., I figure it’s somethin’ important. Who knows what these sick fucks are gonna decide to do, maybe they’re gonna search my house just ’cause I know you. I figured they already searched your place, they wouldn’t be lookin’ for nothin’ new after that. So I did a little B and E and put it someplace safe for when you came back.”

  “Where is it?”

  “The table to the right of your couch. In that drawer. You should find someplace safer to keep your grass, Jay. I mean, Jesus, you’re the chief of fuckin’ police.”

  Justin said he’d think about it, then asked if Bruno could come over in the afternoon. All Bruno said was, “Be there,” and hung up.

  His next call was to Wanda Chinkle. He tried her at the office, was told she wasn’t around. He didn’t leave his name, hung up, tried her Boston apartment. He didn’t leave a message on her phone machine, decided to next try the number Wanda had given him for emergencies-the gym in Boston. This time Leyla answered herself. He gave his name, she said, “Oh, okay. What’s the message?”

  He told the woman what he wanted Wanda to do. She said she’d pass it along, and agreed to call back to confirm.

  Five minutes later, Leyla called back. All she said was, “You’ve got the okay. Wait fifteen minutes, then go ahead. But Wanda said she has a question for you.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “She said to ask you, ‘Do you know what the fuck you’re doing?’”

  He said, “Does she want an answer?”

  “No,” the woman at the gym said. “She said I didn’t have to get the answer. She said she just had to ask the question. She also said to give you a message.”

  “Okay.”

  “She said. . Hold on, I wrote it down ’cause she wanted me to give it to you right. . Okay, this is an exact quote: ‘You’re in some serious shit. Try to remember that no matter how it seems, when the time comes I’m on your side.’”

  “That’s it?”

  “Except for the number you wanted.”

  “Okay. Let’s have it.”

  “Here’s who you’re supposed to call. .”

  After she gave him the information, he hung up, waited exactly fifteen minutes, as instructed, called the number of a north shore police station. He hadn’t wanted to call Southampton. He was too paranoid to go that close to home. No, not paranoid, he thought. Too smart to risk it. “I’m calling for Wanda Chinkle of the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” he said when he reached the officer whose name Wanda had given him.

  “Right,” the voice said. “I just got off the phone with her. How would you like us to handle this?”

  “I’ll get you the two objects that have to be dusted.”

  “Two? She said one.”

  “You must have misunderstood. Does she need to call you back to verify?”

  “Nah. One, two, what difference does it make?”

  “Great. Someone from the East End PD’ll bring it over,” Justin said. “We’ll need a match for both sets of prints-names and addresses.”

  “If they’re in the system, we’ll get them.”

  “One of them should definitely be in the system,” Justin told the cop. “He’s probably military. Might be military intelligence.”

  “What about the other one?”

  “Strictly a guess, but I think it’ll be in Immigration.”

  “How deep am I supposed to look?”

  “As deep as you can.” Justin gave the officer his home fax number. “You can fax the info there.”

  “Hey, as long as the FBI authorized it, you got it, pal,” the cop said. “You get me the things, I’ll get you the info.”

  “They’re on their way,” Justin said.

  He looked at the small paper cup he’d carried with him from Guantanamo Bay. He’d already wrapped it carefully in bubble wrap and placed it in a manila envelope. He went to the end table to the right of his couch, opened the drawer and, sure enough, found the envelope he was looking for, the envelope he’d mailed from a mall near Theresa Cooke’s house, the one he’d addressed to himself, care of Bruno, with the words “hold for pickup” written across the front. Justin put that envelope inside the manila one, stuffing it under a fold of the bubble wrap. He wrote out a simple list of instructions, added his fax number to be on the safe side, taped the note to the bubble wrap, and sealed the envelope.

  A few minutes later, when Gary Jenkins arrived, Justin handed him the package, told him to take it to Riverhead, gave him the cop’s name to whom he should hand-deliver it. He could tell that Gary was a little hurt that he was being so curt, so professional after all the time he’d been away and with all the unanswered questions about his disappearance. He softened a bit, said, “Gary, this is really important to me. You’re about the only person I can trust to do this and keep quiet about it. When it’s all over I’ll take you out to dinner and fill you in and answer all your questions, but right now I need you to shut up and get the fuck over to Riverhead.”

  The young cop smiled. “Already starting to feel like the good old days,” he said.

  “Thanks,” Justin said.

  Gary gave him a mock salute, flipped the envelope in a “don’t worry” manner, started to leave.

  “Gary,” Justin said. And when the young cop turned back to him, he said, “You know a lot of kids at the high school, right? Through your brother.”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “You know any of the teachers?”

  “Sure. A few of them coach Little League and I help out when I can.”

  “After you hit the north shore, I want you to go to East End High. I need the best artist in the school.”

  “Artist? You mean, like, painter?”

  “I need someone who can draw. Ultra realism, that’s what I’m looking for. I want the kid who can draw the best portraits in the school. You got that?”

  “Yeah, sure. Except school’s closed. Christmas vacation, you know?”

  “Damn. My sense of time is a little off right now.”

  “Don’t worry about it. When I went to the school play before graduation, they had an art show, in the admin building. They got people who can draw pretty damn good. Somebody’ll know who they are. My brother, one of the teachers. I’ll find him.”

  “Remember: I need the best. And bring the kid here as soon as possible.”

  “I’ll bring you the best who’s still hangin’ around town. That’s all I can do.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Whoever it is is gonna want to know-”

  “Just say it’s the same deal that Ben got. Whatever the hell he wants, that’s what he’ll get. As long as he can draw what I need him to draw.”

  “Got it.”

  And clutching the envelope, he was out the door.

  Leaving Justin to think, Jesus, I’m taking on the United States government with a bunch of high school kids.

  He went to his fridge, realized that everything there had spoiled except for several bottles of water. He took out one plastic container, drank deeply from it. He was still dehydrated, figured he had plenty of other things wrong with him, too, knew he should go to a doctor soon, but he didn’t have time. When it’s really over, he thought to himself.

  What he wanted to do was go back to bed and sleep. Instead, he began to poke around the house, taking inventory of what was missing. The FBI agents had been relatively neat and extremely thorough. The hard drive on his computer was gone. His fax machine had been left behind, but he was certain they’d checked his log of incoming and outgoing faxes. They hadn’t bothered to take his phone machine, although he was certain that if he’d actually had any calls, they’d been monitored and traced. There were no messages waiting for him. They’d gone through his mail and, he was sure, found absolutely nothing of interest. N
either did he, for that matter. As he thumbed through the envelopes, there were two solicitations from a chimney repair company. A curt note from Visa telling him he was late paying this month’s bill. Nothing but junk mail and bills. At least nothing’s changed, he thought.

  He went to the phone now, reached down to dial the number for his parents-he knew he should relieve their worry and tell them he’d made it home. But before he could grab the receiver, the phone rang. His caller ID said the call was coming from Washington, D.C. Justin clicked on the talk button and said hello.

  “This is Martha Peck,” the voice on the other end said, although Justin hadn’t needed to hear her name to recognize that passive-aggressive tone that had driven him so crazy when they’d met in her office. “From the Federal Aviation Administration. I. . I know what happened to you. . I mean, that you’ve been. . away. . but I heard that you’ve been. . that you’re back home. I hope you’re okay.”

  “I’m just great,” he said. “It was just like a vacation.”

  “It’s important that we talk,” Martha Peck told him. “Mr. Westwood. . Chief Westwood. .”

  “Try Jay. It’s easier, Ms. Peck.”

  “Then please call me Martha.”

  “Deal,” he said. “Is this just a social call, Martha? Just checking up on my health and well-being?”

  He let her silence go on until she decided to end it herself. He had a feeling she wouldn’t need much prompting and he was right. “I. . I believe I may have been partially responsible for what happened to you, Mr. . Jay.”

  “Responsible for what exactly?”

  “For where you’ve been. For what’s been done to you. I think it may be my fault.”

  Justin ran his free hand through his beard. He decided to cut it off the moment he was off the phone. It suddenly made him feel filthy and degraded. “Why do you think that, Martha?”

  “Because I called someone. After you left my office. I couldn’t believe what you were telling me, and yet some part of me knew that what you were saying was accurate.” She hesitated. Again, Justin waited out her silence. “I removed Martin Heffernan’s file from the computer,” she said.

  “But not on your own,” he said.

  “No. I did it because someone asked me to.”

  “Who?”

  “You have to understand the mood in government these days, Jay. After 9/11, particularly after the findings from the 9/11 Commission, and the recent bombings. . we all felt so put-upon. My agency took a big hit. And there was so much criticism that a lot of it happened because there was no communication between government organizations. .”

  “I understand,” he said.

  “So when I got a call, it seemed. . it seemed important to cooperate. And once I did, I couldn’t believe I might have done the wrong thing.”

  “Who called you?” he asked softly.

  “It doesn’t make sense to me,” Martha Peck said. “It’s an old friend. We met at a White House function and we’ve been friendly for years. When she called, she said it was a very delicate matter, that it had to do with a terrorist alert.”

  “She?”

  “She said she was involved because the threat involved protected land that fell under her domain. She was working with the FBI and with Justice, she said.”

  “Stephanie Ingles. From the EPA. That’s who called you.”

  “Yes,” Martha Peck said. “She called me that day and she called me after Heffernan was killed to say that it had nothing to do with me or the file. She said that Heffernan had done nothing wrong but that I was never to tell anyone what I’d done, that it was a matter of national security. Do you know what kind of panic it causes when anyone says the words ‘national security’ these days?”

  “Yes, I do,” Justin said.

  “Stephanie called me again yesterday. To tell me that the FBI knew you had talked to me and to tell me you were being released. She said that I was not to speak to you under any circumstances. It wasn’t just a friendly piece of advice or even a warning. It was a threat. Not an overt one, but I know a threat when I hear it.”

  “So why are you calling me, Martha?”

  “Because I don’t like to be threatened. And because she was lying to me, Jay. She was lying to me from the very beginning. And you were telling me the truth, weren’t you?”

  “Yes, I was,” Justin said.

  “Is this. . is this helpful to you?”

  “Extremely helpful, Martha.”

  “Well then, I’m glad I called.”

  “Me too,” Justin said. “I’m very glad you called.”

  And I take back everything I’ve always thought about bureaucrats, he thought. Every last damn thing.

  He didn’t call his parents. Instead he dug out a yellow legal pad and a pen. They’d taken his computer and his files, but he could still write.

  It struck him that he should be scribbling in the dirt, this felt almost too clean. But it all came so easily this way. He didn’t need a computer for this. Everything was in his head. He wondered if it would be there forever. He hoped not. But he was glad it was there now.

  The names and organizations flitted across his memory as clearly as if they were on a movie screen. He was able to conjure up every list, every variation. He remembered his near breakthrough at Gitmo. And where he’d come up short.

  Stephanie Ingles.

  She was now in the mix, but what the hell was her role? What was her connection to the others and to what he suspected was going on? He’d overlooked that connection before, but Martha Peck’s phone call made it as clear as could be that there was one. But what could it be?

  Slow it down, he thought. Go back to the process. Take a deep breath. And another. You’re just at another plateau. So think this through. Be logical.

  The EPA. Start there. That’s where the connection must be. What was their function? To protect land, water, and air. Protect wildlife. Pretty nonthreatening. But what the hell had he been reading about it lately? What had he heard? Something. He’d read a newspaper story. .

  His mind was racing. Environmental protection. Land preservation. Yes! That’s what he’d read. He’d discussed it with Roger and his dad. The EPA and President Anderson had declared a huge mass of land in Alaska off-limits to the oil companies. Stephanie Ingles had pushed for the resolution. Dandridge had supported it. A surprise to everyone. Halliburton was livid. EGenco was furious. But how the hell did that fit? It didn’t. It was the opposite of everything else that was beginning to add up. It made no sense.

  But it had to. It had to. .

  Go slowly, he told himself.

  Think clearly. Everything has a reason.

  Just get to the next plateau.

  It had to fit. .

  Millions of acres unavailable for oil drilling.

  He began scribbling furiously on the pad.

  What was the result of that decision? Environmentalists were thrilled. The permanent preservation of land and wildlife. Possible political gain, a nod to a constituency that wouldn’t normally vote for Dandridge.

  What else? The oil companies were up in arms. Less drilling. Less potential for domestic oil. More dependence on overseas oil.

  So what? So what? What did it mean?!

  Less oil, prices go up. .

  Higher prices were bad for the administration. It was harmful to their normal constituents, which meant it was politically damaging. .

  But when oil prices rose, someone was making a lot more money.

  Bad politically. Very good personally.

  He remembered Roger Mallone, lecturing him in the living room of his East End house. “SPEs,” he’d said. “A great way to hide a lot of crooked things.”

  EGenco. Midas. Special Purpose Entities.

  He jumped up and ran out to the front lawn. His newspapers had never stopped being delivered, and he scrounged through the several dozen papers that were scattered around, found that morning’s New York Times. Justin turned to the business section, found that day’
s oil prices.

  Sixty-four dollars a barrel. A record high.

  Justin swore at the guys who’d stolen his computer-he no longer had access to his computerized address book-then called Rhode Island information, asking for the number for Roger Mallone. A minute later, he had Mallone on the phone.

  “Jay, Jesus Christ, what the hell’s been going on? Are you all right?”

  “Roger, I don’t have time to explain. I need some information and I need it now.”

  “All right, all right. Go ahead.”

  “EGenco. Remember we were talking about their Special Purpose Entities?”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, what kind of entities would they be likely to set up?”

  “Depends on who they were being set up for.”

  “Government officials. High-up government officials. And Saudis. A combination of the two.”

  “That doesn’t narrow it down much.”

  “Okay,” Justin said. “Go with me for a second, Roger. Is it possible that oil prices could be manipulated-”

  “What, to go down? You mean to help these guys win the next election? Sure. There’s been a lot of speculation that, when the time comes, that’s what’s going to happen-”

  “No. To go up. How could the partners in a company benefit if oil prices go way up?”

  “Are you kidding? If you’re a supplier, you make a fortune.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Well, several ways. A company like EGenco has the government contacts to get huge contracts to rebuild Iraq and Afghanistan and anyplace else over there we might invade.”

  “Keep going.”

  “So they have to provide oil and fuel to rebuild the factories and infrastructures there. If oil prices go up, the government has to pay more. The company could make tens of billions of dollars extra.”

  “Okay, that’s the company as a whole. How about something smaller? An SPE now.”

  “Well. . you mean if I were being really devious about this?”

  “Be as devious as you possibly can.”

  “Well. . a company like EGenco doesn’t really explore anymore. They’re so big, they’re in so many other areas, it’s not cost-effective for them. So what they do is they buy from small and medium companies. If they wanted to, they could set up an SPE that’s a small or midsize oil drilling company. If they had to, they could justify it legally by saying that they’re taking a percentage of the findings, which they would-probably fifteen to twenty percent. Then the company-and the partners set up in the SPE-take the other eighty to eighty-five percent of the profit.”