The Eighteenth Green

by Webb Hubbell

  “Under your rules, I could report the substance of this meeting in tomorrow’s Post, blow your strategy wide open.”

  “You could, but you won’t,” I said.

  “And why is that?”

  I was ready to end the cat and mouse routine.

  “Because you did speak with Rachel, more than once, before her death. When I’m able to verify this, I will use the facts to make you look like—you used the word—a ‘shill,’ for the government.

  “Ken, this story could win you the Pulitzer, but I can’t help you if you believe Rachel was a spy. I won’t ask what she told you; I’m content to read about it in the Post someday. But I won’t travel the road with you unless you work with me. Did you meet with Rachel?”

  Ken was on the spot. He couldn’t very well call his editor, he had to act on his instincts. He sat quietly for a few minutes; neither Micki nor I filled the silence.

  “Off the record?” he asked.

  “We will never use what you tell us without your permission.”

  “Rachel wasn’t a spy any more than you are, and I have sincere doubts about her suicide. Rachel contacted me over six months ago. She was very cautious, obviously concerned about confidentiality. She talked in hypotheticals. What if this and could this—asking about defense contractors, arms dealers, and government programs that had failed. She was as smart as a whip, obviously knew a lot already, and gave me almost nothing. I was hesitant to say much, so it was a slow dance. We had just begun to establish a degree of trust when the government took her into custody.”

  “Any specific contractor or program?” I asked.

  “No, I tried to probe, but she would have none of it.”

  Micki asked, “Did she give you any idea what she had uncovered?”

  “She was very careful. My impression was that she had unearthed evidence of a government contractor defrauding the government, and she was sure that her superiors either didn’t want to know or were party to it. But that’s only an assumption. I can’t begin to tell you how careful she was. Our meetings were random, and she always chose where and when.”

  Micki asked, “Why you? No offense.”

  He blushed. “Good question. I was working on the international desk when her husband died. I wrote an article about him that she liked. At least that’s the reason she gave me.”

  “One of our sources refers to Ira Goodman as ‘a shining light.’”

  “That’s not the half of it. I’ll send you what I wrote, not what the Post published. I’m not exaggerating when I say that if Ira Goodman had lived, the situation in Palestine would be much different today.”

  “Okay, so now that we’ve got the lay of the land, how do we move forward? Can we expect you at Micki’s press conference tomorrow? It would be helpful if you brought a few friends.” I smiled, ready to cement the partnership.

  “I wouldn’t miss her press conference for the world, and I promise you that when other reporters hear I’m going, they’ll be there. We’re like a children’s soccer game. We congregate wherever the ball is. What can you can give me today?” he asked.

  “Off the record?”

  “You can be sure my senior editor is the only other person who will know.”

  “Rachel received a widow’s pension and life insurance payment from Israel after her husband’s death. When our government discovered the money wasn’t payment for secrets, they asked Israel to keep that information quiet.” I repeated what we had learned from Rabbi Strauss.

  “Holy shit! Can you verify that?” I finally had his attention.

  “Our source is impeccable, and when we find her bank records we’ll be able prove it,” I answered.

  “A Pentagon source told me she was receiving large sums from Israel in exchange for intelligence. If he was deceiving me, the game has changed.” His voice took on an angry tone. “When my editor hears this, he’ll be all over this story.”

  “As I said, my source is excellent, but we haven’t found the records yet. I’ll get the information to you as soon as I can. At the right time, you’ll be able to publish the government’s lies in bold print.”

  He was excited, but I had to make sure he understood the danger.

  “Ken, we both need to be careful. Either Micki or I will text you with the time and place when we need to meet. You’re not to share that information with anyone. And you should have your phone checked out by an expert. At Micki’s press conference, you are free to ask her whatever you want. Just don’t put her in a spot based on information we’ve fed you.”

  “Deal,” he said.

  “I hope the paper provides you protection,” I said.

  He raised his eyebrows. “No one goes after a member of the press.”

  I looked at him for a long time before speaking. “Ira and Rachel Goodman are dead, my good friend and bodyguard was almost burned alive, and I have been followed every day since I took Rachel’s case. Don’t underestimate the people involved. The minute they find out you’ve been talking with me, you will be at risk.”

  I hoped I had disabused him of the notion that reporters in the United States are immune from danger.

  This time we both rose, and he walked out the door in silence, looking a little less cocky than when he had arrived.

  “You scared the shit out of him,” Micki said, with a rueful laugh.

  “I meant to,” I answered. “We are counting on the legitimacy of the press to further our theory. Our opponents are no dummies. They will realize the same thing.”

  Micki nodded and asked, “Are you okay? Maggie says this case feels different, that you’re worried we’ll all be in danger again. I haven’t been involved enough yet to know.”

  “I’m okay, but she’s darn right I’m worried. I haven’t been able to sleep for the last couple of nights. Don’t you feel it?”

  “No. Larry and I have sex, and I sleep like a baby.” She laughed and poked me in the ribs. “Come on, let’s go to Rachel’s apartment. Who knows? We might find the very clue that breaks open this whole case.”

  “Do I have to hear about Larry and you in bed?” I poked back, remembering how well I had slept at Pawleys.

  60

  BRIAN AND MIKE were waiting for us when we arrived at Rachel’s building. Her apartment was in one of those cool mid-century buildings where you walked either up or down a floor from a small landing to a large space with two-story ceilings and a killer view. Her bedroom and bath were off the main room, as were the kitchen and dining area.

  The furnishings were spare and contemporary, a style totally different from her parents’. Good for her. A small study contained shelves crammed with books and a desk that had once hosted a computer. Brian and Big Mike had conducted an inventory and a thorough search of the books.

  Micki volunteered, “I’ll go through her drawers and clothes closet. My mother’s biggest fear was that after she died, a stranger would go through her underwear drawer. She made me promise I’d get there first and throw it all away.”

  “Thanks, Micki. But before you get started let me just walk around the apartment for a few minutes.”

  “Go ahead, I’ll read a magazine,” she said with a smirk, sinking into an oversized sofa.

  I wandered through each room, opened every closet, trying to imagine Rachel’s life here, trying to get the sense of the woman herself. The study was full of scholarly works; a few appeared to be in Hebrew. I found a library copy of the latest Louise Penny mystery on her bedside table. I flipped through it, recognizing the familiar characters, and made a mental note to get a list of the books she had checked out from the library over the last couple of years.

  I opened the fridge and realized it hadn’t been cleaned since the day of her arrest. I found a trash bag under the sink and began tossing spoiled food, just about everything except the condiments.

  I opened the freezer and called out to Brian and Mike. “Hey, you guys want a bowl of ice cream? She’s got a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey.”
/>   Brian and Mike came running into the kitchen.

  “It’s been here quite a while—are you that hungry?”

  Brian put on plastic gloves and said, “It’s not that I’m hungry. I can’t believe I overlooked the freezer when we did the inventory.”

  “What are you talking about? There’s not much in here—Bagel Bites, frozen veggie burgers, and a pint of ice cream.”

  Brian took the ice cream from me, worked the frozen container open, and put the contents in a plastic storage bag which he placed in a large bowl. He put the bowl in the sink and ran hot water over the plastic bag.

  “What are you doing? Why ruin the ice cream?” I asked, bewildered by his actions.

  Hearing the commotion Micki rushed into the kitchen.

  “I love Chunky Monkey—what are you doing?” Micki cried.

  “Softening it up,” Brian stated the obvious.

  “It will melt faster if you put it in the microwave,” I offered.

  Brian laughed, “A Captain I knew did just that. He fried the zip drive.”

  “What on earth? What zip drive?” I stopped, suddenly getting the picture.

  Brian opened the bag, dug a spoon into the ice cream, and pulled out a zip drive wrapped in plastic wrap that had been hidden in the middle of a pint of now melting Chunky Monkey.

  “This zip drive. If I had put the ice cream in the microwave, we might have lost every bit of its data.” He held up the small device with a grin. “What should I do with it?”

  I didn’t want to admit it, but I was stunned.

  “Make sure it’s secure and Micki and I will get it to Stella right away. I don’t think we need to turn it over to the government yet. Now tell me what made you look in the ice cream.”

  Brian answered, “Israeli intelligence has been known to hide valuable items in frozen foods. I bet Rachel chose Chunky Monkey because of the attention it might draw. She hoped Israeli intelligence would search her apartment if something were to happen to her.”

  “Smart girl. No telling what’s on it,” I said.

  Micki looked concerned. “I don’t like this. If we discover Rachel put military secrets on that drive, shouldn’t we turn it over to the government sooner rather than later?”

  “I understand your concern, Micki. But you’re assuming that Rachel put that zip drive in the ice cream. What if Israeli intelligence put the ice cream in her freezer? What if the FBI planted it? That’s happened to us before,” I reminded her.

  Brian intervened, “I doubt it was the FBI. The different intelligence agencies don’t share information. And I can’t imagine the Israelis sharing their techniques with anyone. I only learned about it by accident.”

  “Well, if Rachel kept her father’s recipe for barbeque sauce in her ice cream, we’re going to have a good laugh. Let’s get this zip drive to Stella before the ball game starts.” I was suddenly anxious to leave.

  Micki and I found Lisa waiting outside and were soon on our way back to Maryland. We had just exited the Beltway onto Highway 50, when Mike called. “You have company. They probably trailed you from the office to Rachel’s. Let me speak to Lisa. We’ve got your back, but I want her to lose him before we get to the compound.”

  “Okay, but tell Martin to keep an eye on Rachel’s apartment tonight.”

  “Done. We’ll be ready.”

  Micki squeezed my hand and said, “I hope you know what we’re doing.”

  “And I hope you don’t get carsick,” I whispered in return.

  61

  THANKFULLY, Lisa lost our tail after a few easy turns—for whatever reason, he’d clearly lost interest. It was a relief to turn into the long drive of Maggie’s new home. I found Stella at her computer tweaking the electronic security system. I tossed her the zip drive, remarking that Brian had found it in a pint of ice cream. She laughed and turned the still sticky plastic over a few times before responding.

  “Jack, I know you are excited, but this zip drive may contain a virus or worse. It will take at least an hour to check it out before I can tell you what’s on it.”

  That was okay with me. I’d remembered what had been nagging at me earlier. I pulled out my laptop and composed an email to Joan Laing with a copy to Peggy Fortson. It read:

  Joan, please check out the van that took us to the military base. You may find a tracking device attached to its underside. If it’s still there, can you let me know the manufacturer? Jack P.

  Maggie came up behind me. “Are you sure that’s wise?” she asked.

  “Elvis has left the building,” I replied with cocky, uplifted arms. I followed with a full report on our day: Strauss, Chandler, and finding the zip drive.

  “Zip drives in the ice cream,” she laughed. “You sure it wasn’t in a box of Cracker Jacks? When do you think Stella will finish?”

  Micki and Larry walked in just ahead of Stella. We turned in unison, waiting for her to speak.

  “The good news is the drive doesn’t contain a virus,” she said.

  I couldn’t contain myself, “Great, but what’s the bad news. Don’t tell me there’s nothing on it.”

  “Calm down—there’s plenty of data on it, but it’s encrypted. If I had access to the NSA’s computer, I could break her code in a few minutes, but since that’s not an option, it will take a good while. I assume the government won’t give us her computer, so I’ll have to go after it the old-fashioned way. My guess is it will take me at least twenty-four hours.”

  We were all disappointed; the delay was a real downer. I tried to recover. “Stella’s report is a hidden gift. Until we find out what’s on the drive, we don’t have to give it to the government. We can go forward with our plans without distraction. If we had to turn over the drive now, and if it contained military secrets, the game would be over in short order.”

  There was one other bit of good news. Brian had helped fix the holes in the security system. That also meant no caterer, so Maggie and Martin had decided to bring in a cook to join our team. I wondered where she would put him, but she didn’t seem worried, so I let it go. Martin told me that Larry had suggested moving several electronic outposts. Now the outposts were almost invisible.

  I was startled by the sound of my phone chirping, but not by the number I saw calling. “Peggy, I bet you aren’t calling for brunch. It’s dinner time.”

  “The possibility of us ever having brunch again is getting more remote by the day. What in the hell did your email mean?” Peggy Fortson was not in a good mood.

  “No more than it stated. I asked Joan to check the van that drove us to the military base for a tracking device.”

  “What does it matter? Rachel committed suicide, case closed.”

  Should I let the cat out of the bag? I’d been doing so all day. Besides, I would need Peggy’s support before long.

  “You’re right—there is no criminal case, but the government’s seizure of her assets is still pending. We will file our objections to the asset forfeiture tomorrow morning.”

  “I told the Attorney General you wouldn’t quit. You want to know what he said?” she asked.

  “I’m all ears.”

  “He said, ‘good.’ Now how in the hell am I supposed to know what that means? Your email will have to go to the intelligence working group of which I’m not a part.”

  “That’s okay. I copied you as a matter of courtesy. I was simply asking Joan to check out the van.”

  “Sure you were.” Her voice rose unpleasantly. “Well, here’s some more news for you. Joan is no longer involved in this case. The entire matter has been sent to intelligence to try to prevent this sort of theft from happening again.”

  “You mean there will be no further investigation into her death, no determination of her guilt?” I already knew the answer.

  “Correct. Her death was a suicide, and the investigation into the alleged espionage is being handled by the affected agencies.” I detected a note of melancholy in Peggy’s voice.

  “Peggy, do yourself
and the AG a favor—check out the van. I’m convinced a tracking device was placed underneath the van before we left Alexandria for the military base.”

  “Let it go, Jack. There is no forum where you can litigate her guilt or innocence. Nor is there any way you can convince the military to investigate Rachel’s death.”

  “You’re wrong Peggy. Tomorrow we file objections to the seizure. If the government wants her assets, they must prove her guilt, and I will fight them with everything I’ve got.”

  “Jack, calm down. I’m sure the U.S. Attorney’s office will propose a reasonable settlement. Don’t blow this out of proportion, okay?”

  I took a deep breath. She had always been a good friend; it wasn’t fair for me to take out my frustrations on her.

  “Peggy, I apologize, but I’m emotional about Rachel’s death. I fear my interview led her killers right to her, and my willingness to defend her necessitated her murder. I’m willing to bet that if you speak with Joan, she feels the same way. She was with me for that interview. If you remember, neither the recordings nor the agent’s notes have been found. Or if they have, no one’s told me. I know she will confirm that Rachel wasn’t depressed.”

  Peggy took a second before answering, “Jack, you haven’t asked, but my advice is don’t let any misguided guilt over Rachel’s suicide consume you. You didn’t cause it, and you couldn’t have prevented it. Settle the forfeiture case and go back to practicing antitrust law. You are out of your element.”

  She was giving me good advice, but I’d already gone too far.

  “Maybe so, and thanks for the advice. But, Peggy, do us all a favor—check the underside of that van before someone beats you to it. Here’s another thing you are free to convey to the intelligence community.”

  “What now, Jack?” she sighed in frustration.

  “I’m not settling, no how and no way. They either fold their tents and go home, or we go to trial.”

  MONDAY

  62

  THAT EVENING, while Stella worked to decode the encrypted files, the rest of us had watched the Carolina Panthers destroy the Redskins. Luke Kuechly was a beast on defense with fourteen solo tackles, two sacks, and one interception. This morning we would file our objections to the seizure, and Micki would hold a press conference. We had agreed that Micki should take the lead in the civil litigation, mainly because I had been one of the last persons to see Rachel alive. Her state of mind could become an issue, and if the government responded the way we expected, I could be called as a witness.