The Reformers: A Matt Blake Novel (The Matt Blake legal thriller series Book 2)

by Russell Moran

  “Is he okay?”

  “From what the intake nurse told me, he suffered a nasty concussion from a fall and he’s cut up and bruised. She said he couldn’t see anybody, so I called the medical director, a personal friend. They’ll let us in.”

  Matt always told me that when you’re hit with something big and unexpected, just take a deep breath and assess the situation. He learned this in combat. Shit happens, but it’s up to you to make sure it doesn’t get worse. So first I looked at the positives: Matt hadn’t fallen off the wagon and gone drinking. So far so good. But he was apparently kidnapped or mugged and left bleeding on a sidewalk. My Matt, bleeding on a sidewalk. Shit.

  We walked into the emergency room at Stroger Hospital. If there’s one thing you can count on in life, emergency rooms suck. Stroger is a big hospital, the former Cook County Medical Center, and the ER was lined with various beaten and bruised people.

  A security guard walked up to us and said, “He’s in room 301, Woody. Here are your pass cards.” Is there anybody in Chicago who doesn’t know Woody Donovan?

  “Thanks, Pete,” Woody said. We got on the elevator and it seemed to me that the three-floor trip took an hour.

  When the door opened I got that sickening feeling that anybody gets when you’re in a hospital to visit a loved one who was suddenly admitted. Okay, suck it up. This is about Matt, not me.

  “Hi Woody,” said Clara Johnston, the head nurse on duty, and yet another of Woody’s friends. “I’m sorry I was abrupt with you before about visiting hours, but as you know I don’t make policy.”

  “No problem, doll. Where’s our boy?”

  She led us down the hall to room 301 as Woody introduced me to Nurse Clara.

  “I feel like I already know you, professor. My son is in one of your classes at Northwestern and he never shuts up about you.”

  I thanked her for her kind remark, but barely heard what she said. We walked into Matt’s room. He was in the first bed by the door, and the other bed was unoccupied. I noticed that Matt wasn’t hooked up to any telemetry or monitoring devices. I took that as a good sign.

  Matt looked like hell, but just seeing him calmed the freak-out I went through for the past few hours. An ice pack rested on his left forehead, covering his left eye as well. His hospital robe had been pulled aside, showing that his left shoulder was bandaged. He raised both arms, at elbow height, to show us he had mobility. There was no swelling around his lips, so I leaned forward and kissed him. Nurse Clara reached for the ice pack on Matt’s forehead and lifted it. I flinched. His left forehead was swollen like a fist, and his eye was partially shut from swelling. She gently put the ice pack back against his head.

  “He looks worse than he is,” said Nurse Clara. “He has a mild concussion and will develop a wicked black eye in the next couple of days. There’s no shoulder fracture, just soft tissue trauma. We just want to keep him overnight for observation. He has a hell of a lot of sodium pentothal in his body, and that’s why he’s in no pain. When it starts to wear off we’ll give him some Tylenol.”

  “Sodium pentothal? Truth serum?” Woody asked.

  “Yes, but it’s also an excellent pain killer,” Clara said.

  I looked at Matt. “Talk to us, honey, if you can.”

  “Nurse, would you mind if I spend some time with these folks?” said Matt.

  After Clara left, Woody said, “Clara’s a good egg, Matt. You don’t have to worry about her.”

  “But I didn’t want her to hear what I’m about to tell you,” Matt said. “Take out your notepad Woody. I gave a police report, of course, but I’m about to let you in on some important details.”

  I asked Woody for a couple of blank pages so I could take notes too. With a researcher like me and an investigator like Woody, I figured we wouldn’t miss anything.

  “But first I want to ask Dee something,” Matt said. “What did you think happened to me? Did you think I fell, or jumped, off the wagon?”

  “I’ll leave you two alone for a bit,” said Woody.

  “Stay put, Woody,” I said. “Matt and I think of you like family. I want you to hear this. In answer to your question, honey, I speculated about everything, including that. Woody even checked out a few of your old favorite bars. Hey, I hadn’t heard from you in almost nine hours. My mind went where it wanted to go.”

  “So here I am, baby, clean and sober. A bit busted up, but I’m still your good boy.”

  I was so glad that his lips weren’t injured. I leaned over and kissed him again.

  “Okay, so back to my little adventure,” Matt said. “I’ll tell you the things I can remember, of course. I was in Evanston to meet with a client whose case is coming up for trial in a couple of weeks. After I parked my car, I was jumped from behind by at least two men and shoved into the back seat of an SUV. They pulled it off so smoothly, I’m sure nobody would have noticed what happened. One of the men put a hood over my head and said, ‘You’re in for an interesting afternoon, counselor.’ About five minutes later the car stopped and one of the guys grabbed me by the arm and led me to a door. When we got inside he took my hood off.”

  “Were you roughed up at all?” Woody asked.

  “No. If anything, I was treated gently. The cuts and bruises you see on me apparently came from my fall, although I have no recollection of falling.”

  “Go on, Matt,” said Woody.

  “ ‘You have a lot to tell us, counselor,’ said a tall guy sitting behind a desk. ‘Bartholomew and the NFL send greetings.’ Yes, he actually said that—‘Bartholomew and the NFL send greetings.’ That’s the most important detail I can give you. After he said that, two guys came up next to me and removed my jacket. One of them rolled up my sleeve and inserted a needle into my arm. From what the people here tell me, it was sodium pentothal. The rest is just a blur. But here’s what you need to know. Whatever I knew about NFL or Bartholomew, I’m sure I told them. Sodium pentothal is like that. Whatever was in my head is now in their notes.”

  “So you don’t think this was a warning, Matt?” I said.

  “No, Dee, I don’t. They didn’t beat me up, didn’t threaten me, and didn’t do anything that could serve as a warning. They just wanted inside information, and I’m sure I gave them what they were looking for.”

  “Matt,” I said, “you mentioned that they didn’t rough you up or do anything threatening. I’m sorry, but leaving a man on a sidewalk loaded with sodium pentothal isn’t exactly a gentle thing to do, is it? I mean, look at you. You could have walked in front of a bus and gotten killed.”

  “My take on this,” Woody said, “if you don’t mind me interjecting, is that they didn’t give a shit what happened to Matt. They had no reason to kill him, but they also had no reason to keep him alive. They wanted information, and the sodium pentothal gave them what they wanted. So where the hell do we go from here?”

  “From here we go to the FBI, maybe higher,” Matt said. “Dee, please call Rick Bellamy. He’ll take your call. I want to see him.”

  “The head of Homeland Security?” Woody asked.

  “Yes, I think Homeland Security is at stake here.”

  “I’ll call Rick in the morning, hon,” I said. “Time for you to get some sleep. I’ll close the door behind us to block out the noise.”

  I kissed him and stroked the good side of his face.

  “Dee!” Matt screamed as Woody and I walked out the door. We hurried back in.

  “You’re next, babe. Do not go anywhere near our apartment tonight.”

  “What do you mean, honey?” I said.

  “I’m sure I must have told them about the book you’re writing. You have information that they need, or think they need.”

  “He’s right, doll,” Woody said. “We should have thought about this. I’m sure that you’re next on their list.”

  “Who are you calling, Woody?” Matt asked.

  “That guy Jack Logan, the head of FBI Counterterrorism. I have a secure line. He’ll get Diana a secure
location for tonight.”

  ***

  After Woody and I left Matt at the hospital, I was led into a building in the Rogers Park area of Chicago by two armed FBI agents. Oh my God, here I am again. I thought that I was done with the Witness Protection Program three years ago when Matt and I were involved in that Sideswipe Conspiracy. This shit is getting old. At least Matt will be here with me tomorrow when he gets out of the hospital. I wondered how long this was going to last, I thought. Not For Long, I said to myself, hoping that some lame humor would make me feel better.

  Chapter 40

  Bartholomew drove his Toyota Land Cruiser up to a modest house on the outskirts of the Kurdistan Regional Government. In the past few months, Bartholomew spent a great amount of his time in Kurdistan. He liked the Kurdish people, he liked their desire for autonomy, and their non-fanatical version of Islam. He also liked their way of thinking. Like him, most Kurds thought in terms of facts, of the reality around them. They liked to make plans based on data and numbers. That alone endeared them to Bartholomew.

  Massaud Miraudeli, his key contact in Kurdistan, awaited him. Miraudeli was more than a contact. Bartholomew thought of him as a regional manager. The men shook hands and Miraudeli handed him a glass of ice tea.

  “Massaud, please give me your report on our progress,” Bartholomew said.

  “I’m pleased to say, Bartholomew, that we have made some vast strides since you were here a month ago.”

  “Massaud, my friend, you know that words like ‘vast strides’ are absolutely meaningless to me. I did not ask for your opinion, I asked for your report. As you know, that means data. Please give me the numbers that lead you to say that we have made ‘vast strides.’ Better yet, I shall ask the questions and you will be kind enough to provide me with the answers—the facts.”

  “Certainly, Bartholomew.”

  “What is our current force level?”

  “One hundred and twenty-six thousand combat troops and 38,000 support personnel.”

  “Make-up of the forces?”

  “Kurdish, 60 percent; American, 40 percent.”

  “Number of attacks in the past month?”

  “Twenty-five attacks within a radius of 100 miles.”

  “And the result of the attacks, Massaud? Please be specific.”

  “We killed 2,337. We took no prisoners.”

  “What about the most important number, Metric Alpha, the leadership?”

  “Of the 2,337 dead, 173 were leaders, Metric Alpha numbers.”

  “Excellent, my friend, and thank you for being so specific. Our quest depends on data, and that’s what you’ve given me.”

  “Now tell me about our weapons acquisitions.”

  “As you know, sir…”

  “Please don’t call me ‘sir.’ My name is Bartholomew. It’s much more specific.”

  “Yes, Bartholomew. As you know, our inside group at the Pentagon has opened a weapons supply pipeline. To give you the numbers, in the past three months we have acquired 75 Predator drones, 1,568 rocket-propelled grenades, 372 launchers, 5,356 M16 automatic machine guns, and 9,349 pistols of various calibers.”

  “Were the drones used in any of the 25 attacks?”

  “Yes, sir, I mean Bartholomew. Drones were used in every one of them, backed up by infantry and artillery attacks.”

  Bartholomew smiled. Drones are a key to the future, he thought, if not the present.

  Massaud handed Bartholomew a piece of paper with all of the numbers. Bartholomew sat down and put a number in front of each line of data.

  “Massaud, I want a monthly email report. Do not write the categories, but simply list the data after each number I have written. Make sure it’s done on an Excel spreadsheet so I can study and compare numbers.”

  “It will be prepared for you this afternoon, Bartholomew.”

  “Now, Massaud, I want to inspect the training facility.”

  The two men climbed into a Jeep and Massaud drove them four miles to a chain link fence, which was interwoven with green plastic strips, obscuring the site from view. Guards, armed with M16 machine guns, stood every 100 feet along the fence.

  When they entered the training facility, Bartholomew smiled. The site reminded him of the Navy special forces training facility in San Diego, where he qualified as a SEAL after he graduated from Annapolis. The similarity was no accident, because Bartholomew himself had designed the training camp. The one thing that bothered him was the lack of uniforms. He would prefer the efficiency of American combat uniforms, outfits that are designed for trouble and do their best to make the man wearing it safe. But he realized that in Middle Eastern combat, it’s important to “blend in” with the enemy. So flowing robes would have to do—as long as they wear Kevlar body armor underneath the robes.

  The two men walked up to an area where a few dozen men trained on launching rocket propelled grenades (RPGs). The range safety officer walked over to them.

  “Good morning, Bartholomew. Good morning, Massaud,” Robert said.

  “Hello, Robert,” said Bartholomew. “Please give me the results of your session this morning. Just the data, if you will.”

  “We’re simulating attacks on small targets, such as the size of that shed over there. To conserve ammunition, we’re using small explosives to tell us if we scored a hit. The result today so far is 85 percent of the targets were taken out, an 11 percent improvement over last month.”

  “Are you pleased with 85 percent, Robert?”

  “No, Bartholomew, I’m not, but with the huge increase in weapons we just received I’ll be able to schedule more practice.”

  “Gentlemen,” Bartholomew said, “I have other matters I must attend to. I’m pleased with the data you’ve given me. I’m also pleased, Robert, that you have a specific plan to increase training sessions on the RPGs. Well done, gentlemen. NFL is proud of you.”

  ***

  “This is Shepard Smith of Fox News, ladies and gentlemen. I have some shocking news this afternoon, and so far nobody has been able to figure it out. We’ve heard from a reliable Pentagon source, that there has been a huge theft of American weapons, including Predator drones, rocket propelled grenades, and a large variety of guns of all sizes and calibers. These weapons disappeared from various Marine and Army bases around the country. How this can happen to the most powerful military force on earth is confounding. I have with us retired three star General Frank Pantaneri, a man once in charge of weapons for the United States Army. Good morning General.”

  “Good afternoon, Shepard.”

  “Are you able to give us any explanation at all for a weapons heist of such huge proportions?”

  “Please keep in mind that I’m retired, Shepard, but from what I’ve learned there can only be one reason for this theft. It was an inside job. Someone, or rather some group, has been able to infiltrate and take these weapons out from under the noses of the American military.”

  “Are you concerned, sir that the weapons may have fallen into the wrong hands?” Smith was irked that his producer put those words into his earpiece. What a stupid question, thought Smith.

  “Well Shepard, the very act of stealing the weapons tells me that they are in the wrong hands.”

  “Thank you, General. We’ll be following this news closely, ladies and gentlemen, and we’ll be updating it throughout the day—and probably in the weeks to come.”

  Chapter 41

  I cannot fucking believe that Dee and I are once again living in a secret undisclosed location. It’s been a week since my kidnapping and fall, and I’m almost feeling 100 percent, except for some occasional dizziness from my concussion. It feels great to be back to work, even though I have to wear a disguise to get there. Every morning Dee applies some foundation makeup under my eye so that I don’t look like a boxer who lost a fight.

  I think I mentioned how I love to bring good news to people. The feeling of excitement you get from the feedback is one of the payoffs in my sometimes stressful occupation. Today
I had some wonderful news to deliver.

  I asked my assistant Barbara to patch in a conference call with Georgina Rice, Jerry Blackwell, and me.

  “Hi Georgi, hi Jerry” I yelled into the speaker. I spent a few minutes answering their questions about my fall, except, of course the details about my kidnapping. Jack Logan from the FBI asked me to keep it quiet.

  “If you guys aren’t sitting, please do so now. And don’t sip any hot liquids until I’m done. I’m calling about the matter of Ali Yamani, Mustafa Almeth, Muhammed Sidduq, and Fatah Alumina vs. Gamal Karam. Do you guys have time to listen?”

  “Keep talking, wise guy,” said Jerry. “I just spilled coffee all over myself. Did you get a settlement offer?”

  “Yes, I did. Rather than torture you guys with suspense, here it is. Karam has offered $31,000,000. One million is for our nurse friend, Bootsie, and the other $30 million is split between our three guys, $10 million each. After we each take out attorney’s fees of $3.3 million, each of our guys receives $6.7 million. And because the damages are compensatory, our clients don’t have to pay taxes on the settlement. We do, of course.”

  I let the words seep in. I heard no sound over the pho for a half a minute.

  “Holy shit,” Georgi Rice said softly. “Matt, you’re the greatest trial lawyer in the country.”

  “Correction,” Jerry yelled, “you’re the best in the fucking world.”

  I’d be an emotional eunuch if I said I wasn’t touched by such kind words from people I really liked. I told you that it’s fun to deliver good news.

  “My hunch proved correct that Mr. Karam wanted to avoid a trial. This guy and his lawyers wanted to get rid of this case badly. Naturally we’re all going to sign confidentiality agreements, promising not to tell anyone, especially the press, about the settlement. We all have to confer with our clients. I propose we meet tomorrow at the WPP house in Tenafly, New Jersey. I’ll talk to Bootsie, myself. She’s still in protective custody.”