Patch got off the elevator and made straight for me. Tufts of hair peppered his head, and he seemed smaller and more frail than the last time I’d seen him. His shoulders had all but disappeared, and his gait reminded me of the old women I saw carrying bags of groceries in Chinatown.
“You wasted no time getting here,” I said, glad I had spent money on the taxi.
“Time is one thing I can’t spare.” His voice sounded gravelly as he removed his fedora.
I touched his arm. “It’s good to see you.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
We went inside, and after I closed the door I took his dripping coat. As I hung it, I watched Patch shuffle over to the sofa. Clutching a thick manila envelope, he looked one hundred years old. For all I knew, that might have been his age.
“What brings you to New York?” I joined him on the sofa.
Patch leaned forward, his eyes seeming larger now that the rest of his head looked smaller. His face had so much character with those curves and crevices, like rustic apple sculptures with faces carved into them. “Whatever brings me to New York? A story.”
“I hear we’ve got eight million of them.”
“Nineteen million people’s gotta mean at least nineteen million stories.”
“Math was never my strong suit.”
“What is your strong suit, kid?”
“In-depth journalism. Commentary.”
“Is that what you call it?”
My shoulders stiffened. “Did you come here to needle me?”
“Nah. I just want to make sure you’re happy with what you’re doing.”
“I am.”
“Good, good.”
“Do you follow my column?”
“Sure I do. You only write one a month, right?”
He was on a roll. “I also write a weekly blog.”
“You never did break a big story, did you?”
My ex-wife used to say the same thing. “No, my virginity’s still intact. So much for my dreams of becoming Woodward or Bernstein.”
“Woodward and Bernstein aren’t even Woodward and Bernstein anymore. But you never wanted to be either one of them. You wanted to be Robert Redford or Dustin Hoffman playing Woodward or Bernstein.”
What could I say? He was right. Well, about Redford, anyway.
Using both hands, he raised the thick envelope close to his chin. “Kid, I’m going to do you a favor: I’m going to give you the Godzilla of all stories. When you break it, you’ll need a bigger place to keep all the awards they’re going to throw your way.”
“You were never in this for awards.”
“No, but you are. You want respect that you’ve never quite received.”
I felt myself turning red. “And what have I done to deserve this life-changing gift?”
He shrugged. “You answered my call.”
At least he was honest. “Tell me more.”
His fingers dug into the envelope, causing the manila paper to crinkle. Then he lowered it onto his lap like a fragile piece of glass and tapped it with one palm. “This is the biggest story I’ve ever worked on. The most important story.”
“Jesus. What is it?”
His eyes locked on mine. “Karlin Reichard.”
I blinked hard. “The shipping magnate?”
Patch nodded. “That’s one line on his resume. Another is kingmaker. Reichard bankrolls the campaigns of politicians like they’re schoolkids pushing candy. Other than Nicholas Tower, he’s the richest man in the United States, and the next four richest belong to his think tank.”
“The Reichard Foundation.”
“Collectively, they control the most powerful corporations in this country. Collectively, they’re more powerful than the government.”
“We’re a capitalist society.”
“We’re sheep.” He struck the envelope with one finger. “These men own companies that own companies that own more companies. They control the wealth, the politicians, the workers, and the consumers. And before Reichard and his gang, there was his father and his cronies. They’ve profited off every war fought over the last century, and they financed the careers of the politicians who advocated those wars.”
I studied him long and hard. I’d never heard him articulate a conspiracy theory before. “You think Karlin Reichard and his rich friends are behind all the wars the US has fought?”
“It’s all right here. Facts, figures, timelines, associations. Without fail, no matter what happens in the world, their portfolios increase. And not just from wars but from every course change this country makes, whether it’s to the right or to the left. Christ, they had Kennedy killed and put a man on the moon.”
I felt bad that he’d developed such a worthless obsession at the end of his career. “How long have you been working on this?”
His eyes grew wistful. “Longer than you’ve been alive. And I’m still not finished. Dots still need to be connected. Something’s missing that I can’t put my finger on. I’m too close to this to see the whole picture. I need a fresh pair of eyes.”
“And that’s where I come in.”
He gestured agreement with his hands.
“And we’ll share the byline?”
“I don’t care about the byline. It doesn’t matter who gets the credit. What matters is that this story comes out.”
He offered the envelope to me and I took it. Then I withdrew the coffee-stained manuscript and flipped through the pages. Dates. Locations. Travel records. Corporate filings. Financial statements. Newspaper clippings. Photographs of well-dressed men with white hair shaking hands. The sheer volume of the research was staggering.
“What do you really expect me to do with all this?” I said.
“Read it with an objective eye. Process the information. Connect some of those dots for me.”
The document felt heavy in my hands. How could I say no? “Okay.”
Patch rose, which didn’t make him much taller. “Don’t leave it lying around. I mean it. Keep it hidden.”
I followed him to the door. “How about dinner?”
“Some other time. I’ve got a plane to catch.”
Opening the door, I patted his shoulder. “I’ll be in touch.”
“Take care of yourself, kid.”
I learned from the newswire that Patch had died. He would have appreciated that. He was in Chicago, for only God knows what reason. A maid discovered his corpse in his hotel room. The medical examiner attributed his death to natural causes. He was eighty-three.
I flew out to D.C. for the funeral, where journalists from around the country paid tribute to the last of the big-time newspapermen. The vice president showed up. Julie was there with her second husband, a producer at the same cable news station where she worked as an “on air personality.” She showed me a photo of her sons, Bryan and Conner. Good-looking kids. Julie and I had been married for two years before she decided I wasn’t ambitious enough to make it as a reporter. Maybe she was right, but I feel like I’m doing okay.
After the service, I went out for dinner and drinks with my old colleagues at the Post. Tony V was in rare spirits, and everyone spent the night sharing their favorite Patch Adamczak stories. I didn’t tell anyone what the old man had been working on.
The next morning, I flew home. I’d dutifully toted Patch’s research with me and spent the flight perusing it. I felt guilty for disregarding it the night Patch had left it in my care. It wasn’t exactly an article, more like a book. It seemed to tell a complete story, with plenty of documentation to support Patch’s allegations that Karlin Reichard and his fellow billionaires operated a cabal that dictated world affairs. Despite the overwhelming evidence, I found the grand conspiracy theory preposterous. More puzzling, I didn’t see any dots that needed connecting. Patch had laid his whole argument out in methodical fashion. But what the hell was I supposed to do with this?
There’s nothing like landing at JFK and fighting for a taxi to reinvigorate that ingrained New York City aggressio
n. The mailman was stuffing the boxes in my building’s lobby when I walked through the door, so I waited for him to finish. He didn’t say a word or offer me a smile, but I was sure he’d manage to lose some of my mail if I forgot to leave him a holiday tip at Christmastime. As he left I unlocked my box and retrieved my bills, junk mail, and a single letter with no return address.
Riding the elevator to the third floor, I wondered again why Patch had been in Chicago. When I inserted my key into the top lock of my apartment door, the door creaked open. I felt my eyebrows wrinkling, and for a moment I wanted to kick myself for forgetting to lock up. But I’d lived in that apartment for four years and had never forgotten to lock the door. That’s something New Yorkers just don’t do.
I pushed the door open and peered inside. Nothing seemed to have been disturbed. I walked inside and turned. Everything I owned appeared to be where it belonged. Who breaks into an apartment and leaves the thirty-six-inch LCD TV? Setting my bags down, I checked the bedroom. Same deal: everything appeared untouched. No one had left my underwear drawer in disarray.
Returning to the living room, I locked the door. I decided Patch’s death had left me unnerved, but something just didn’t feel right. Someone had unlocked that door, but who? I called the building management agency, and the woman on the other end claimed she knew nothing about it. Damn. I told her I wanted the locks changed right away, screw the expense. Then I sat at my desk and opened the unmarked letter. My heart clenched when I saw Patch’s chicken scrawl:
Jeff:
I hope you don’t mind, but I instructed someone to mail this to you in “the event” of my death. As if that would constitute an event! I won’t mention the person who did me this favor by name for the sake of her safety; you don’t know her anyway.
I smiled at the thought of Patch seeing action at his age.
That’s right; I said “safety.” If you’ve read my report, you know I blame Reichard and his gang of war profiteers for every dark deed committed under the sun, and if you’re reading this I’m under six feet of dirt. I’m sure they made it look like I suffered a natural death, because I’m so old no one will doubt it, but don’t you believe it for a second. Medical examiners aren’t above taking bribes.
They’ve been following me for weeks. These White River Security goons are good, but I’m a newspaperman; I can smell them from a mile off. I’ve been bouncing all around the country partly to protect you but also to drive them crazy. You’re not the only colleague I’ve looked up, just the only one I’ve entrusted with my life’s work.
So what do I want you to do from here? Well, don’t even bother telling the world these rich old bastards took me out. No one will believe that. But this story has to see the light of day. People need to know the extent to which these corporate monsters control everything.
It’s pretty good to go now, I think; you see, I’ve left very little for you to do, despite what I told you. But there is still some unfinished business, a single piece of the puzzle for you to fit into place. My research shows that Reichard is behind everything I’ve recorded, but that isn’t exactly true: he’s a puppet, just like the other members of that cabal. Just like all of us. There’s someone above him, someone calling the shots. You’ll find this “Mr. Big” at the address below.
Since I can’t be there, you have to be. This is it: the Big One, the story that will make you famous, one of the greats. I hope you get everything you want out of this. You’re a good writer and a better friend.
Patch
I stared at the Brooklyn address at the end of the letter, then set the handwritten pages down and gazed at my reflection in the screen of my computer monitor. Had the need to break one last story made Patch delusional in his old age?
I right clicked the mouse before me, and the screen blossomed with light. My mouth opened and remained that way. I keep the folders for my current stories on my desktop so I don’t forget about them. None appeared before me now. At least two dozen had disappeared. I opened my documents. They were all gone, wiped out. Photos: the same. I checked my bin. Someone had taken out the trash, leaving nothing to recycle. With numb fingers, I opened the plastic case where I stored my backup files.
Empty.
But the biggest story of my life stared me in the face.
I grabbed a bite to eat at the corner diner and sat facing the doorway, wondering if whoever had wiped out my computer’s memory was watching me. It’s easy to be paranoid when someone’s out to get you. With my bag slung over my shoulder, I took the E train to Queens, then caught a taxi across the Long Island Expressway to Brooklyn, where I took the G train to Fourth Avenue and transferred to the F, which I took to within half a mile of my destination. On the sidewalk, I found excuses to turn around from time to time. As far as I could tell, no one was tailing me, but I lacked Patch’s experience in such matters.
I’d never been to the Brooklyn Navy Yard Industrial Park, and as the sun set I cut across one of its wide parking lots to a chain-link fence separating it from the adjoining property. Seagulls hovered like kites in the air above the East River. Grasping the fence, I stared at the enormous ships, docks, and warehouses of the Reichard Shipyard, which owned the largest private fleet in the world.
On the nearest dock, workers using a crane loaded cargo into the hold of an enormous white vessel that bore the Reichard logo. A security vehicle cruised a narrow street, and I observed a pair of armed guards walking side by side. This wasn’t going to be easy. The fence, topped with coiled razor wire, surrounded the entire property except for the docks, and another pair of guards occupied a station that controlled the front gate. I slid down the length of the fence into a sitting position and waited for the darkness to deepen.
Opening my bag, I took out my camera and used it to zoom in on different areas in the shipyard. Work lights brightened, causing the sleek warehouses to gleam even at night. I snapped a few shots of a giant ship sitting in drydock. The dockworkers disbanded, and soon the security teams were the only people I saw. They had a lot of ground to cover. I photographed the guards and Warehouse Number 7, the one I wanted, which faced the river.
Panning my camera over to the undulating water, I froze. For a moment, I thought I glimpsed the head of a man in the choppy water, illuminated by work lights onshore, facing in my direction. Unable to fathom why a diver would be out this late, I pressed the shutter button, but the head disappeared, if it had ever really been there. The image of a face mask connected to multiple hoses receded into my mind. Then I saw buttocks break the surface and also disappear, followed by glistening legs and feet outfitted with rubber flippers. The diver had definitely been wearing a wet suit.
I checked the images stored in my camera, the LCD screen glowing in the darkness. All I had captured was a blur. What if the diver was another security guard, alerted to my position? I snorted at the ridiculous notion but found myself scanning the river for the diver.
When the wind caused a chill to run through my body, I decided to stop procrastinating. Returning the camera to my bag, I took out the metal cutters, which were not much larger than standard pliers. I pressed the blades against the fence and squeezed the grips with both hands, severing a metal link.
Within five minutes, I had cut an L-shape into the fence. I set the cutters in my bag, which I zipped and slung over my shoulder once more, and crawled through the opening with great caution so as not to get cut by the sharpened wire. I scrambled over sand and broken asphalt to a sidewalk. Pools of light illuminated the shipyard, and I was careful to step only where I had seen the guards tread, lest motion detectors alert the armed men to my presence. This required me to dart in and out of the light, which left me feeling exposed.
I hugged one great wall of Warehouse 7 as a security car cruised by, spotlight roving across the earth as if searching for escaped prisoners. I’ve never covered war-torn countries, so my heart raced even though I did not believe these pistoleros would actually shoot an unarmed columnist/blogger. When the car reced
ed from view, I waited for the foot patrols to pass me, which seemed to take ten minutes. Then I slid around the corner, facing the main complex, and headed to the warehouse entrance. I stopped when I saw a security camera mounted on one wall above a key card scanner. There was no way I was getting inside to take a gander at Mr. Big. Or was there?
I circled back the way I had come and continued to the far corner of the warehouse, which ended at a dock that rose from the river. The current lapped against the dock’s supports, and the stench of dirty water rose to my nostrils. I’ve never been much of a boatman, and I wondered if my friend the diver had climbed out yet. The dock ended just after the corner: two enormous doors facing the river disappeared into the water. I supposed the doors opened to admit seafaring vessels into the structure. Perhaps Mr. Big traveled on a yacht under cover of night.
I peered over the dock at the black water. Even with the sky clear and the moon three-quarters full, there was no seeing below the surface. I touched the walls with both hands and looked up, calculating the distance to the roof to be a good fifty feet. Seeing no windows, I wondered if the roof had skylights. Then I saw a narrow metal ladder bolted to the wall just a few feet away.
I debated my next move. I’ve never been afraid of heights, but if I climbed to the top, what then? What if the guards spotted me? I looked around. The air was damp and salty. Setting one hand on a cold metal rung, I decided to take my chances. So I climbed, one hand over the other, step by step. Halfway up, I saw the parking lot at the Navy Yard was mostly empty. I continued climbing. At the three-quarter mark, a sudden and deafening sound caused me to flinch and threatened to make me lose my grip. For a fraction of a second, I thought I had triggered an alarm. Then I thought it was a cruise ship horn, and I looked over at the ship in drydock but saw no lights or workers. A foghorn also came to mind.
Then the sound came again, and I felt the rungs on the ladder vibrate. The sound came from inside the warehouse on the other side of the wall. The roar lasted just under five seconds, and a terrible realization thundered down on me: the earth-shaking roar had been made by a living creature. I searched my mind for some memory of a creature that made such a sound but drew a blank. The trumpeting of an elephant was high pitched in comparison; this was a deep, reverberating quake. Maybe they had a whale in there . . . But why?
Cosmic Forces: Book Three in The Jake Helman Files Series Page 29
