Incitement

by David Graham

  She closed the report and wondered if her first instinct back then had been right. She stood up and wandered away from her desk, as if putting physical distance between her and the report would change the direction of her train of thought. She tried telling herself she was crazy. There was no reason to think that Diversified Holdings’ stake in Spartan meant Wallace himself was linked to Brewer. Some part of her, though, the part which had persevered in the face of all the crap, would not let her avoid it. Almost reluctantly, she began to hypothesise.

  What was it she was proposing?

  Lawrence Wallace, using resources at his or his corporation’s disposal, had caused two major drugs powers to concentrate all of their resources on destroying the other. Why?

  Personal revenge; no need to just rage at the injustice of it all and feel helpless when you’re a self-made billionaire.

  How could he have thought he could pull it off? How could he have dared set it in motion?

  What, building a global empire and amassing an eleven-figure fortune should have convinced him to think small?

  The question was, what did she do now? Run this by Marshall or Samuels and she would either be laughed out of their office or carted off to a padded cell somewhere. It would certainly mark a nice way to complete her career in the DEA. While she had come to terms with the fact that her days there were numbered, she certainly did not want to be pushed. Was it an option to simply walk away, tell herself it no longer mattered?

  Tom let the waitress refill his cup and move on to the next table. The coffee shop was virtually empty this early in the afternoon, the only other occupants a few students and a couple of resting shoppers. But he still kept his voice low enough for only her to hear.

  “I agree that there’s no point in bringing this to Samuels or Marshall,” he said. “If Wallace is involved ...”

  “What do you think?” she asked anxiously.

  He had sat quietly, hardly having said a word to this point. Was he going to tell her she was delusional?

  “I think it’s bordering on unbelievable.” He held up a hand to prevent her interruption. “But let’s think about it for a minute. You said Diversified Holdings started divesting themselves of Spartan stock over four years ago, well before any of the trouble started.”

  “Yes, but the feud would have taken time to plan and he would have wanted to remove any visible links between himself and Brewer. His daughter died before the Spartan stock was sold, which was after he’d failed to get the results he wanted from meddling with the DEA.”

  “When did Diversified first invest in Spartan?”

  “I’m not sure,” she answered hesitantly. “Why is that important?”

  “Well, it was obviously before his daughter died. Can’t that be used as an argument that his involvement was all above board? How did he know then that he’d need the expertise they could provide?”

  “The initial investment was probably based on sound business reasons but it doesn’t change the fact that it provided him with access to Brewer. The timing of their decision to sell their stock in Spartan is definitely suspicious.”

  “Why?”

  “If they’d waited another six months they’d have increased their return by more than a hundred per cent. Odd move unless Wallace instructed them to do it so there was no link between the two companies.”

  “I thought you said Wallace had stepped down as CEO a few months after his daughter’s death?”

  “He did but he still controlled a massive block of shares. Do you think the board would have refused him if he suggested they sell their interest in Spartan?”

  “Did Diversified make a profit on their investment in Spartan?”

  “Sure, Spartan’s stock has risen steadily every year since its inception.”

  “So, the timing of the sale may not be strange at all, they’d made a profit and decided to sell rather than be greedy.”

  She felt herself losing faith in what she had been so confident of only minutes earlier. This morning, she had been happy to walk away and even excited about a new chapter; now, here she was again getting totally worked up.

  “Are you saying I should drop it?”

  He looked at her for a moment before responding.

  “Absolutely not. All I’m trying to say is don’t rush to conclusions. Look, you’re committed to at least a couple of months’ leave, right?”

  “Starting three days from now, yes.”

  “Let’s spend the next few days when I’m away trying to figure out how we could look into this. When I get back we’ll compare notes and take it from there.”

  “You’re going away?”

  “Yeah, I’m sorry, I was just told this morning. I need to spend a week away, I’m not meant to say where but I’ll tell you. Things down in Colombia are a total mess since the Plan’s cessation. A lot of senior people are panicking, and in an effort to appear as if they’re addressing matters, various delegations are being sent down. I happen to be a very junior member of one of those. I leave tonight. I’m sorry. I wanted to be here, especially on your last day.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s not a big deal. I’ll see you when you get back.”

  She knew she didn’t sound convincing.

  “I know it’s lousy timing but I think I might have something to cheer you up,” he said. “I wasn’t going to tell you yet, but in light of what you’ve learned concerning Diversified ...”

  “What?”

  “I’d given up hope of finding anything useful about Brewer weeks ago. If there was any dirt, I figured it was well hidden, but then something just dropped in my lap. I was in a briefing yesterday regarding this trip and the aftermath of Plan Coca. There are all kinds of criticisms and recriminations coming to light recently.”

  “Such as?”

  “How the fumigation flights routinely went outside specified areas. How US contractors have been participating in unsanctioned incursions against the rebels. Anyway, one of the State Department people mentioned in passing that they bore remarkable similarities to accusations made against Spartan last year.”

  She looked at him uncomprehendingly, not seeing the relevance.

  “If Brewer was involved in a strategy to cripple the Madrigal Alliance, wouldn’t it be compatible with a policy of straying beyond Plan Coca’s remit to attack the rebels more freely? Think about it, who supplies Madrigal’s principle source of cocaine?”

  “My God! You’re saying Brewer interfered with an official foreign policy initiative to augment the effect of the feud on the Alliance.”

  “I’m saying he might have,” he cautioned.

  “How did these allegations against Spartan come to light?”

  “They terminated a contractor who they’d used down there, saying he couldn’t provide the skills they’d contracted for. He contended it was his refusal to participate in unsanctioned missions that led to his dismissal and threatened a breach-of-contract suit against them.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Nothing as far as I could ascertain. The case was never brought. I’m going to try to track the contractor down when I get back.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Will Pickroom. Look, I don’t want you doing anything on your own, wait until I get back.”

  “I promise all I’ll do is try to find an address. It makes sense. I’m not going to have anything to do my last few days and it saves us some time.”

  “Okay, fair enough.” He glanced at his watch quickly and stood up. “I’d better get back, how about I drop in tonight on my way to the airport, about seven?”

  “Great.”

  She pulled the car in and turned off the engine. There was time to spare before the meeting and this diversion had seemed appropriate. She could see the house, partially hidden by the row of mature trees lining the street. Even at night with driving rain obstructing her view, it was clear that this was an exclusive neighbourhood, with the kind of properties she would have expected someone like Lawren
ce Wallace to choose. She knew the odds of him being there were slim. He probably had countless properties scattered across the globe but this one was in DC and it was nice to think that he might be inside, unaware of her attention.

  Who knows? If it goes well with Pickroom you could be paying a visit to that very house soon enough.

  She had managed to find a Baltimore address and phone number for the ex-contractor easily enough and had tried to follow Tom’s instruction to sit tight until he returned. But two nights after he had left, she had been sitting on the sofa at home, bored, fiddling with a note containing Pickroom’s details. She lasted about half an hour.

  A woman’s voice had answered her and initially it had not looked promising. She said she was Pickroom’s wife but he no longer lived there. She was clearly agitated and Diane sensed she would not react well to pressure. Identifying herself as a DEA agent, she had asked if she could simply leave her number, in case the woman talked to her husband. The woman said it was up to Diane if she wanted to waste her time.

  A couple of hours later the call had come. When she picked the phone up and announced herself, all she had heard was someone breathing. “Mr Pickroom?”

  “What is it you want?”

  “To talk. About what happened in Colombia, the circumstances surrounding your departure.”

  “Departure, huh, why don’t you call it what it was? I was hounded out.”

  “So you said, but you dropped the suit, the chance for compensation?”

  The line went quiet for so long she wondered whether he was still there.

  “Money’s no good if you’re not around to spend it,” came the reply at last.

  “Are you saying you were threatened, Mr Pickroom?”

  Another long pause.

  “Forget it, it doesn’t matter, it’s all done with now. Why am I even bothering with this conversation? Adios.”

  “Wait, wait, don’t hang up,” she had pleaded, knowing if she was brushed off there might not be another chance. “Mr Pickroom, I don’t know what happened to you but I can guess. I’ve heard a little about some of your grievances against Spartan and ... and I believe them. I think Spartan had their own agenda. Can’t we just talk?”

  “I know all about Spartan’s agenda. Believe me, you can’t guess the half of it but why should I talk to you? Where were you a year ago?”

  “You were coerced into dropping your case for compensation?” she said, trying to coax him into opening up.

  “They did more than coerce. Someone interfered with my aircraft in Colombia. I was lucky to survive. They tried a hit-and-run when I got back here before I dropped the suit. I haven’t worked in a year; they’ve made sure of that. I’m a nervous wreck, waiting for them to come. Tell me, why should I talk to you? I may be in a world of shit but at least I’m alive. Why take the risk of talking to you?”

  “I want to know about what happened down there and I think you want to tell someone, otherwise you wouldn’t have called. After everything that’s happened, you must want some kind of payback. Will you talk to me?”

  “No,” came the answer, followed by a dead line.

  He had hung up and she had been convinced she had screwed it up. Maybe it was for the best. If there was any truth to Tom’s speculation about a connection between what Pickroom alleged and the manufactured feud, she should not have been taking the risk. Pickroom’s account of what had happened to him was unsettling but what he had hinted at, concerning Spartan in Colombia, was intriguing.

  Five minutes later the phone had rung again.

  “I’ll meet you – tomorrow night, eleven o’clock.”

  That was after she would have officially started her period of leave. “Can’t you talk now?”

  “Take it or leave it.”

  “Alright. Somewhere in Baltimore?”

  “You know Canton?”

  “By reputation. You’re not suggesting we meet there, at night?”

  “I’m safe in Canton; I’ve got friends. Look, I’m ready to hang up and this time I’m not calling back. Yes or no?”

  “Yes.”

  He watched the car park, and moments later a woman emerged. She hugged her jacket around herself to guard against the rain, and walked away from where he was parked, disappearing from sight. A few minutes later he caught sight of her again, approaching on the opposite side of the street. She gradually came back into clear view, passing directly in front of Wallace’s house, making a surreptitious attempt to glance in as she came level. He knew she would see nothing; the main living area was raised eight steps above street level. She continued on about twenty paces and then scurried back through the downpour to her car.

  She closed the door, happy to get in out of the rain. Hoping to catch a glimpse of Wallace, all she had accomplished was to get thoroughly soaked. She checked her watch again and decided it was time to leave.

  He watched her pull out, waited ten seconds and then followed.

  Canton was exactly what she had expected. None of the streetlights were working and many of the buildings’ ground-floor windows were boarded up. Here and there groups of youths congregated, staring malevolently at anyone who passed by. She pushed back her feelings of unease, telling herself her nervousness was really just anticipation. Most of her time, since her conversation with Pickroom, had been spent trying, unsuccessfully, to avoid speculation on what Spartan had been up to during the Plan Coca campaign.

  She found the address Pickroom specified and drove her car around to the lot behind the building, as directed. She parked the car, praying it would be there when she returned, and entered the building. Once inside, it became apparent that the place had seen better days. The lighting was barely sufficient to illuminate a few paces inside the doorway and all of the original mailboxes had been vandalised beyond repair. She could feel bits of plaster and other matter crunching under her shoes as she made her way haltingly down the hall. Pickroom had told her to go to apartment 502, on the fifth floor. The elevator was out of order, meaning the trek up was going to be even more unpleasant. She started up the first flight, trying to stick to the middle of the stairs and avoid putting her hands anywhere near the filth-covered banisters or walls. She thought she heard a door swinging shut below her as she passed the first landing halfway between the ground and first floor.

  Between the poor light and filth-strewn stairs, her ascent was slow. There were two sets of stairs and a landing to climb for each storey. It was only when she was halfway there that she realised there was something peculiar. Pickroom had said this was an apartment block, but for somewhere supposedly occupied, it was eerily quiet. She stopped on the third floor, to check that she had not mistakenly entered the wrong building. It looked fine, the doors were all there, solid and locked, which would not have been the case if the building was derelict. She stepped close to one of the doors and a television was just audible. She was worrying about nothing. The lack of activity was probably due to the lateness of the hour, she decided, and she resumed her climb.

  She reached the landing between the fourth and fifth floors and had turned to take the last series of stairs when a youth emerged on the fifth-floor corridor ahead of her. He looked like he was dressed in some kind of gang regalia and she panicked briefly before remembering Pickroom’s reference to his friends.

  “I’m here to meet someone.”

  Her question was still forming when the gun appeared. There was no doubting his intention. She threw herself backwards off the step she was on and felt the gunfire pass, missing her by inches. Falling back to the landing heavily, she scrambled up and ran down the next flight of stairs, taking them two and three at a time. Behind her, she heard the landing she had just been on being torn apart by the hail of bullets. She continued down, almost making it to the third floor when the gunfire ceased.

  “Chop, you stupid mutha’fucka, I said to wait,” a voice below called out.

  Christ, how many of them were there?

  She froze, unsure of what to do. Dr
awing her sidearm, she raced back up. If she could get to the fourth floor before the youth who had fired on her reached it, she might gain some time. As she reached the last couple of stairs, he came into view, only a few feet above her. His surprise at seeing her coming back towards him was evident and allowed her to open fire first. Ducking away, he scurried up to the cover of the landing above.

  She crouched down in the corridor, only feet from the stairwell but out of the line of fire, and tried to regain her breath after the sprint. She could hear the youth on the landing above, cursing her.

  “Dammit, Chop, what the fuck’s going on?” came the same voice from below.

  “Bitch’s on four. She shot at me.”

  The alarm in his voice made her smile in satisfaction.

  At least she had given them something to think about. Maybe it would convince them to forget about her. It dawned on her then that this was not random; they had been waiting for her. If that was the case, they were not going to be put off by her being armed. They would have been prepared for that. The most she had done was buy herself a little time.

  A different voice rang out from below.

  “You hit?”

  “No but damn close. I thought you said this would be easy, Derrell?”

  “Shut the fuck up,” came the angry retort.

  So, there were at least two below her. She took out her cell phone and cursed the lack of signal. She looked around frantically. All the doors in this corridor remained firmly shut; no one was interested in seeing what was going on. She realised the probable futility of looking for help, but did not see many other options. If the youths decided to rush her she would have no chance of holding them off. She ran to a door and slammed her hand against it repeatedly, shouting loudly.