Death and Dark Money
Page 12
“Uh…”
I smacked the back of his head. “Lying pisses me off.”
“We work together.”
“What kind of a coworker breaks into a guy’s computer to run searches?”
“Somebody lifted files from the office. My boss wanted me to find out if Rip took them without accusing him. We’re buds. That’s why I have his keys. Please, get off me.”
I relaxed but kept the Walther pressed to his back.
“Who the hell are you?” he asked.
“A guy with a gun aimed at the left atrium of your heart.” I patted him down.
“What are you doing here?”
“Where did you get this gun?” I asked.
“My dad gave it to me when I was a kid.”
I smacked the back of his head again. “What did I say about lying?”
“Why should I tell you anything?”
“Because you want to stay alive.”
“You’re not going to kill me. You would’ve done it already.”
Mercury said, Losing your alpha status pretty quick here, homeboy. Better make a run for it. You get locked up, I’m outta here. I’m looking for someone who can bring me ultra-wealthy followers, not jail-junkies. We leave them for the Christians.
I said, I can get cleared for the Gottleib murder. I found the gun.
Mercury said, How you planning to explain that? I broke into a house, found the killer—who doesn’t actually live there but conveniently stopped by—and took my Walther off him? Hell, even I don’t believe you.
“You’re right,” I said. “I’m not the murdering type. But I’m not above blowing a hole through your thigh, calling the police, and letting you worm your way out of it with Blackson.”
He squirmed under me. “You know whose house this is? Hold up. What are you doing here?”
“Looking for the guy who killed David Gottleib.”
A car slowed in the street.
I stood and spread a space between the blinds.
Headlights lit up the front yard as the car pulled into the driveway.
“What is this, Grand Central Station?” I asked.
Mercury said, Duck!
I bent my knees and lowered my torso as Zola’s fist swung over my head. He managed to yank off my balaclava.
Rising with a quick uppercut to his chin, I put him on the floor.
I pushed the muzzle between his teeth. “Get on your knees.”
Struggling upright, his eyes opened wide. He tried to speak.
“Shut up,” I said. “And don’t twitch. I might fire by accident.”
I kept the gun in his mouth while I checked the window. The car was pulling back out. They’d used the driveway as a turn-around. The car drove three houses down and parked on the far side. Two people got out and went in.
I breathed and turned back to Zola. I pulled the barrel out of his mouth and pressed it under his chin. “Tell me where you got the gun.”
“You’re Jacob Stearne.”
I glanced at my hood lying on the floor. “Where did you get the—”
“Oh, I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t know it was you. The gun? It was on my desk when I got back from France.”
“When did you get back?”
“This morning. I tagged a ride with the Bennings on a charter.”
“Who left the pistol on your desk?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Do you know a guy named Shane Diabulus?”
“The head of Velox Deployment?” he asked. I nodded. “I’ve met him, but we’re not friends.”
“Is it normal in the lobbying community to find a pistol on your desk?”
“I thought it was sketchy, to be honest, Jacob.”
I looked him over. “Have we met?”
“Yeah,” he said as if I were kidding him. “Like. Nasiriyah, man. I was in—”
“The 3/2, Gory Platoon. What the hell, did the whole brigade muster out and settle in DC? I keep running into you guys all over the place.”
“Glory, sir,” he said. “Glory Platoon. Yes, David and some of his friends from Silver Spring joined up together. The lieutenant wanted to be a lobbyist and this is where it’s done, so Rip and I followed him for the job. After you and Nasiriyah, some guys lost confidence in Lieutenant Koven. Not me. He promised us big things if we stuck by him. And he’s made good on his—”
“That’s Koven as in your firm?”
“Right. You remember him. Probably not in a nice way. But if you saw the news in the last couple days—”
“My boss was in the château. She says Koven murdered those guys in cold blood.”
“No way. She’s mistaken. He’s a genius. He’s the king of kingmakers. You know what they’re saying about him? He’s a brave man, a kind man, a man with plans. He took on two—”
“What are you, some kind of Koven worshipper?”
Mercury said, Pay attention, homie. Zola’s got what our relationship needs: a guy who can do what he’s told and hold up his end. He’s the kind who could spread a religion. Ya feel me? And what do I get from you? Nothing but disrespect and back talk.
I said, You want this whiny little punk? Someone set him up to take the fall for killing Gottleib and he doesn’t even know it.
Mercury said, Any god would take a disciple over a delinquent.
I pushed Zola away from me. “Where are Blackson’s wife and kids?”
“At her parents until Rip gets back,” he said. “Why are you looking for David’s killer?”
“Self-preservation. The cops think I’m suffering from PTSD and soon to be the next rampage killer.” I caught his gaze. “Did Blackson do it?”
“He was with me when David was killed.”
“Who wanted Gottleib dead?”
Zola looked out the window and clammed up.
“Fine,” I said.
I pointed at the computer. “Your search is done. Did you find what you’re looking for?”
Zola hesitated, then pointed at the chair. I nodded, he sat and checked the “No items matched your search” response. He pointed at the keyboard.
“Go ahead, knock yourself out. I’d like to see what you find.” I pulled up a chair and sat uncomfortably close, with my pistol uncomfortably nudging his ribs.
He ran another search that came up empty. Then another. He sat back to think before running his fourth.
“How come you weren’t at David’s funeral?” I asked.
“The Symposium was in progress, guests were arriving.” He grimaced. Then he leaned forward and typed in another search.
“I met three guys there who seemed to know David pretty well,” I said. “They’re really upset that he’s dead.”
Zola’s typing stopped then restarted. “One each, fat, skinny, and medium?”
“You know them?”
“They were in our unit.” Zola finished typing in another search and let it run. “You know how you stay friends with your high school buddies, even when you should move on?”
“You, Blackson, and Gottleib went to law school while the three musketeers sweep up at the Shalom Kosher Market?”
Zola gave me a once-over. “Yeah. They weren’t exactly his intellectual peers.”
“Then why did he turn to them—instead of you—when he needed help?”
His face turned white when he twisted around to face me. “We had a disagreement.”
“About?”
Over his shoulder the search window started compiling a long list of files. He was still staring at me when my forearm brought my full bodyweight crashing into the bridge of his nose. Zola flew out of the chair, onto the floor. I watched his feet twitch, signaling a solid Grade III concussion. I checked my watch. If he didn’t come to in five minutes, I’d call an ambulance. Until then, the data was mine.
I pulled up the browser, logged into my cloud app and copied all the files from the search. While the system uploaded, I checked his search term: Gottleib liability.
Huh.
/> Headlights swept the window again. This time they stayed in the driveway.
The file transfer showed 83%.
A car door slammed. I risked a peek out the window. A tall, lanky African American walked up the driveway and kicked Zola’s car. A few seconds later, the kitchen door opened. The file transfer read 91%.
I called our company tech support.
Bianca Dominguez answered. “Jacob, what do you need?”
“BRENT!” Blackson’s voice shook the house from downstairs. “What the fuck, man?”
Next to me, Zola stirred. Blackson’s voice receded into the ground floor labyrinth.
“Jacob?” Bianca asked.
I whispered, “Can you clear a browser history from headquarters?”
“Sure. Yours or a friend?”
“Don’t ask.”
Blackson’s voice reverberated from downstairs. “Brent, goddammit, what the hell are you doing in my house?”
From the hitch in her breathing, I could tell Bianca heard the background noise and understood the situation. “Open a browser and login to our tech support site.”
I did and a second later, she took control of the computer. “Make it look like I was never here. Gotta go.”
I clicked off.
“BRENT ZOLA!” Blackson’s blood pressure was rising with his volume. “Come out and face me like a man.”
Zola rolled over and puked. He rose to his hands and knees. From my briefing on concussions, he would be confused about what city he was in for several minutes.
Blackson bounded up the stairs.
I grabbed my balaclava, both my guns, and moved behind the door. The screen flickered as Bianca closed several search windows, cleared the ‘recent’ menus, and wiped the browser history.
She wasn’t quite done when Blackson stormed into the room. He saw his computer being remotely shut down. He saw Zola on his hands and knees.
I slipped into the hallway.
Judging from the sound of it, Blackson’s foot slammed into Zola’s ribs.
“What the hell did you do?” Kick. “Who are you working for?” Kick. “What the hell is going on?” Kick.
One silent step at a time, I made my way down the stairs, trying not to creak a single tread.
Mercury said, Homie, you’re leaving them behind? You let him slide on the most important question.
I said, I want to get out of here before he calls the cops. Don’t want to get caught with the murder weapon.
Mercury said, Too late. Blackson called the cops from the driveway.
I said, Great time to mention it. What’s the most important question?
Mercury said, Zola admitted he had a disagreement with Gottleib. What was the argument?
A car pulled up outside as I slipped into the kitchen. I stopped and listened. From outside came the squawk of a police radio, followed by two doors slamming. Street-side was no longer an option.
Mercury stood at the kitchen counter pointing at a newspaper. Well lookie here, home boy. You’re on the front page. Below the fold, but still.
I glanced where he pointed. In a picture taken in front of the National Cathedral, Dr. Harrison grinned like Alice’s cat. The headline read, MY PATIENT SPEAKS TO GOD.
Mercury said, Finally! We’re in! Hooboy! Hittin’ the big time, bro! They’ll build me a temple that’ll make the Parthenon look like a doghouse. They’re going to believe him, right? I mean. He went to Harvard.
I said, Anyone who talks to a psychiatrist is crazy.
Mercury and I squinted at each other as we processed the implication.
A cop outside rapped a knuckle on the kitchen door. Upstairs, Blackson ran out of enthusiasm for kicking his friend. The entire neighborhood was dead quiet.
That’s when my phone rang.
CHAPTER 15
The pastoral winter landscape of rural Germany slurred past the limo’s window as Pia pressed her phone to her ear, listening to Jacob’s phone ring. “Damn it. He never takes my calls.”
She reached for the END button, heard his voice, and returned the phone to her ear. She heard heavy breathing and odd rhythmic pounding.
“Jacob, are you OK?” she asked. “You sound winded.”
“Can I call you back?” Jacob asked. “Oof.”
“What was that?”
“Had to jump a fence,” he said. “Cops are chasing me.”
“Did you talk to Rip Blackson?”
“He wasn’t—ow—home, so I found a window and took a look around his place.”
“You weren’t supposed to break in! You were supposed to wait for him. We don’t do things like that.”
“An opportunity presented itself and I pressed it immediately,” he said.
It was a quote from Pia’s soccer career regarding a legendary goal she scored from the halfway line. She’d used it to energize her employees in many company emails, but Jacob had a bad habit of tossing it back at her when he was up to no good.
“Why are you whispering?” she asked.
“I’m trying to hide in some bushes. With all due respect, Ms. Sabel—I gotta go.”
He clicked off.
Pia stared at her phone and repressed her rising anger with a long, deep inhale. Her father sat next to her, Carlos in front of her. Tania rode with the driver.
Alan Sabel looked up from working emails on his phone. He glanced over his reading glasses at Carlos, then Pia. “You should work with Jonelle on employee choices. Some of your—”
“Thanks, Dad.”
They stared out the windows at the Dresden Heath, over twenty square miles of forest preserve on the outskirts of the city, a hundred miles south of Berlin.
After a few kilometers, Pia sighed. “Dad, I want to know why a Prince in Oman is trying to give me $20 million, how is meeting Lars Müller going to help me?”
Alan dropped his phone in his pocket and turned to her. “About a year ago, Daryl Koven came to me with three business deals. A Saudi named Suliman who I just didn’t like at all. Prince Taimur from Oman, who I referred to your people. And Lars Müller who had a deal for Sabel Tech. But Müller’s was a lopsided deal, so I passed on it. Like the Oman deal, Müller was prepared to pay an extra $20 million in undesignated funds. Businessmen don’t give each other millions just for fun. It was a red flag for me.”
“What do you mean, lopsided?”
Alan smiled. “Both sides should have something to gain in a deal. For example, I tell an Arab dictator I’m going to deploy Internet access via satellite. Free speech and Internet access is the last thing any dictator wants, so he hires Sabel Security if I promise not to deploy satellites over his country. A classic win-win.”
Pia curled her nose. “I’m not comfortable with—”
“And that’s what everyone is worried about, Pia. Deals like that are how you create jobs and bring new opportunities for your employees. An idealist would deploy the satellites and free the people from oppression. But that didn’t work out for Tunisia, Libya, or Syria. Those countries melted down into tribal warfare. The survivors can’t afford satellite access, they don’t have freedom, and they’re constantly killing each other. Idealism is only good on paper.”
“I’m not supporting dictators, no matter what.” Pia pursed her lips. “What do you think the $20 million is for?”
“I don’t know.” Alan lifted his chin and turned to the window. “That why we’re going to see Müller. He’s proposed another deal. I’m not going to listen to his new proposal until he tells us about the $20 million. Once we know that, we’ll have an idea about what Oman wants.”
“The Major said DHK even refused our wire refund.”
“Then give it to him in cash at the symposium.” Alan smirked.
Pia shook her head. “You’re not going back, are you?”
Alan pulled his phone, clicked a few icons, then held it out for her to read. “Half the Fortune 100 CEOs are going to be there. If you don’t go to the party, all the security deals will go to Velox.”
“Business relationships have nothing to do with being friends. You work with your worst enemies if you can make money.”
She tried not to look as sick as she felt about that statement and clicked a link on her phone. “I see Senator Smith has accepted an invitation as well.”
Pia turned to the window. The limo sped down Radeberger Landstrasse through the center of the forest. Trees grew in neat re-forestation rows, snow clinging to their naked branches.
The sameness of it bored her.
“Carlos, do you believe in destiny?” Pia asked.
He studied her while the car swayed through gentle curves, and held her gaze for a long time.
“You know I do, chica,” he said. “Until I joined Sabel, I always felt like a drowning man under a sheet of ice fighting for a pocket of air. But my son, he’s different. I can feel his destiny in my heart.” He turned to the window. “My boy grew up in South Central, looking across the freeway at the big university. He set his mind on leaving the barrio and everything I did.”
They made a left off the main road, heading for Müller’s country estate in Schönborn.
“I like how you watch everyone, Carlos. But why do you keep an eye on Dad and Tania as if they might try to hurt me?” Pia asked.
“Where I come from, your brotha, cousin, mama, anyone can turn on you and—bang bang.” He illustrated with two fingers.
Alan winced. Pia rolled her hand for him to keep going.
“You’re like medieval royalty,” Carlos said. “They never named their successor because when they did—bang bang … from a cousin, a brotha, mama.”
Alan frowned. “How do you live with that level of paranoia all the time?”
“It’s what keeps you alive, mister. Watch everything. Like the car that’s been following us since we entered the heath.”
Pia grabbed Alan’s shoulder before he turned around to look. “Carlos has it handled, Dad.”
She looked at her bulldog. “Are they a threat?”
“They’re looking to box us.”
“Box us?” Alan asked.
“A gangbanger trick,” Pia said. “One car stops in front of you, the other in back, and—bang bang.”