USA, Inc. (A Mike Wardman Novel: Book 1)

by Larry Kahaner

“It’s an American expression. It means that we want to be in agreement.”

  “Let me tell you what we have to be ready. All of your company workers in the border areas will have a holiday. They will be with at least five hundred more that I hired at … how do you say … for the movies?”

  “Central casting?” Kane asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And they know their jobs?”

  “They have been told to walk around in groups when the time is right. They will see their … uh …”

  “Cue?”

  “Yes, their cues from the Twitter hashtag of fiestafrontera.”

  “Excellent,” Kane said. “And they know no violence. Just walking and talking. That’s very important.”

  “Exactamente. We told them as you asked—that it is a show for American television. We have promised to them each bonus money if they do a good job for you.” The man looked at his phone. “Nuevo Laredo, Ciudad Juarez, y Tijuana.”

  “That’s right,” said Kane. “Those are the cities.”

  “Anything else for you, Señor Kane?”

  “What about the police and military? Will they be a problem?”

  “I have made gratuities to the proper people so they know that this is no problems for them. It is just for television.”

  “I knew I put the right man in the right job, Guillermo. Thank you for your help.”

  “I’m happy to be on the same pages with you, Señor Kane.”

  Chapter 32

  Mike woke when the first light hit his face. He opened his eyes, blinked at the sun, and looked around. For an instant, he forgot why he was in a dense forest, on a tiny island in a bay next to Ocean City, Maryland. He got his bearings and stood up, dropping the sleeping bag from around his body.

  He rubbed his face and thought about the past week. He’d been shot at, gotten in a car chase, stolen a police car to continue the chase, knocked out a shore patrolman so he could steal a chunk of skin from a dead man, and, oh yeah—he’d beaten the crap out of three FBI agents after being accused of murder. Under the circumstances, it didn’t seem so out of the realm of normalcy that he would be camping out in the middle of the woods and sleeping with a gun under his pillow.

  Mike had a few calls to make, but first he got some water boiling on a camp stove so he could caffeinate himself. The tiny fridge was well stocked with everything the fishers and their guests on the lam could want. Coffee, milk, a few stray sandwiches, even some oranges and apples. There was plenty of beer, rum, rye, and whiskey.

  While the water bubbled in a small kettle, Mike dialed his boss on the prepaid mobile phone that Charlie had provided.

  “Where are you, Mike?” Burke answered. This was becoming his standard hello.

  “Just outside of OC.”

  Mike waited for Burke to say something about the run-in with Hearst and his two gorillas.

  Nothing.

  Mike shuddered. The fact that Hearst didn’t report the altercation could only mean one of two things—Hearst was too embarrassed by what happened, losing a three-against-one fight; or he was keeping the incident to himself so he could take out Mike on his own without anyone considering revenge as a motive. There was a third possibility, of course, but it seemed unlikely—Hearst had realized his error and decided that Mike hadn’t killed James Feldstein at the telecom company after all, and dropped the whole matter even after taking his lumps in the warehouse.

  “I got a line on that Telecommunications Associates International company you were asking about,” Burke said.

  “Tell me.”

  “TAI is a holding organization with offices around the globe, several thousand employees. They’re into a lot of different businesses. They put up mobile networks in Africa, Asia, and South America. They build roads, shopping centers, parking lots, airport runways—anything and everything that involves concrete.”

  Concrete.

  “What else?” Mike asked.

  “They do security work for governments and multinational companies. Oil-drilling companies seem to like them. Even the United Nations has used their services to ensure the safety of civilian personnel.”

  “Are we talking mercenary work?”

  “Clearly,” Burke said. “It’s a private company, so there’s a limit to how much information is available. This is interesting, though: they have almost no debt. They fund almost every project on their own or with working partners. If they’d borrowed funding, we’d have more information from debtors or bondholders, but we don’t.”

  “That’s odd, don’t you think?”

  “Our researchers seem to think so. Why not use other people’s money? Why not lay off the risk? Why tie up your own capital? Even Warren Buffett doesn’t do that.”

  Mike thought for moment. “It could be because they don’t want other people in their business, asking questions and making decisions.”

  “Probably.”

  “Are they legit?” Mike asked.

  “‘Legal’ is a better word. There have been a few incidents. Let me see … they were accused of violating the Foreign Corrupt Practices Act, in that they paid off Libyan officials in exchange for a contract to build a telecom network. The Justice Department looked into the allegations, along with the Securities and Exchange Commission, and came up short. No charges were filed—”

  The water boiled and Mike burned his fingers picking up the hot kettle, not paying attention to the task. He dropped the phone. “I’m back. What’d I miss? How big a company is it?”

  “You’re back? Where’d you go? Anyway, because they’re private, they don’t have to tell. But as near as we can figure from a Dun & Bradstreet report, voluntary filings, and some reports they had to file because they were working for the US government, they did about a hundred billion dollars in revenue last year. That puts them on the Forbes top-five list of private companies.”

  “How come I never heard of them?”

  “They don’t give interviews. They don’t put out press releases. They do everything they can to keep a low profile. According to our people, the company submits the least amount of paperwork they can legally file. They do almost no business in the United States, so that helps them fly under the radar, and most of the countries they work in have virtually no transparency in business dealings.” Burke was now reading from the memo his staff had prepared. “‘TAI appears to prefer engaging in business with countries with less-than-stable economies and leaders who have risen to power in questionable ways. Also, they often do business in countries that are just a hair inside of the sanctions list. On several occasions, the Treasury Department gave them special licenses to do business in prohibited countries, but it’s unclear under what exemption these normally proscribed activities were allowed.’”

  “They sound like good guys,” Mike said.

  “Real sweethearts.”

  “Who owns the company?”

  “This gets even more intriguing,” Burke said. “The company is owned by a single person named Richard Kane. He’s an American citizen born in New York City. Brooklyn, in fact. He did an interview in 1986 with Business Week magazine. It was his first and last interview, as far as we can tell. I’ll send it to you. Don’t get the idea that he’s a recluse. He’s been seen attending the right parties with the right people, mainly political folks. He doesn’t like his picture being taken, but every once in a while a photo slips out with him engaging in cocktail banter with some senator, congressman, the attorney general, several cabinet secretaries, even the president. I’ll send these photos, too.”

  “How come you were able to get all this material on him?”

  “Commerce keeps an eye on big money men like this, or didn’t you know?”

  “No, I wouldn’t. I’m just a lowly fish cop. Later.”

  Mike hung up. He finished his coffee, rinsed out the cup, flipped the excess away, and stared into the woods, trying to make sense of what he’d just heard.

  He dialed Robbie Van Horn, who was hosing down Tethys wh
en the phone rang.

  “Remember that path we saw on the bottom, Robbie?”

  “Have you figured out what that was all about?”

  “I’m pretty sure that someone was dragging doors along the bottom.”

  “You mean fishing doors?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why would they do that? It makes no sense. They would damage the doors, for one thing.”

  “If I wanted to make a geologic search of the seabed subsurface, could I use ground-penetrating radar pulled along on the top of the doors?”

  Robbie laughed. “Suppose so. The wooden doors would almost be in shreds after a few hours, but that’s not the problem. The real issue is that GPR doesn’t work very well in saltwater. If you wanted to make a survey, you would take core samples once you decided you had a possible source of whatever it is you’re seeking.”

  “You mean like what you’re doing?”

  “Like what we’re doing,” Robbie echoed. “Hey, do you think that the doors exploration was a precursor to our sampling for gravel?”

  “Maybe.”

  “That’s weird, though. It’s a rookie mistake to make preliminary searches with that kind of lash-up, dragging doors with some kind of GPR on them.”

  “Could there be some other, more sophisticated equipment they were using?”

  “Who knows? The other thing is that dragging doors like that would cause damage to the seabed floor. It would kill fish, bivalves, plants, and anything else living down there. If the fishers or environmentalists found out about it, somebody’s head would be on a stick. Do you know who was pulling that nutty contraption?”

  Mike decided it was time to tell Van Horn more of the story. For his own safety, it was time. “I believe it was the Judy Bee, one of the fishing boats out of OC.”

  “Weatherhill’s boat? The one that was scuttled with the crew being killed and—”

  “With Marilyn.”

  “Shit, man. I’m sorry. But let me get this straight. The Judy Bee was doing preliminary work with ridiculous equipment looking for what … gravel? Then we were hired to pick up where they left off?”

  “That’s what it looks like. The one thing I do know for sure is that they were contracted to do the job.”

  “By the same company—TAI, hired by Delaware, who subcontracted us?”

  “I can’t say that for certain,” Mike replied. “But I owe you this, Robbie. TAI isn’t a good actor. I’m not saying that they’re doing anything illegal with your contract, but—”

  Van Horn interrupted. “But what you are saying is, we better watch our ass.”

  “I’m afraid so, Robbie.”

  Chapter 33

  Mike cleaned the area and headed for his boat. He moved aside the dead branches he had placed on top to keep prying choppers from spotting it. Now more than ever he was concerned about Hearst’s next move. That man was as unpredictable as he was incompetent.

  With the last piece of camouflage removed, Mike started the engines and made for an old, shoddy pier bayside of Ocean City. The wooden structure had once been popular as a fishing pier, but most people preferred to fish from more stable ones, walk out in the shallows, or use their own boat. He knew he was taking a chance leaving the boat out in the open, but he also had an all-around view of the area from the shore and could easily see helicopters, boats, or men in dark suits and sunglasses before he went back on board. Mike didn’t mind a fair fight, but he’d be damned if was going walk into an ambush. He’d bought himself some insurance by covering the sides of the boat, where it read “Law Enforcement,” as well as putting canvas over the NOAA logos on the sides of the center cockpit. It looked like any other civilian boat until you got up close.

  Besides, he had no other choice.

  Mike swung his duffel bag over his shoulder and walked past condos and a few private houses on his way to the main drag. When he reached the street, the red Corvette was waiting. The driver slouched in the front seat, clicking intently on his smartphone. Startled, he turned to the passenger side when he heard the door open.

  “This had better be good,” Al said as he gave his phone one last definitive tap and set it in a cup holder between them. “You got me all the way from Rehoboth, just as I was making a move on a young woman who needed her router networked.”

  “Is that a euphemism?” Mike asked.

  Al didn’t answer, but instead let out a sigh.

  “Sorry. I’ll make it up to you somehow.”

  “How’d you get here? Where’s your Jeep?”

  “At my house. I took my boat.”

  “You’re going to leave it here?”

  “For the time being.”

  As they headed north for the hour-long ride, Mike relayed how the phone positioning records that Al had supplied had led him to the seabed path cut by the doors. He explained that the Judy Bee had been dragging the doors, but he wasn’t sure why. And then he touched on the highlights of his week.

  “So, there were three of them? That’s pretty good,” Al said, as he let out a whoop. “I love it.” He pounded on the dash. “Two gorillas and a weasel in a suit. Fabulous.”

  Mike continued telling his story and every once in a while Al would interject with, “Well, that doesn’t make sense.”

  “I know,” Mike would respond.

  The two had driven in silence for about ten minutes when Al announced, “So, the FBI and this dude, Hearst, are they after you? I mean, am I abetting a suspected felon?” He let out another whoop, like it was really funny to him, but Mike could tell that he was scared.

  “I don’t know, Al. My boss would’ve heard something. But he hasn’t, so I don’t know what’s going on. Could be a setup.”

  “From what you tell me about Hearst, he’s a dumbass. He’s probably too embarrassed to tell his superiors how you snookered him. Not good for the career track, you know. Hey, are you in a hurry?”

  “I have some time,” Mike said. “Hearst hasn’t caught me yet.” He opened the car window wider and breathed deeply. “I do have some information I need to look at as soon as I can.”

  “Let’s stop and get a beer. We can look together.”

  “Okay by me.”

  They stopped at Mac’s Fish Shack, which didn’t look like much from the outside. In fact, it didn’t look like much from the inside, either, but the food was prepared by a haute cuisine chef. They ordered beers and lobster rolls.

  Mike pulled out his phone and started pecking.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Big screen,” Al said as he retrieved his tablet and accessed Mike’s email account. “Is this what you’re looking for?” he asked, pointing to a document labeled “Kane Interview” and another file holding several photos of him.

  “That’s it. Let me see.”

  Mike took the tablet and started to read parts of the interview out loud.

  “There’s gotta be a video of this. Why read when you can watch,” Al said. “There, that’s better.”

  The two watched as an interviewer asked questions.

  “Mr. Kane, why would you erect cell-phone towers in cities written off by many other Western companies?”

  “Western companies are prejudiced and geocentric. I believe that everyone should have access to these new technologies, no matter where they live. US companies in particular are missing large opportunities because of their own fears of the unknown. These are the cities of the future.”

  “But what about the dangers of doing business in what many would consider high-risk areas?” the interviewer asked.

  Kane straightened his tie. “These are the people who need our services the most. Many customers, especially those in Africa, have no phone service at all. I can get reliable service into their hands quickly, and at a low cost. I’m helping the world connect, so we can better understand each other.”

  Al paused the video. “This guy is so full of shit it’s coming out his ears. I know this Kane guy.”

  “Oh?”

  “I want to see more,”
Al said as he pressed the tablet.

  The interviewer read from a clipboard. “What about your other businesses? Concrete, for example. Where do you see that going?”

  “Where don’t I see it going?” Kane said, smiling. “When you look at the engines of global economy, there are a few obvious drivers: petroleum, integrated circuit chips, mining, and concrete among them. I predict that in the foreseeable future, more houses and commercial buildings will be constructed of concrete than any other material.”

  “Even wood?”

  “Wood is a fine choice where there are forests, but these resources are not always well managed. We like to think they’re renewable, but people overuse them to point where there’s nothing left. Have you seen the effects of clearcutting? The decimation of the rainforests in Brazil? It’s an environmental disaster. The materials to make concrete are virtually inexhaustible, widely available, environmentally benign, and we’ve barely touched the ocean floor as a source. Let’s not forget that concrete homes and infrastructure can withstand hurricanes, tsunamis, and other natural disasters.”

  “I can’t believe this guy,” Al said as he dipped a French fry into aioli sauce and popped it into his mouth.

  “They’ll give you ketchup if want, but you have to ask,” Mike said.

  “I’m good,” Al said. They watched as the figures on the tablet came to life.

  “To what do you most attribute your success, Mr. Kane?”

  “Perseverance. I’m willing to play the long game.”

  “So full of crap …” Al muttered.

  “Spill,” Mike said.

  Al took a swig of beer. “When I was at Bell Atlantic, and later Verizon, he was all the managers talked about. They thought he was a visionary. He saw the end of landlines and the rise of cell phones when other telcos were still clinging to wires. He also had a network of pager companies and two-way radio services. He saw the writing on the wall that cell phones would eventually usurp both of these businesses, and he was correct. No one else saw it, and he sold his companies at a premium before they became obsolete. He’s done amazing things for disenfranchised people all over the world by giving them cheap concrete housing and inexpensive cell-phone service.”