The Inverted Pyramid (An Alex Vane Media Thriller, Book 2)

by A. C. Fuller

  An instant later, he slid his fingers around the handle and tried to raise the gun, but his hand wobbled under its unexpected weight and he couldn't hold it steady.

  When he gained control of the weapon, he pointed it at Bice's stomach, then looked up at him. Bice's face was twitching, and he seemed to be counting under his breath.

  Five, six, seven, eight, nine.

  Alex's hand felt weak, but he shifted his index finger to the trigger.

  Twelve, thirteen, fourteen.

  He pulled slightly, but not enough to trigger a shot.

  Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty.

  Suddenly, Bice took two long strides toward Alex and kicked the gun out of his hand. Before Alex knew what had happened, Bice stood over him. Alex stared at the floor of the shed, trying to make patterns out of the specks of dirt.

  "Look at me," Bice said.

  When Alex did, Bice's face was empty, expressionless. Without warning, he flung his head back and spat at Alex, knelt to grab the gun, stood, and walked out. Once on the grass, he paused to nod at the two guards.

  Within seconds, they were coming for Alex—the bald one holding a black cloth bag, the redhead holding a baseball bat.

  45

  Visiting Team Ownership Box, Fenway Stadium

  Greta and Lance followed a secretary into the owner's box.

  "Mr. Jacobson," the secretary said. "Your guests."

  Larry Jacobson stood with his back to them, fiddling with the knobs on a stereo. His bright orange socks peeked out from under his white slacks and matched the hue of his floral Hawaiian shirt.

  Before he could respond, the secretary closed the door behind her, leaving Greta and Lance alone with the Yankees minority owner in the luxurious suite, surrounded by eight leather club chairs and a steaming buffet that had been set up along the wall.

  The meeting had been easy to arrange. Lance had been on the owner's call sheet for weeks, since he'd wanted to discuss the steroids story with Jacobson. Once Lance told Jacobson's secretary that he had info about a failed drug test cover-up for one of his stars, the secretary had called back to set up a meeting within an hour.

  "Mr. Jacobson," Lance said.

  Suddenly, a blast of horns exploded from the speakers that Greta now noticed were hung in each corner of the room. She didn't recognize the song right away, but knew it was late-sixties or early-seventies funk.

  Jacobson turned around, smiling and shuffling his feet. His white chest hair poured out of his shirt, which was only half buttoned. "Welcome," he said, extending his hand to Lance. After shaking Lance's hand, he took a moment to pluck a hair growing out of his right ear and then flick it onto the floor. He extended the hand to Greta. "Hello, dear."

  Greta shot Lance a look of disgust, but shook his hand. She could barely hear him over what she now knew was "I Don't Want Nobody to Give Me Nothing," by James Brown. "Nice view," she said loudly, touching the wall of glass and gesturing toward the field, where the Red Sox players were taking batting practice and shagging fly balls.

  "I like watching warm-ups more than games," Jacobson said. "I socialize here before the games, but I watch the actual games by myself, on a small TV, in the bowels of whatever stadium we're in. The games are too important to me to turn into social occasions."

  Lance touched the man's shoulder and mouthed words to him. "Can you turn this down a little?"

  "Oh, the music." Jacobson stepped over to the stereo and the music quieted. "Just trying to get into playoff mode. I don't know why I love this song so much. I associate it with the 1970 Orioles. Those bastards. That was a down time for us."

  "Were you an owner then?" Lance asked.

  "No, but with me and the Yankees, it was always us."

  "No offense, Mr. Jacobson, but isn't it a little odd for a rich old white guy like you to be grooving to a James Brown song about black folks raising themselves up from nothing?"

  Jacobson smiled, plucked out another ear hair, and put it in his pocket. "No offense taken, Mr. Brickman. I know this song wasn't made for me. But it speaks to me. My dad sold oysters on the streets of lower Manhattan for nineteen years, back when oysters were what hot dogs are now. Wouldn't compare it to what black people in this country went through for a second, but we did well for ourselves." He waved toward the field. "And now look."

  A saxophone solo came on, and Jacobson started gesticulating along with it, doing his best impersonation of James Brown.

  Greta glanced at Lance, who seemed annoyed. "But why do you watch on a little TV?" she asked.

  "When we beat Brooklyn in the forty-nine series, I was ten years old, and I watched that game by myself on a seven-inch black and white. I wasn't part of the team, but I felt like I was. I'd always watched with my dad, but he went off on a post-war peacekeeping mission in Germany that year, so I watched alone while my mom worked. Anyway, we won in forty-nine, and I know Lance knows what happened next."

  Lance offered a forced smile. "I wasn't alive then."

  Jacobson patted him on the back. "But you know."

  "Yanks won four after that one. Five in a row total. Best run in history."

  "Yes, it was," Jacobson nodded. He pointed at the field. "And we're about to start another."

  "Don't tell me you still use the same TV," Lance said.

  Jacobson was smiling to himself, shuffling on the carpet, feet splayed out and shoulders grooving. "No, but I use a small one."

  The solo ended and a new verse started. Jacobson looked at his watch and locked eyes with Lance. "But tell me what this is about. I hear you've been speaking with Cox."

  "I'll get right to it," Lance said. "Do you know Kenny White?"

  "Sure," Jacobson said. "He's worked for me on and off for years."

  "Were you and he at a Democratic fundraiser about a week ago?"

  "Indeed we were."

  Lance stepped toward Jacobson and waited until he stopped dancing. "Darryl told us that, at that fundraiser, Kenny White told him that you could have bought the presidential election for five million dollars."

  The song was fading out and Jacobson walked to the stereo.

  "Do you have any electronica?" Greta called after him.

  Lance gently kicked her shoe.

  The sounds of tinny acoustic guitar filled the room, along with Bob Dylan's scratchy voice.

  "I don't know what electronica is," Jacobson said to Greta, "but I assume you know the Jester."

  "I like 'Rainy Day Woman'," she said. "What's this one?"

  "'Only a Pawn in Their Game'. Not one of his best-known songs."

  "Mr. Jacobson," Lance said. "Is it true what Kenny told Darryl?"

  "Kenny is a drunk."

  "Maybe, but he said it."

  Jacobson gazed out over the field. "No, it's not true. I don't know why he would have said that."

  "My grandma had a favorite saying," Lance said, "and I think it's relevant. I used to come home late from the park. After the football games, when the other guys were in the weight room, I used to drink forties by the bleachers, smoke little cigarillos. I thought I was the man. I'd get home and tell grandma I'd stayed late to work out and she'd say, 'Pook, don't spit in my face and tell me it's rainin'.'"

  "What Lance is saying," Greta added, "is that we know you're lying."

  "You two really want to stand in my luxury box and call me a liar?"

  "Mr. Jacobson," Greta smiled. "I'm all-in on lying in many cases. But in this case, you're going to tell us the truth."

  "For two reasons," Lance chimed in. "First, because it's the right thing to do. Our friend is missing, and there's a chance it's connected to Kenny White and the election, to a hacker named . . . I don't remember. An Indian hacker."

  Greta saw Jacobson's jaw tighten at the mention of the hacker, and she assumed he was trying to steel his face against a reaction.

  "And second," Lance continued, "because I can leak the story about Darryl's steroids, and you covering it up, to the right people, and make it front page n
ews."

  Jacobson's shoulders slumped as he addressed Lance. "That would hurt Darryl more than it would hurt me."

  Lance shrugged. "It would hurt you both."

  "So, you're blackmailing me into telling you about the hacker?"

  "So, you do know him," Greta said.

  Jacobson began to walk a small circle around the room. "You know what this song is about?"

  "Medgar Evers," Lance said. "I watched Dylan sing it on TV before Dr. King's speech at the March on Washington. Civil Rights."

  "But not just civil rights. It's about how the media and politicians create bad guys. Blacks, poor whites. Now it's immigrants, terrorists. It's about how they are all pawns in a much larger game."

  "And what's the larger game here?" Lance asked.

  "The election. It's a sideshow. A carnival. First and foremost, it's an entertaining TV show."

  "There are real things at stake," Greta said.

  "And don't try to change the subject," Lance said. "Is it true you could have bought it for five million dollars?"

  Jacobson took several steps toward Lance and placed a hand on his shoulder. "The Cox story?"

  "I'll drop it."

  Jacobson smiled. "And what I'm about to tell you?"

  "One-hundred-percent off the record," Lance said. "We don't source any of this to you, if we end up running anything on it. For now, we're just trying to help our friend."

  "It's true. I got Kenny a spot in the Kerry campaign just to keep an eye on things. I gave the guy millions over the last few years, despite the fact that he's a Sox fan." He smiled, but Greta and Lance didn't. "All this sports stuff is nice, but it's just a funhouse mirror, you know. A way for us to look at society in a warped, twisted way."

  "It's a soap opera for guys," Lance agreed.

  "Exactly, and I thought politics was different, like Greta here. These guys are dealing with real things, right? Anyway, I just wanted to have a bit of an inside view of the campaign I was helping to fund. So, Kenny started there about eight months ago, when Kerry was still battling Edwards and the rest of them."

  "The hacker," Lance said. "Please get to the hacker."

  "About a month ago—August, I think—Kenny was with the campaign on a stop in Portland. He got an e-mail from someone saying he had information on President Bush that he guaranteed would sway the election."

  "Who was the e-mail from?"

  "At the time, we didn't know. Kenny said the e-mail address was just a jumble of letters and numbers, and the e-mail itself wasn't signed. So Kenny, the dumbass that he is, wrote back from his official campaign e-mail. Said something like, 'Tell me more.'

  "Long story short, they arranged to meet in Manhattan the following week, in person. Kenny met with the hacker. Two in the morning on a Tuesday, on a bench in Washington Square Park. Kenny met with me the next morning and relayed the message. For five million dollars, this guy, who identified himself as Bhootbhai, said he could give us information on President Bush so embarrassing that, if leaked properly, would win the election for Senator Kerry."

  Greta stared at Lance, whose eyes were locked on Jacobson.

  "There's more," Jacobson said. "He said he had similar information on the senator that he was offering to the Bush campaign. The first team to pay him the five million would get the information on the other guy."

  "So, did you do it?" Greta asked.

  "I thought about it. I really did. I mean, I don't think Kerry would actually be able to end this horrific war—he did vote for it just two years ago—he's just a pawn like 'W' is. But at least he's not a moron."

  "But you didn't do it?" asked Lance.

  "I couldn't."

  "Why not?" Greta asked.

  He plucked out a long, gray ear hair and flicked it toward the window that looked out over the field. "Because of people like you, dear. I couldn't bear the thought that people like you would find out, then you'd know your vote didn't matter. That guys like me decide things."

  "Did you ever find out what specific information Bhootbhai had?" Lance asked. "I mean, both sides would have done a ton of oppo research. What made you think he had anything that wasn't already out there?"

  "He never gave us all of it, but he gave us some crumbs. I believe he has what he says he has. On both candidates."

  "Just out of curiosity, what crumbs did he give you?" Lance asked.

  "I'm not gonna say. It wouldn't be right."

  "Sex stuff?" Greta asked. "Or corruption stuff? It must be weird sex stuff, because corruption isn't enough to bring either guy down."

  "How did he give you the info?" Lance asked.

  "He e-mailed Kenny."

  "And Kenny still has the information?"

  "What there was of it. Like I said, we didn't pay, and he obviously wasn't going to give us all the information for free. But we strung him along long enough to believe him."

  Greta frowned. "Aren't these guys vetted by, like, the FBI, and the parties, or whoever?"

  "I thought so, too," Jacobson said. "But, apparently, Bhootbhai found stuff they didn't. Or maybe it's stuff they found, but no one ever leaked."

  "Can we have it?" Lance asked.

  "Have what?"

  "Whatever Bhootbhai gave to Kenny."

  The song ended and the room went quiet.

  Jacobson reached out and took Greta's hand and patted it, then slapped Lance on the back like they were old friends. "Yeah, you can have it."

  46

  Alex was lying on the floor of the shed, half asleep, when he heard Bice's voice.

  "James is on his way to Seattle."

  He opened his eyes and saw that the door to the shed was open, revealing a dark night. He tried to move his arms, but they were, once again, bound behind his back. The last things he remembered were the dark cloth bag being placed over his head and a needle prick in his arm.

  "I was going to kill you," Bice said. "But now that I found out about Greta . . "

  Greta. Alex tried to sit up, but his muscles weren't responding the way they should.

  "She's lovely," Bice said. "I truly am pleased for you."

  Finally managing to slide his back up along the wall of the shed, Alex met Bice's eyes. His hand ached where Bice had kicked it, his mind was moving slowly, and he wondered what drugs he'd been given. "Know what? How do you know about Greta?"

  "You've been living with her for a year. How would I not know about her?"

  "You've been tracking her as well?"

  "Of course, but I didn't know things had gotten so serious."

  Alex stood slowly, but after a moment he leaned against the shed, unable to keep his balance.

  "Horse tranquilizers," Bice said.

  "What did you mean?"

  "My guy managed to track down stuff that the FBI and the best-paid opposition research on earth couldn't dig up about Bush and Kerry. Do you know how easy it was for him to set up e-mail forwarding from her account? He threw that in for free."

  "You've been reading our e-mails?"

  "Just hers. I respect you too much to invade your privacy."

  "You son of a—"

  "You can be angry later," Bice said, cutting him off. "But, for now, I'm in a quandary. I just don't know what to do with you."

  Light headed, Alex dropped to the ground. "Bhootbhai hacked her e-mail?"

  "He did."

  "Who are you working for?"

  "I don't work for anyone."

  Alex could barely stand to look at him, but he turned his head around slowly to meet Bice's eyes. "I know this whole thing isn't your own plan."

  "Well, I did work for a group of men—and even a couple of women—who are interested in the outcome of the election."

  "And?"

  "We've parted ways. Apparently, they feel I've become a liability. Your story did that."

  "The McGregor story?"

  "How do you think you got it?"

  "We got it from a source at The Times, then we tracked it down ourselves."

 
"But how do you think The Times got it?"

  Alex said nothing. His mind was beginning to clear, and Bice had him curious.

  "More importantly," Bice continued, "why do you think The Times got it?"

  "We knew it led to a bigger story."

  "You got used, Alex. Once The Times got a faint whiff of the McGregor thing, he got tossed under the bus, and me with him. Half of the CIA's job is tracking people, then destroying them when it suits certain interests."

  "We didn't see you as involved. At least at first."

  "Would you like to know who's actually behind all this?"

  "I would."

  "And you will, but tell me first, what should I do with you?"

  "I think you need help," Alex said. "Serious help. Two years ago, you tried to lead me to you. You sabotaged your own merger, got yourself fired. Now, you're doing it again."

  "And now that I have you here, killing you just doesn't seem as though it will satisfy me. It's like with Martha. I thought killing her would make me feel better, but it didn't."

  "And yesterday . . . with the gun?"

  "Yesterday, I had a moment of weakness. For some time, I've thought maybe I am like my father. Maybe I am destined to take my own life. For years, when I've been at my weakest, calling you has been a form of self-harm that makes me feel better. When the guilt is too loud, I send you a clue, I bring you closer to me. And yesterday I thought, maybe this is my destiny. For you to kill me."

  "And now?"

  "Like I said, I released your friend. Just minutes ago. And I'm going to release you as well."

  "You know that we will come after you, we'll find you. We know where—"

  "Where are we?"

  "Bainbridge Island. I can tell from the smell. You didn't even have the sense to take me far away." Alex stared up at him. He wanted to lunge forward and choke Bice to death, but his body wanted to go back to sleep. His voice was weak. "What did you mean when you said you found out something about Greta?"

  "The baby."

  Alex tried to meet his eyes, but Bice was looking past him. "What?"