Midas

by Russell Andrews

  “Yeah. I know what you mean.”

  “So it’s usually not too hard to find someone who’s pissed off. Who’ll do you a little favor in exchange for somethin’ he wants. And you’d be surprised how what people want is usually money.”

  “But Gitmo?”

  “Hey, it’s prison guards, right? If there’s one thing, I know, it’s prison guards. Don’t matter who they work for, it’s still a shitty job and they all could use a favor. So it’s just a matter of findin’ out what they want. After Shirley came to me, way before you were there, it took me a couple of months but I found somebody. In fact, I found two somebodies. So she had a pipeline, could get word to her clients, get some information down there, get some back. Shirley’s the one suspected that’s where they took you. After that, it wasn’t so hard. I already had the connection. I called your father, told him what I knew—”

  “You and my father?” When Bruno nodded, Justin said, “I have to say, I’d like to have heard those conversations.”

  “He’d already spoken to your girlfriend and he was pretty sharp. He’s a businessman, you know what I mean? He knows how to cut to the bottom of things. I enjoyed dealin’ with him.”

  “I’ll be sure to tell him.”

  “Well, you should thank him, too, ’cause once he decided I was givin’ him the legit story, he called your lady pal up in Boston and they put some serious pressure on.”

  “Yeah, Wanda, I know. What kind of pressure?”

  “Don’t know exactly. A congressman, a senator, between the two of them they got some access. All I know is, your Feebie friend called me and said things were lookin’ good.”

  “Jesus. Now Wanda’s calling you?”

  “Makes you believe in the Big Guy upstairs, don’t it?”

  Justin rubbed his fingers across his dry lips. “Wanda said things were looking good? What did that mean?”

  “I was hopin’ it meant she had the connections to, you know, monitor the situation. And give you some protection. Which is what happened. She’s got some juice, that girl.”

  “I guess she does.”

  “You owe her, buddy.”

  “Yeah. And I guess she’ll be making me pay her back for quite a while.”

  “So, anyway, once someone with juice knew what the story was, I knew they couldn’t do nothin’ too bad to you, and I figured that knowledge might come in handy while you were incarcerated.”

  “It did.”

  “Good. That pleases me.” Bruno was finished with his second beer by then. He seemed to suck the liquid out of the bottle in one big gulp. “So is this just a pleasant sit-around and thank-you kind of a thing, or you got somethin’ else to discuss with me?”

  “I have something else to discuss with you.”

  “So let’s hear it.”

  Justin nodded. Held up his hand to say it would just be a moment, went to the phone, and dialed the Riverhead police station. When he was put through to his contact, he said, “I’m calling for Wanda Chinkle again. How are those prints coming?”

  “You fuckin’ guys,” the officer on the other end of the phone said. “You sent me a bunch of jacks to get prints off of? You know how fuckin’ hard it is to get prints off jacks?”

  “Do you have anything?”

  “We’re workin’ on it. Maybe some partials. But we don’t have a match yet, if that’s what you’re askin’.”

  “How about the other thing?”

  “The paper cup? Yeah, we got that. I was just gonna fax the info to you but you called when I was getting up.”

  “If you can fax it now, I’d really appreciate it.”

  “No problem.”

  “And how about the jacks?”

  “Hey, I know with you Feds everything’s a fuckin’ emergency. I said we’re workin’ on it. If I get somethin’ soon, I’ll let you know.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Go stand by your fax machine. I’ll send the stuff in a minute.”

  Justin hung up, told Bruno to wait one more minute. It took less than that for his fax machine to start humming. A piece of paper came through. Justin stared at the information on it, then handed it to Bruno.

  “I’d like to hire you to use your particular skill sets,” he said to the big man. “Normally, I’d do this myself, but I don’t think I have the strength.”

  “‘Lieutenant Colonel Warren Grimble,’” Bruno said, reading from the faxed piece of paper. “‘Military Intelligence.’”

  “I need some information from him,” Justin said.

  “Uh-huh. You meet this guy while you were vacationin’ down south just now?”

  “That’s where I met him.”

  “What do you need to know?”

  “In early November, a day or two before the bombing at Harper’s Restaurant, an Air Force captain, Hutchinson Cooke, flew someone out of Guantanamo Bay, and flew him to the East End airport. I’m pretty sure that person was a prisoner there. I want to know who it was.”

  “Okay.” Bruno scanned the faxed piece of paper. “This Grimble’s home address?”

  “And his military base in Louisiana.”

  “I don’t suppose you got anything to show me what he looks like?”

  “As a matter of fact,” Justin said, and went to his desk and got Bruno the sketch that Darla had drawn. “It’s an exact likeness,” he said. “As good as a photograph.”

  “So, Jay, I’m more than happy to be a nice guy sometimes, but I’m still a businessman and usually I’m compensated for this kind of work.”

  “Name the price.”

  “I like dealin’ with you Westwoods,” Bruno said. “There’s no bullshit.”

  He told Justin the price and Justin didn’t hesitate. He just nodded and said, “Done.”

  “I got a couple of questions for you,” Bruno said. “Bein’ the thorough professional that I am.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “You want this guy . . . Grimble . . . to know the . . . how shall I put it . . . the subtext of our conversation? I been hangin’ around the screenwriter of the movie. I like that word, ‘subtext.’”

  “Do you mean, do I want him to know that the question’s coming from me?”

  “That’s what I mean.”

  “Absolutely,” Justin said. “That’s a prerequisite of the job.”

  “Then I need to know one more thing.”

  “Okay.”

  “When I get the answer to your question, do you want this Grimble to be able to discuss this situation with anyone else?”

  Justin hesitated for only a moment before saying, “It’s why I’m hiring an expert. I want you to do whatever you think is best.”

  The big man rose off the couch now. It took him a couple of attempts to get his full bulk back on his feet. And when he was up, Justin was startled to see as large and as dangerous a man as Bruno Pecozzi wink. “Like I said, no bullshit when you’re dealin’ with the Westwoods.” Bruno stuck out his hand. “I’d love to stay and chat, but I got work to do.”

  Justin took the big man’s hand. Felt the callused skin of Bruno’s palm as they shook.

  As soon as Bruno was gone, Justin went upstairs to his bathroom, covered the lower half of his face in thick coils of shaving cream, and pulled out his razor. It took him about five minutes to shave his beard and leave his face completely smooth.

  He rubbed his chin and then both cheeks and he looked in the mirror at his reflection.

  The beard was gone, Justin thought to himself, but he still didn’t feel clean.

  On the other hand, he realized, he didn’t feel too bad, either.

  33

  Justin picked up the phone on the fourth ring. His caller ID told him who it was. He didn’t want to talk but he knew he had to. The caller was, he believed, going to tell him whether he could finally put an end to all the madness. He was afraid she was going to say that he couldn’t. But there was only one way to find out.

  “Wanda,” he said into the receiver.
/>
  She was a lot calmer than he expected.

  “I’m calling to tell you something, Jay,” Wanda Chinkle said. “We’re not actually as stupid as you might think.”

  “Thanks,” Justin said. “That’s very comforting.”

  “It’s not meant to be. It’s meant to be a warning.”

  “Is this about something in particular?”

  “It’s about several things. For one, Warren Grimble has disappeared.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Lieutenant Colonel Warren Grimble. Military Intelligence. His specialty is prisoner interrogation. He’s spent a lot of time in Iraq. But he’s intermittently stationed at Gitmo.”

  “Huh,” Justin said. “That’s a coincidence.”

  “How’d your fingerprint ID turn out?” Wanda asked.

  “Not very helpful,” he said. “Kind of a wild goose chase, I guess.”

  “Both sets?”

  “What?”

  “You told me you were running one set of prints.”

  “Oh. I just figured I’d sneak in a second set. An old case I’ve been working on.”

  “I’m doing you a favor now,” she said. “So listen to what I’m telling you.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “You can trust me.”

  “I know. You’ve told me.”

  “Well, it’s important that I tell you again. I want you to remember that specifically. If a time comes when you’re not sure, just remember what I said. Please.”

  Justin massaged the area directly over his eyes with his right hand. “Is there some kind of secret message in all this, Wanda? What are you trying to tell me?”

  “I’m trying to tell you the only thing I can tell you. You can trust me and anyone who’s with me. Anyone. Okay?”

  “Sure,” he said. “Sure. Okay.”

  She took a deep breath. “I’ve arranged the meeting we discussed.”

  He exhaled a huge sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

  “Before I give you the details, are you sure you don’t want to tell me what this is about?”

  “You’re much better off not knowing.”

  “Final answer?”

  “Yes, Regis. Final answer.”

  “I’d also like you to remember that you said that.”

  “Okay. I’ll remember that, too.” He knew he was letting his impatience show through. “Now what do I have to do?”

  “He doesn’t want to see you at the Justice Department.”

  “So where?”

  “New York.”

  “The city?”

  “The Waldorf Towers. Suite 1603.”

  “When?”

  “Tonight. Seven o’clock.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Jay . . .”

  “Uh-oh. Sounds like another warning.”

  “Just some advice. And I hope you take it seriously. You won’t be allowed in tonight if you’re armed. But once you leave the hotel, make sure you have a gun on you at all times.”

  “Sounds like pretty sound advice,” Justin said.

  “The best you’re gonna get,” Wanda Chinkle told him.

  “Pretty soon, I won’t even be able to count how much I’m gonna owe you.”

  “You know me, Jay. I’ll hardly ever mention it.” When there was a silence from his end, she said, “You still there?”

  “Still here,” he said. “Sorry. I’m just thinking how well I know you.”

  Justin was sitting in front of his new computer, staring at the screen, at the notes and lists he’d entered since he’d returned to East End Harbor.

  All he could think about was how everything was a game. People played at life and they got cute and, as a result, some other people died who didn’t have to.

  Bruno had returned about an hour earlier, rang the doorbell, and when Justin answered it, Bruno had handed him a piece of paper with a name on it. Justin read the name, said, “Anything you want to tell me about what happened?”

  Bruno shook his head, said, “Anything you want to ask me about what happened?”

  Justin shook his head back. Bruno said, “Next dinner’s on you,” turned and went back to his car.

  Now Justin looked at the name he’d typed into the computer, the name that Bruno Pecozzi had brought back to him from Lieutenant Colonel Warren Grimble. It was the name of the person that Hutchinson Cooke had flown from Guantanamo Bay to the East End airport.

  Mudhi al Rahman.

  He looked down at the piece of paper that had recently been faxed over from the Riverhead Police Department. The note read:

  Next time give us something better than a bunch of fucking jacks. Because we’re so damn good, we got you something anyway. The partials belong to Mudhi al Rahman. Saudi big shot. Good luck. Merry Christmas. And fuck you again about the jacks.

  It was confirmed.

  Mudhi al Rahman was the man who had played jacks with Hannah Cooke.

  He was the man who’d been flown into East End by Hutch Cooke.

  Justin was certain he was the man who’d rigged all three bombs and the man who’d made the cell phone calls to set them off.

  As soon as he’d gotten the confirmation, he’d gone on the Net, to Google, and typed in “Saudi royal family.” He was sent to a page that said there were 312,000 entries. The first one on the list—“Explore Saudi Family Trees”—looked like it would do just fine, and he was right. It didn’t take him long to scour the unfamiliar-sounding names until he came to Mishari al Rahman, Dandridge’s friend and business partner. He clicked on that. The names of dozens of brothers and sisters and even more children appeared. The tree listed one of Mishari’s sons as Mudhi al Rahman.

  Part of the game.

  Terry Cooke had known all along.

  He remembered the notes he’d typed into the computer after he’d come back from D.C. He’d asked Terry why her husband had flown into East End.

  I don’t know, she’d said. I guess bad guys have to live somewhere, don’t they?

  He’d asked again.

  Things are just so muddy, she had said to him. That’s what Hutch would have told you. Things are muddy.

  Hutch Cooke had said, I fell down the tower, to let her know he was in Paris.

  She had played the same game.

  Everything’s muddy.

  Muddy. Mudhi.

  Everything was muddy, all right.

  Mudhi al Rahman.

  Why East End? he’d asked Terry Cooke.

  I guess even bad guys have to live somewhere, don’t they? That’s what she’d said.

  Some fucking game.

  Justin picked up the phone, called information, then dialed the number of the top local Realtor. She had an office on Main Street as well as one in Bridgehampton.

  As the phone rang, he remembered when he’d first moved to East End Harbor, seven years ago. He’d had a day off and it was a beautiful morning in July. He’d gone to Gibson Beach in Sagaponack. Lay down on a blanket, maybe twenty feet from a group of mothers and their small children. The beach was crowded but he’d carved out a nice little space for himself, quiet. He’d soaked in the sun, eyes closed, left alone with his thoughts, for a good hour, and then he felt a shadow cross his chest. He opened one eye and squinted up. A man was carrying a folding beach chair, setting it down in the sand just a few feet from Justin. The man smiled at him and Justin smiled politely back. Justin closed his eyes again, drifted back to his thoughts, and that’s when he realized that the man sitting next to him was Salman Rushdie. There was a million-dollar fatwa out against him; the entire Muslim fundamentalist world had sworn to find and kill him. And here he was sunning himself on one of the choicest, most crowded beaches in the world. Rushdie stayed about two hours, nodded and smiled at Justin again when he picked up his beach chair and left. Justin followed him with his eyes until the fugitive writer disappeared into the tarred parking area. He remembered shaking his head in amazement.

  Just as he was shaking it now.

 
If a man on the run from the fundamentalist world could hide in plain sight in the Hamptons, why not the most feared terrorist in the country?

  Someone answered the phone on the other end: “East Ender Realty.”

  “Rose?”

  “You got her. Who’s calling?”

  “It’s Justin Westwood, Rose.”

  “Funny, I was just talking about you. Do you remember my friend Lisa? She was asking about you. I think she’s a little bit interested in you, if you know what I mean. I told her I hadn’t seen you around. I even asked Leona, I bumped into her on the street, and she said you’d been out of town. Some kind of family emergency . . .”

  “I need some information, Rose. This is official business and I’d appreciate it if you’d keep it quiet.”

  “Uh-huh . . . sure . . . I didn’t realize . . . I mean . . .”

  “I have a name and I need to find out if he owns or rents a house in the Hamptons. Can you find someone if I give you a name?”

  “That’s a big can-do. Give me fifteen minutes, I can find anyone you want, tell you how much square footage he’s got, and how much less than the asking price you can buy his house for.”

  “All I need’s an address,” Justin said. “For someone named Mishari al Rahman.”

  “Gazillionaire Arab, right? I’ll call Claudia over at Hamptonian Realty. They seem to handle most of the Arabs. Don’t know where they got the connection, but it’s a mighty profitable one, lemme tell you.”

  “It’s kind of important, Rose. Can you make the call now?”

  “You know it’s Christmas Eve, right? People are gonna be takin’ off pretty soon.”

  “Then you should probably call before they leave. And Claudia has to keep this confidential. If she mentions this to her client, I’ll make sure she spends the next few Christmases in jail.”