Man in the Middle

by Ken Morris

  “The inside of your house is bugged,” he said. “I saw them enter, disguised as exterminators. They should have brought tanks of poison—more convincing that way.”

  “I—”

  Dawson released his hold on the shirt and slapped a palm over Peter’s mouth. The agent shook his head.

  Peter knocked the hand away with a forearm but said nothing. He noticed the window off to the side of the garage was open, unlocked from the inside. A single pane had been cut away, with smooth edges made by a glasscutter. Peter allowed himself to be towed to a dark corner.

  “Give me your jacket,” Dawson whispered.

  Peter did as asked. The agent took the garment and held it by the collar. After setting his gun on a bench, he ran a hand along the lining. He next patted the fabric as if pressing out wrinkles. He searched the pockets. He slid his fingers under the collar. With a penknife pulled from a hip pocket, Dawson made an incision in the lapel. He widened the slit and removed a metallic disk, the size of a small button. He then stood on his toes so that his mouth could reach Peter’s ear a second time with a whisper: “A transmitter. Not a microphone, but a tail. Did you leave your jacket behind at any time today?”

  Peter nodded.

  “Your house is wired for sound. So’s the inside of your car. You can bet on it. This garage is the one place they didn’t plant a mike.”

  The conference room at work was wired, Peter recalled, so why not an article of clothing? Why not his home? His car? His asshole if that’s what they wanted?

  “If the garage doesn’t have a speaker, why are we whispering?” Peter asked.

  “In case they’re using directional mikes, though that’s unlikely. They’ve already thoroughly invaded your privacy.”

  “They?” Peter asked, putting a hostile bite on the word.

  “I’m not a hundred percent sure, but I’d be willing to bet Stenman’s involved.”

  “What happened to the phone message where you said I was on my own? I prefer it that way.”

  “That was a ruse. For your protection.”

  “I don’t want protection. I’m being followed and monitored because of you.”

  “Listen to me, Peter. This has nothing to do with me. Somebody’s interested in you, and since they chose today to make you a telecommunications company, I’m guessing you must know something.”

  “Yeah, I know something: breaking and entering is a crime.”

  “I’d keep my voice real calm if I were you, so it doesn’t carry.”

  “I don’t know a thing of interest to anyone. And if I did, I’d be a fool to give it to you.” Peter recalled his mother’s letter. She wrote that the agent she had trusted must have leaked the information. “My mother certainly didn’t trust you,” Peter blurted.

  Dawson caught the implication. “How do you know that?”

  Peter hesitated, regretting the slip. “Because nobody trusts you.”

  “Clever. You didn’t look surprised when I said your place was bugged. Unless I miss my guess, I showed up in the nick of time.”

  “Nick of time? My problems all began with that damn photo of you and me at the sports bar.”

  “Photo?” The surprise in Dawson’s voice made it clear he hadn’t known anything about a photograph before now.

  “That’s right,” Peter continued. “A picture of us at the sports bar. I had to talk my way out of that mess. I’m lucky to still have a job.”

  “No,” Dawson said, shaking his head, “you’re lucky to be alive. You must have something they desperately want.”

  “They, again? How about you? You didn’t show up to get a year-end tan. Leave me alone or I’ll phone your former boss and tell him you’re harassing me.”

  “Calling the director—his name’s Ackerman by the way—is a bad idea.” Dawson kept looking side to side, as if he expected an interruption.

  “Oh, that’s right. You said the SEC had some people who had crossed the line. I should check with you before I call. Convenient Catch-22.”

  “Whoever you call will relay the message to the director’s office. Once his special assistant—a scumbag by the name of Freeman Ranson—finds out, you’re history. You do not want them to think they must eliminate you.”

  “You’re the one posing the danger,” Peter wanted to scream. “They followed you the night they caught us together.” Peter pointed a rigid finger at Dawson. “If they thought I was meeting with you again, no telling what would happen.”

  “Because of that picture of us in the bar, you think they were following me?” Dawson asked. “Are you serious? Did they have a photo of us at Sammy’s?”

  “No, thank goodness.”

  “Think. How hard could it have been to follow me a few hundred yards down the beach in my car? It was you, sneaking out the back, using your runner’s speed down a railroad track, getting back before anyone missed you, that avoided detection. That piece of pretend-dumb-blond who paid you so much attention was the one following you.”

  Peter’s heart beat fast. He didn’t have a convincing response. “I’m going into my house, feeding my cat, and relaxing,” he whispered: “Whatever’s got everybody so interested in me is my business. Mine. Not yours.”

  “Then it’s true. You’ve found something.”

  “I didn’t say that.” Peter reached for the door to the stairwell leading into his condo.

  “Watch what you say,” Dawson warned, “’cause someone’s going to be listening. When you pee, they’ll hear the tinkle. On top of everything else I’ve said about why you’re not dead, I think they’re afraid to plant you.”

  “Plant me? Are you trying to be funny?”

  “Nothing funny about this, Peter. No matter what your mother thought about me, it should be obvious that I’m trying to solve this thing. To help you.”

  “I don’t want your help. I am tired of being pushed, shoved, prodded, blood-tested, lie-detected, bullied. Who in God’s name is afraid of me? I am a nothing.”

  “Who? Everybody’s afraid of you. You’re alive because of inconvenience. No. I take that back. It’s more than inconvenience.”

  “I understand you think you’re doing your job, Dawson, or at least your former job, but this sounds like a case of paranoia. I’m in enough trouble. Time for me to mind my own business.”

  “With what happened to your mother,” continued Dawson, skipping over Peter’s comments, “and the questions that would arise with you working for Stenman Partners, they are being careful to—”

  “There you go again. If you’re after Morgan Stenman, then you’ll have to do it without me. She’s aggressive. So am I, for that matter. So is everybody else in the hedge fund bus—”

  “You’ve broken securities laws, haven’t you?” said Dawson crossing his arms.

  Dawson, Peter figured, had made an educated guess—correctly. For a nanosecond, Peter wanted to confess, to trust this small man with the passionate voice. Instead, his brain defied his heart and forced his mouth to say: “You lost the Treasury case. Now you’ve managed to get yourself fired. I trust you, I’m history.”

  “You’re going to need to make a deal.”

  “Deal? With an unemployed SEC agent? No thanks. I’m going back to work and pretend I never met you. If you persist, I’ll check with our attorneys.”

  “I can’t force you to do anything, Peter, but one day you’re going to realize this is your business. Once that happens, I pray you survive. And don’t forget what I said before: if it isn’t you they go after, it’ll be your friends.

  “By the way,” Dawson continued, “that off duty cop? The one who saw your mother ‘crash and burn’? He retired a month later. Says he came into an inheritance from a distant, foreign relative. Guy’s got a sweet life, living it up on the beach in Coronado. Another coincidence?”

  A pain stabbed Peter.

  Dawson grabbed his .38 and tucked the snub nose into his shoulder holster. With that prop back in place, he said, “Don’t bother showing me the way.
I’ll let myself out.” Dawson headed in the direction of the open window but, after a couple of steps, spun around and returned to Peter. “Here,” he said, reaching over and stuffing a slip of paper into Peter’s breast pocket. “If you need to get hold of me.” The agent turned and stepped towards the damaged window a second time.

  Outside, a dog barked and his master shouted, “Shut up!”

  A dull pain hammered deep in Peter’s gut. “His name?” he asked. “The retired cop.”

  Dawson turned. Peter detected a faint smile.

  “Name? Ellis. If you decide to visit, I’d make up a story about working for a woman by the name of Sarah Guzman.”

  “Sarah Guzman?” Peter bit his tongue, wishing the damn cat had gotten to him first.

  “You’ve heard the name?” Dawson sadly shook his head. “No. Let me guess: you’ve met her. How’re you at hitting breaking balls?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Peter asked, exasperated.

  “I’d say that having Sarah Guzman in the vicinity means you’ve got two strikes against you. Better watch for the curveball.”

  “I don’t know anything,” Peter said, convincing not even himself.

  “She’s Ensenada Partners. You ever heard of Enriqué Guzman?”

  Peter didn’t show it, but he knew that name, too. Guzman had been one of the most notorious drug bosses in Mexico. His death, Peter recalled, had been big U.S. news for a couple days three or four years ago.

  “She took over the business. Reorganized. Got out of import-export of the white stuff. Rumor has it she’s making more cleaning dirty money throughout Latin America. Her nephew, Carlos Nuñoz—now there’s a scary guy—is head of security for her. These two do not screw around when they get unstrung, and it’s a short trip to unstrung. Remember reading about the hundred bodies found in that mass grave along the California-Mexican border? That was the aftermath of her withdrawing from the old business. Most bodies were friends and family of those who’d worked for her dead husband.”

  “Why would she do that? It makes no sense.”

  “She did it to convince former competitors—the other cartels throughout Latin America—she was serious and had a new business plan that included them as clients. She snuffed-out her husband’s former network. Oops, I mean she allegedly snuffed-out her husband’s former network. Nothing was ever proved. She lowered her overhead at the same time she made a statement about where her new interests lay.”

  Craning forward enough that his neck appeared to lengthen, Dawson continued: “You scared yet?”

  Peter was thankful the garage light was dim and his pallor shadowed.

  “And, if you still care, cop’s full name is Sean Ellis. Former San Diego City Detective, Sean Marcus Ellis.”

  Peter wouldn’t forget the name.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CACTUS GREW INSIDE HUGE, HEAVY CLAY POTS POSITIONED BELOW view-windows—windows taking in Pacific whitecaps, seagulls, fishing boats, and the occasional hang-glider. The horizon stretched in every direction without blemish—endless blue sky, connected to endless blue ocean.

  Morgan Stenman and Sarah Guzman deliberated with their backs to the windows—they had a view of only each other and Carlos Nuñoz. Because it was a Saturday, all of Stenman’s computers were shut down and, except for this meeting in her office, there were no other people on her half of the second floor. Across from the two women, Carlos fidgeted in a chair with cabriole legs, an antique from the time of Queen Anne—not comfortable, but priceless. His right foot rested on his left knee as he tugged at his ankle with an open palm, as if stretching his joints in preparation for a workout.

  “Morgan, what did Peter Neil say to your attorney?” Sarah asked.

  Stenman inhaled, then exhaled, as she nearly always did when framing her words: “According to Jason, he said he doesn’t know where any documents are. The tapes we made seem to corroborate that.”

  “Perdoneme, señora,” Carlos said, “but you believe this to be true?”

  Stenman merely shrugged.

  “Neil is dangerous,” Carlos thought out loud. “He has seen a letter from his mother. What else has he seen? I believe it is possible more legal documents—stolen by this Hannah Neil—exist. It is also possible that Neil has them, or knows where they are, or will soon come to know these things. It is importante that we retrieve this information.”

  Sarah nodded agreement. “For the time being, we will wait and continue following, recording, tracking him.”

  “Maybe some of what you say is true,” Stenman said, sounding noncommittal. “I like Peter. I hope this turns out well for him.”

  “This is a difficult case,” Sarah said. “What would you have us do, Morgan?”

  Stenman flicked ashes into a crystal bowl. “Unless we are forced to, I do not think it wise to harm Peter. Not with what happened to his mother, with the possibility that the regulators may still be interested in his affairs. If possible, we should get needed answers first.”

  “I agree,” Sarah said. “My recommendation is that we buy time. Hope to find out what he knows. But the moment we ascertain he has information stolen by his mother, and we retrieve that information, he must be dealt with. Fortunately, Carlos and I have a contingency plan. You are ready to execute this contingency plan when necessary, Carlos?”

  “Sí.”

  At that moment, Stenman’s phone rang. She pushed the speaker button. “I wish to speak with Señor Nuñoz,” said an accented voice.

  “I am here,” Carlos said, the impatience in his voice an unspoken threat.

  After a rapid briefing, the man said, “He is lost.”

  Carlos slammed a fist into a wall. “What does that mean, pelotudo? ‘Lost’?”

  In Spanish, the caller explained that Neil had taken off running. Nobody could hope to keep up with him, he moved too fast. At some point, the tracking device must have broken, because the signal died. Off to the side, Sarah gave a whispered translation to Stenman.

  “Ocho ochenta! Find him!” Carlos slammed a fist into the speaker button, disconnecting the line. “This changes everything,” he said. “The transmitter did not accidentally break. He knows.”

  “Calm down,” Sarah said. “Watch his house. This is no reason for panic.” She rolled her eyes in Stenman’s direction. Carlos understood the gesture, exhaled, and nodded.

  “You will solve this problem intelligently,” Stenman said, making certain it sounded like a directive. “I do not want anything to happen to Neil that might reflect back on me. Understood?”

  To her surprise, Carlos spun in anger. “We do what we have to, Señora Stenman. It is more than just your interests at stake.”

  “Carlos,” Sarah reprimanded, “do not forget with whom you are speaking. Morgan Stenman is a great person. She is our friend.” Turning to Stenman, Sarah continued, “I am sorry. This is not like Carlos. He is upset that we have lost contact with Mr. Neil.”

  “Perdoneme, Señora Stenman,” said Carlos. “I spoke unnecessarily.”

  “Do not screw with me, Carlos, or underestimate me.” Stenman’s voice was like a deep freeze, and the room grew frigid. “And do not speak to me in such a manner ever again.”

  “We will uncover the truth,” Sarah explained. “But you must trust our instincts.”

  “And you must trust mine,” Stenman replied, still furious. “I prefer to continue grooming Peter Neil, but I am not in love with the notion. This has gotten complex, and I do not like that. Remember what you said about Howard Muller: he is dangerous because he does things without reason. Do not forget that lesson, either of you.”

  Carlos’ crooked lips trembled. “I will not forget,” he said. “Anything.”

  After Sarah and Carlos left, Stenman summoned Howard Muller. He arrived a half-hour later. Stenman recounted to him the day’s events.

  “Why wasn’t I part of that meeting?” Muller drew his eyes together.

  “Because our friends do not respect you, and because you have
lost your objectivity.”

  “Who does Nuñoz think he is? Scarface acts so polite, then calls us names in Spanish as if we won’t figure out we’re being insulted. He thinks everybody’s afraid of him.”

  “Thinks they are afraid? Don’t be asinine, Howard. He is dangerous. So is Sarah Guzman.”

  “I’m capable of doing as much damage as those two. Maybe we should sever our relationship with them. We don’t need her money—you’ve got plenty coming out of Eastern Europe.”

  She rotated her head and blew smoke towards a window. “No. Sarah Guzman is the most viciously intelligent woman I have ever known. We will continue together unless she breaks the trust first.”

  “As for Neil,” Muller said, “I happen to agree with Nuñoz. Whatever his mother knew or took is floating around like a time-bomb. And don’t forget, I’ve touched nearly every damn peso, drachma, and ruble that’s moved into our funds. I’m the one who finds the places to backtrade. The one who talks to our contacts. If Neil’s mother hid anything substantive, it’s my ass that’s fried first. You want my opinion: find another Zerets and have him hunt Neil down. End it, once and for all.”

  “You wear your hatred for everyone to see,” Stenman said. “Perhaps you hear the footsteps of a bright young man, ready to take over.”

  “Neil is less than nothing. What I don’t like is someone having information that’s going to get me investigated by the SEC for the next fifty years.” Muller stood up and towered over Stenman. “How do we know he hasn’t turned anything over to the government already?”

  “Simple: where are the subpoenas? And, according to Freeman Ranson, nothing in or out of the SEC or the Justice Department related to Peter Neil.”

  “We should nail Neil anyway. I’d love to be the one—”

  “Drop it,” Stenman said.

  Howard Muller dropped the line of conversation, but not the fantasy. He had a plan, inspired by Nuñoz and Guzman. He spun his head, grinned, and imagined the look of terror on Neil’s face. His plan was genius in its simplicity, he thought.