by J. B. Turner
‘I don’t like your tone, Harry. And I can’t believe what I’m hearing. This is the breakthrough we’ve been looking for. It’s a monumental story.’
‘Who else knows about these documents?’
‘Just us. And, of course, Michelle Turner, plus her friend in Miami. As far as I know, Michelle’s gone underground.’
‘Juan’s gonna crucify you and Sam for this. You realize that. He’s back in three days.’
‘We got the story Harry.’
‘Deborah, why didn’t you just let it lie?’
‘For Christ’s sake, Harry, if these papers are genuine, we have the story of the goddamn year. Of the decade.’
‘It says here, in black and white, that the autopsy report on Richard Turner was carried out by Doctor Ken Meiter, a medical examiner in Brooklyn.’
‘That has been contradicted by two separate sources.’
‘You’re starting to make it sound like a goddamn conspiracy.’
‘Simmons has denied doing the autopsy, but we’ve found that he’s a consultant for the Armed Forces Institute of Pathology, which does autopsies on prisoners who have died in CIA custody.’
Harry cleared his throat. ‘These documents are alleged to have been printed out by Richard Turner in New York, right?’
‘So we’re led to believe.’
‘But his sister had been given a copy—am I right? for safekeeping?’
‘Right.’
‘I can’t disagree with you, Deborah. This looks like one hell of a story. But my problem is with the CIA memo. How do we know it’s genuine? Who the fuck’s going to authenticate it?’
‘There was a piece in Time by Seymour Hersh on a clandestine special forces group, assembled a few months after September 11,’ Deborah said. ‘Do you remember? The idea was to take out high-value Al-Qaeda operatives, bypassing all the diplomatic and legal niceties. That was set up as an unacknowledged special-access program, so only a handful of people within the Pentagon—and within the White House—knew about it.’
‘The main question is,’ Harry mused, ‘is the government linked to these deaths?’
‘Perhaps elements of the government,’ Deborah said. ‘But the truth is that we just don’t know at this stage.’
‘You still haven’t answered my question. Who’s going to authenticate?’
‘I looked at the list of people who were on the Joint Inquiry into the 9/11 attacks. Sam’s sister, Lauren, used to work in the office of former Wyoming Senator Randolph Sorley many years ago. He was a member of the Joint Inquiry’
Harry continued to flick through the documents.
‘He is now teaching international law at the University of Miami. There were rumors that he was particularly unhappy about those censored pages.’
‘Look, Deborah, you’re a helluva journalist, but I’m sorry to say that this isn’t going any further. End of story’
‘Harry, please…’
‘As of now, with immediate effect, your security pass and password for the newsroom and the building have been invalidated.’
34
The pounding techno music pumping out across the bowling alley was giving Nathan Stone a headache. He hated bowling. It reminded him of the Middle America he loathed. Bowling shoes, customized bowling ball, the beer, the head-splitting music, and the fake bonhomie.
Sooner be dead.
Strike was decidedly upscale and family-friendly, not like some of the skanky dives he knew. It was located in the Dolphin Mall, just off the turnpike in the west of the city.
Monster-sized giant plasma screens showing sports channels above the thirty-four glow-in-the-dark lanes, retro leather banquettes where people sat and drank in between games. At the next table, a huge family of overweight affluent Latinos ate pizzas and slurped their Coke, high-fiving every pin that went over.
Nathan signaled a pretty Hispanic waitress across. ‘Large Coke, please,’ he said.
She nodded politely. ‘Si, señor.’
He smiled through gritted teeth. He loathed the all-pervasive Hispanic influence across Miami. It was everywhere. Spanish-language papers, radio stations blaring out shitty Cuban music, the taco shops popping up everywhere, the Latino menus.
What the fuck was all that about?
A cry went up further down the dimly lit lanes. Another strike.
Nathan noticed the dress code. It seemed like it was the smart-casual crowd. Chinos, button-downs and loafers for the men, smart jeans and preppy sweatshirts for the women. He noticed everything.
He was dressed accordingly. Chinos, boat shoes and pale blue linen shirt, conservative dark blue sweater on top. He could have been anybody. And that was good.
Even the slight burn on his cheek and the mark on the side of his neck had been concealed with his buttoned-up shirt and discreet skin-tone creams. The wounds on his thigh were scabbing over, although he was still popping codeine tablets to kill the pain.
The waitress returned with his drink, placing it carefully in front of him. ‘Thank you, señorita,’ he said, flashing his best Middle America smile.
She didn’t smile back, which made him smile even more.
Whatever, bitch.
The whole place was like where the dying went to pretend they were living. The intense concentration of the game, the boozy after-hours office party at the bowling alley—as if that would help you unwind. Shit, if you wanted to unwind, why not pop some Quaaludes and wash them down with a quart of rum? Man, now that was major-league unwind.
But these fuckers were genuinely so into it.
Nathan continued to watch, smiling, feeling his nerve ends twitching, wondering when his subjects would turn up.
All around was the detritus of humankind, playing out their days in air-conditioned malls, like consumer battery farms, being force-fed a sludge of sugar-rush drink and chili dogs, and copious quantities of piss-poor Bud and Michelob.
What he wouldn’t give for a cold bottle of Heineken at the Deuce bar in South Beach, Stones playing loud in the background, serious drinkers only.
‘Excuse me, senor,’ a middle-aged middle-class Hispanic man said, smiling down at him. ‘We noticed you sitting by yourself. Would you like to join our game?’
‘Hey, appreciate that, but I’m under doctor’s orders to just take it real easy, you know what I’m saying, buddy?’
The Hispanic gave a respectful nod and shook his hand. Then he headed back to his group. ‘You have a nice night.’
Nathan smiled serenely, but frankly he was so wired that he couldn’t think straight. Then he caught sight of them.
An attractive young Latina lady and a good-looking boy.
Rebecca Sinez smiled at him as she passed and he smiled back, giving the boy a soft pat on the head.
35
The first thing Deborah did when she got back to her condo was to call the university’s Office of Media Relations and ask to speak to Senator Sorley. Within fifteen minutes Sorley returned her call.
His voice was deep, his delivery slow and considered.
‘I’m sorry to bother you so late,’ Deborah said. ‘We were hoping you could help us. I believe you were on the Joint Inquiry into the 9/11 attacks, in your capacity as a former member of the Senate Intelligence Committee.’
‘That is correct.’
‘My boss is Sam Goldberg, managing editor of the Miami Herald. He mentioned that his sister Lauren used to run your office back in Wyoming, many years ago.’
‘Well, I’ll be damned. Must be fifteen years ago, maybe more.’
‘Sir, we’re trying to authenticate some important documents which have come into our possession. The missing twenty-eight pages of the Joint Inquiry which you were part of.’
Sorley said nothing.
‘And we were wondering if you would be prepared…’
‘You know, it’s funny. I argued vehemently that it was in the public interest. But we all came
under enormous pressure, mainly from the White House, to acquiesce on that point. As a general rule, I think we’re far too secretive as a society.’
‘So will you have a look? I’d really appreciate it.’
‘Very well. Drop them off with my secretary. I’ll pick them up tomorrow afternoon.’
• • •
Late the following day, exhausted after spending hours at Sam’s bedside while he dozed, Deborah was checking her personal e-mails on her BlackBerry in the kitchen as Jamille drank some coffee, when her cellphone rang.
‘Miss Jones, I’m sorry’ Sorley said, sounding as though he might be afraid of being overheard, ‘but I don’t think I’m going to be able to help you after all. I think I was a tad hasty yesterday. Really, I would like to help, but this was an independent bi-partisan commission and I think I would be flouting not only convention but everything we stood for by helping you. I hope you’ll accept my apologies. Pass on my regards to Sam and his family.’
• • •
It was a twenty-minute drive to Sorley’s plantation-style house on Segovia Street in Coral Gables.
Deborah pressed the buzzer and wondered if anyone would answer. A few seconds later the door opened. Standing before them was an elegant gray-haired man in a dark blue tie and white shirt. ‘Mr Sorley, I’m sorry to bother you. I’m Deborah Jones.’
‘I thought I’d made myself clear, Miss Jones.’
‘Five minutes of your time. That’s all I ask.’
Sorley pursed his lips, then ushered Deborah and Jamille inside. They followed him, walking on a highly polished hardwood floor into a huge living room in which two pastel yellow sofas faced each other. Sorley sat down and Deborah and Jamille followed suit.
‘Sam told me you’re one of the good guys,’ Deborah said. ‘A man of your word. That’s why I’m at a loss to understand why you’ve changed your mind so quickly. All we’re asking is for you to confirm, one way or the other.’
‘How did you get hold of this?’
‘It started with the death of a young man called John Hudson.’
‘Where is Sam now?’
‘In hospital. He was attacked a couple of nights ago.’
‘My God.’
At that moment an attractive woman in her mid-to-late fifties appeared. She wore a smart black dress. She was holding a cellphone in her hand. ‘Excuse me, Randolph,’ she said. ‘The Provost wants a quick word.’
‘I have to take this,’ Sorley said. ‘I’m sorry. Some after-dinner fundraising function the university is organizing.’ He took the phone from his wife and left the room.
Kathleen Sorley shook Deborah’s hand. ‘You work for Sam, am I right?’
‘Deborah Jones. Investigations editor of the Miami Herald.’
‘Lovely to meet you. I’ve read your work on this dreadful housing-projects scandal.’
Kathleen went over to the door and closed it softly. ‘How is Sam?’
‘He’ll be okay.’
‘I shouldn’t really be telling you… but Randolph received a call a couple of hours ago. Someone made veiled threats about our daughter Catherine. She’s had her problems, you can guess… She’s an only child. We’ve done our best, but ever since she was sixteen… She got in with a fast crowd. We’re at our wits’ end. And now we discover that our phones are being monitored…’
36
The following morning, Deborah spent three long hours calling all the members of the Joint Inquiry, both Republicans and Democrats. No one would help. Some were downright rude. Most were just curt, citing national security.
Deborah sat in front of her laptop and stared at the screen. ‘Sam always says that there’s someone out there who can point you in the right direction, it’s just a matter of finding the right person.’
‘Wouldn’t it be easier to dump those twenty-eight pages for the time being, and focus on the CIA protocol?’ Jamille asked.
‘I need to speak to someone who understands the inner workings of the CIA. Someone who has an inside track on their role in the War on Terror. Someone like Larry Coen.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘Crime reporter. He has contacts inside the FBI and the CIA.’
‘What if it gets back to Harry Donovan? Then you really will be in deep shit.’
‘Jamille, what’s the name of that bookstore? Remember, there was a big turn-out when Bill Clinton did a signing?’
‘Books and Books on Aragon Avenue. Why?’
‘Didn’t Faith tell us that she got a signed copy there, from some guy in intelligence? A specialist on the Taliban.’
Jamille called Faith, who gave her the name of Robert Sommers, once one of the CIA’s foremost experts on Osama bin Laden. She then called McNally, who rang back an hour later with an address in the pretty Gulf Coast town of Dunedin, plus phone and cellphone numbers.
‘So give the guy a call,’ Jamille said, arms folded.
‘That’s not the way Sam would’ve done it. He once told me that it’s harder to shut the door in someone’s face than it is to hang up the phone.’
‘How long do you reckon it takes to get to Dunedin?’
‘Four hours, maybe a bit more. It’s asking a bit much of you.’
‘I’m a student, remember? I’ve got time to kill. Besides, I’m one of the smart ones. I saved every dime I ever earned.’
‘Clever girl.’
‘So, you want me to come with you?’
‘Damn right. Let’s do it.’
• • •
The drive up the west coast of Florida on I-75 North, past Naples to Dunedin, near Clearwater, a quaint small town with nearly forty thousand inhabitants, was a breeze—radio on, Doobie Brothers and Al Stewart classics playing non-stop. The sun was low in the sky when they arrived. Main Street was thriving—boutiques, antique shops, arty restaurants and lots of cyclists.
Deborah negotiated a few tree-lined side streets before pulling up outside a pale blue Key West-style home overlooking the Gulf. A BMW convertible was in the drive.
As Jamille moved to open the passenger door, Deborah said, ‘I appreciate all you’re doing for me, Jamille, but I can take care of this, thanks. Shouldn’t be too long.’
She rang the bell. After a longish wait, a gray-haired heavily tanned man opened the door. He wore a turquoise shirt, tan slacks and two-tone shoes.
‘Deborah Jones of the Miami Herald.’
‘I’m not expecting you, am I?’
‘We were wondering if you could help us.’
Sommers’s smile revealed a perfect set of teeth. ‘Have you read my book, Miss Jones?’
‘I’m sorry to say I haven’t.’
‘Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but people don’t usually turn up at my front door without an appointment.’
‘If you could give me twenty minutes of your time, sir. Some important documents have come into our possession.’
‘You’d better make it quick.’
Deborah followed Sommers down a huge hallway into a good-sized living room, which led to a book-lined study with a view of the water.
‘Would you like a drink?’ He motioned for her to sit.
‘Iced tea, thank you.’
‘You drive up from Miami this afternoon?’ He raised a quizzical eyebrow.
‘Yes, sir.’
Deborah’s gaze wandered round the shelves. There was a lot of military history and political biography. Churchill, Roosevelt, a few books on the Kennedys, Castro, Begin, Gandhi, Margaret Thatcher, alongside books on the Middle East. On Sommers’s desk, beside his laptop, was Craig Unger’s seminal House of Bush, House of Saud: The Secret Relationship Between the World’s Two Most Powerful Dynasties.
A couple of minutes later, Sommers returned with an iced tea for her and a glass of red wine for him. He sat down at his desk, placing the glass of wine beside him. ‘So, what do you want to know?’
‘I understand that your book is highly crit
ical of the administration’s counter-terrorism policy. And that you advised a secret CIA unit which was trying to hunt bin Laden since 1996.’
‘You have done your homework.’
‘We’ve unearthed this protocol—’
‘Do you have it with you?’
‘Thought that might be too risky.’
Sommers nodded.
‘This protocol is an unacknowledged CIA special-access program, which reveals plans to talk to Al-Qaeda in the event of military failure.’
Sommers’s face remained impassive.
‘You don’t seem surprised,’ Deborah said.
‘What exactly do you want to know?’
‘We need to authenticate the document…’
‘Tell me, Miss Jones, what do you know about Al Qaeda?’
‘Just what I read in the newspapers. They’re an Islamist terrorist group which hates the West.’
‘Allow me to let you in on a little secret, Miss Jones. There is no such thing as Al-Qaeda.’ Sommers’s penetrating blue eyes fixed on her. ‘Does that surprise you?’
‘I thought—’
‘Let me explain. Since 9/11, it has suited the purposes of the military-industrial complex, which benefits enormously from waging war, to have us believe that bin Laden was the devil. The literal translation of Al-Qaeda means “database”.’
‘I had no idea.’
‘The database refers to the computer file that lists thousands of mujahideen whom we armed and trained to help us defeat the Soviet Union. The operation was funded by the Saudis. One of the first people who alerted the world to this was the former British Foreign Secretary. Less than a month later, he was dead. Had a heart attack up a remote Scottish mountain.’
