Fatal Harbor Page 10

  “Your turn,” I said. “I’ve passed along a few chunks of information. Do me the honor of returning the favor.”

  “Fair enough,” he said. “You were right. My boy . . . my poor dear boy . . . he wasn’t really working for me, or the Agency, you understand. It was all quite informal. Whatever information he had on Curt Chesak, I asked him to pass it on to me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the man’s an enigma, that’s why. He’s like that idiot that showed up in Mexico a few years back, Subcommandante Marcos or something like that. Guy wore a ski mask to preserve his identity, supposedly was this revolutionary, was going to organize the Mexican peasants and overthrow the evil oppressors, blah blah blah. You know how we knew the guy was a phony? When all these Hollywood types hiked into the wilderness to show their solidarity with him and the working class. A real revolutionary wouldn’t have let those bozos within a hundred miles of him and his troops. Of course, if those Hollywood types really wanted to show their solidarity, they’d give away about eighty percent of their fortunes to the oppressed and still have enough to live on quite comfortably.”

  “Sometimes the obvious solutions escape people.”

  “That should be put on a bumper sticker somewhere. Anyway, that was the same thing for Curt Chesak. We wanted to know who he was, where he came from, and how he came to lead a violent anti-nuclear protest organization.”

  “And who was backing him?”

  “Of course. Don’t be stupid. It’s beneath you.”

  “What have you found out?”

  He shook a finger at me. “Your turn.”

  This give-and-take reminded me so much of my previous career that it almost made me nauseous. I pressed on. “The lobbying group is Munce, Price & O’Toole. Very little on the Internet. Their clients include foreign governments and industries, including agriculture, military, energy, pharmaceuticals, and the like.”

  Lawrence rubbed at his chin. “I don’t know about them, but I’m sure I can find out. All right, time for your question.”

  “Where did you work at the Agency?”

  Another slight smile. “Nothing too glamorous. An economics desk. Not really where you’d expect James Bond to be sitting, am I right?”

  I kept quiet for a moment, but only a moment. “You and your former co-workers . . . you guys were concerned about what was happening at Falconer.”

  “Good point.”

  “Nuclear energy supplies about twenty percent of the electricity in this country.”

  “Another good point.”

  “If current or future nuclear plants are closed or delayed, that means replacement power has to come from someplace else. Domestic or foreign. So if you were some sort of . . . collective that wanted to increase your market share, you might do something like fund and support a militant group that would disrupt one of your competitors.”

  Lawrence put his hands up, gave me a slow clap-clap-clap. “Nicely done, Mister Cole. Too bad you’re not still at the DoD, or with my Agency.”

  “Not going to happen.”

  “Why? Still bitter about what happened to you in Nevada?”

  “No, I can’t stand the hours.”

  That brought a slight smile. “True . . . and number-crunching at the CIA can be dull indeed.”

  “So why are you involved? And not the FBI?”

  “Because economic terrorism isn’t as sexy as cyberterrorism, or actual terrorism. That’s what the FBI is concerned about, and rightfully so. But a functioning, healthy economy . . . without it, this planet will go very dark in a very, very short time. And it wouldn’t take much. A short-term oil embargo. A real nasty computer virus. Some refineries off-line. A few low-yield nukes with the right EMP effect. My God, and are we prepared? Not in the least. Hell, libraries are burning books now because everything’s stored electronically. But what happens when the electronics fail? Collapse. Utter and final collapse.”

  I didn’t have anything to add at the moment, and he put his chin in his hand and brooded. “So we bend the rules against the use of CIA assets in-country. We go around asking for favors, asking for friends . . . even asking for relatives, God help us, to give us information and data. Anything and everything, so we can get a handle on what’s going on out there and who’s paying for it.”

  He used both hands to wipe at his eyes. A couple more mournful minutes passed, and his voice strengthened. “Are you a student of history?”

  “Most history,” I said. “Not very good when it comes to Far East or African history. I know my limitations.”

  “Good for you. So many don’t. Do you think if you were able to go back in time and talk to a random Roman citizen in the second or third century, that they would realize they were a citizen of an empire in decline?”

  “No, they wouldn’t. They were too close to it.”

  “Yes, they were, weren’t they. Oh, they’d mutter about the barbarians, the corruption, the high taxes, but they would still be convinced that they belonged to the most powerful empire on earth. They would still be thinking that, right up to the time Rome was sacked, the aqueducts dried up, and the harbors were destroyed. You know, the Romans were able to make these wonderful artificial harbors; but centuries later, their descendants would see nothing about them but harbors that would trap and sink ships. From one port to the next, fatal harbors, never to be repaired or used again.”

  For the last few sentences he stared across at the garden again, and he said, “Anything more you can offer?”

  “Yes,” I said. “There are other interests out there. I’ve encountered them a few times.”

  “Really? That’s fascinating. Do let me know.”

  “I found out that Chesak was backed by a professor of history at Boston University. I went to interview him, he had nothing to tell me, and when I left his office some men posing as federal agents attempted to detain a . . . friend of mine.”

  “What kind of friend?”

  “Security consultant.”

  “Ah, a wise idea. Were they successful in detaining your friend?”

  “No. Shots were fired. I saw the two men fall. Their vehicle was shot up. There were dozens of witnesses. The next day, the Boston Globe reported that the whole incident was a student-run film project gone awry. Later that same day, the BU professor disappeared and his house burned down. My own house is under surveillance.”

  He rubbed at his chin. “Fascinating.”

  “Seemed mostly terrifying at the time.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. So what does that tell you, former analyst Cole?”

  “You tell me. Any chance they were your guys?”

  “Hah! I wish . . . but still, who knows. Do I have to remind you that our previous work was trying to find truth in a wilderness of mirrors?”

  “No reminding necessary.”

  “So maybe it was another section in the Agency. Or any one of a number of agencies covered under the government. Or contractors . . . when you have slippery work that needs to be done, without wanting to leave a clear trail behind, you use contractors. Or foreign interests . . . or foreign interests using domestic contractors. So many possibilities.”

  Another jet flew overhead, once again seeking a safe landing. “So, where do we go from here?”

  Lawrence turned to me, eyes red-rimmed. “Do you have a suggestion?”

  “I do.”

  “Then tell me.”

  “You might not like it.”

  “Try me.”

  “When it comes to who’s involved, I don’t care.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Let me make it clear. As to who’s involved, who’s behind it, who’s paying, I don’t give a crap. I want Curt Chesak. I get the feeling you want him too. So that’s my only focus.”

  Lawrence slowly nodded. “You said he hurt a friend of yours. Do tell me more.”

  “When the protesters in favor of violence finally breached the fence the last demonstration day, Chesak led the way. He and some
others ambushed a couple of cops. One of them was my best friend.”

  “Name?”

  “Detective Sergeant Diane Woods.”

  A tilt of his head. “Girlfriend? Fiancée?”

  “No. Just the best friend I’ve ever had.”

  “How is she doing?”

  “She received serious head injuries. She’s in a coma. She may die.”

  Lawrence seemed to consider that. “When you say you want Curt Chesak, what do you mean, exactly?”

  “I want to find him, talk to him, and then kill him. That’s what I mean. Exactly.”

  A smile creased his old face. “Would you care to stay for dinner, Mister Cole?”

  Despite the fact that I was in a mourning household, dinner was fine indeed, and Lawrence took care of the bulk of it. His wife Frances was a thin blond woman with an engaging smile who had on gray slacks and a light blue sweater, with gold jewelry on her tanned wrists and neck. One had only to look at her eyes when she was quiet to see the sadness that was now living there. Our meal was grilled steaks, brown rice, and a mixed salad, with a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. Lawrence introduced me as someone who had retired from government service on a medical leave, and our conversation revolved around the weather, the upcoming election, and what kind of winters Virginia had versus New Hampshire.

  With coffee and cake and a bit more conversation, Frances led me upstairs to the spare bedroom. “This used to be John’s, before he . . . before he left for school.” She opened the door and the room was plain, with a bed and a colorful quilt on top of it, a writing desk, a bookshelf, and a closet door. There were no photos or certificates or trophies or anything else that announced that this room belonged to an only son.

  “It looks fine, Frances, thank you,” I said.

  Her hand idly traced the doorknob. “Are you married, Lewis?”

  “No”

  “Any children?”

  “Not a one.”

  Her hand still worked the shiny doorknob. “One always expects that your child will long outlive you.” She brought her hand up, squeezed it with the other. “It’s a special type of hell, to be a parent who must bury her boy.”

  Frances stepped out in the hallway and quickly walked away.

  Alone in the room, I opened the closet door, looking for hangers for my clothes. There I came upon John’s clothes, neatly hanging in rows, and below that, plastic bins of his possessions. I stared for a moment, thinking about a young life now gone, just tidied up and placed in the closet, with the door sadly closed behind it.

  I closed the door and left my clothes on the writing table’s chair.

  The bed was comfortable and the sheets were clean and crisp. I stretched out and tried to relax. It was hard to do. Lots of thoughts and possibilities were racing through my mind, like the proverbial hamster running its wheel that went nowhere. I looked up at the ceiling, thought of the young man I had met just last week, a young man who was in college and was so proud and sure of his beliefs and his future.

  I rested my head in my hands. I had been like that, once, in a time and place that seemed as far away as the Great Depression or the Civil War. In my college days, I had been active in student journalism, had covered great protests and assemblies over the nuclear freeze at a time when it seemed terrifying that a former Hollywood actor was now our president. The debates were over silos, throw-weights, arms limitation, and insurgencies in Central America. And before I slid into my chosen career as an activist journalist, I took a very different route, being co-opted by The Man, joining the system of oppression organized by the oligarchy patriarchy.

  Or something like that.

  And less than six months into my job in the DoD, I quickly learned that my four years of college, save the time drinking and dating, had been pretty much a waste when it came to learning what was really going on in the world.

  I shifted some in the bed.

  The poor boy who had once slept and dreamed in this bed, well, at least he didn’t live long enough to see his illusions shattered.

  Not much of a silver lining, but it was the only thing I could come up with.

  During the night, I had some sort of nightmare that I thankfully forgot when my eyes opened up. The sheets and blanket had been tossed to the floor, and I moved as quietly as I could, bringing everything back to where it had been.

  I froze, now in bed. There were murmurs and soft crying from a room down the hall.

  I lay very still.

  The night turned out to be so very long.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  In the morning Lawrence made breakfast, tea and toast, and apologized for the thinness of the meal.

  “Frances had a rough night,” he explained. “So I’m letting her sleep in.”

  “I’m afraid it might have been my fault.”

  He buttered a slice of toast. “How’s that?”

  “I had a bad dream last night. Moved around a lot in the bed. I think that might have awakened Frances.”

  He kept on buttering his toast.

  “And I think . . . maybe the sound of me moving around in your son’s bed, that might have disturbed her. Brought back some memories. Maybe . . . some hope.”

  Lawrence took a bite of his toast. “Yes, you’re correct. She poked me in the ribs, half-asleep, telling me that rascal John was trying to sneak back into his room. That I should go to his room and check him out, to see if he had been drinking. Then she realized what she had been saying. And that was that.”

  “Sorry.”

  “No more sorrys,” Lawrence said. “So what now?”

  “Got one last appointment to keep, and then back to New Hampshire.”

  “Do you think Chesak is still up there?”

  “Don’t know where the hell he is,” I said. “But I intend to keep pressing and pressing.”

  “Doing what, then?”

  “Sometimes you press and poke, you get a reaction. That reaction can prove to be useful. It can lead you to places, to people. That’s what I intend to do.”

  Lawrence nodded, got up from the table, went to a door that seemed to lead into a cellar. I finished my tea and toast, and then he came back up, holding a cell phone in his hand.

  “This is for you.”

  “Already have a cell phone.”

  “Not like this one,” he said. “This one is shielded and encrypted. Your standard cell phone can easily be triangulated with the right equipment and the right agency, such that you can get a caller’s position within a certain number of yards. This one, however, is quite black and untraceable.”

  I took the phone. “It’s already pre-programmed with my number,” Lawrence said. “You get anywhere, you have more information, you pass it along. If I come across anything of interest, I’ll pass it along as well.”

  “You got a deal.”

  A sharp nod. “I didn’t know about Munce, Price & O’Toole and their connection with Curt Chesak until you showed up. For that, you have my thanks.”

  “Fair enough. But I want to make something quite clear before I leave here with this very cool James Bond phone. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. You and your friends in the Agency might want to scoop up Curt Chesak, interrogate him, find out who’s paying him and why they’re paying him. My interest in him is more medieval. Do you understand?”

  “I do.”

  “So if there’s going to be a conflict between the Agency’s wishes and my wishes, you can guess who’s coming out on top.”

  Lawrence sighed. “As a retired yet active member of this nation’s intelligence community, I’m horrified at what you’re saying. As a father who’s lost his son, you have my full and total support.”

  I went through the phone’s features one more time, and Lawrence said, “You said you have an appointment. Here, in Arlington?”

  “Nope. In D.C.”

  “How are you planning to get there?”

  “Walk until I find a cab. Then get to the Metro station.”

  L
awrence shook his head. “No. I’ll arrange for a ride.”

  “I don’t think that’s a very good idea. I don’t think you want a record with a cab company that I was picked up here.”

  He started gathering up our meager breakfast dishes. “You think just because I’m retired, I’ve gotten stupid all of a sudden? I have friends, I have previous arrangements. I’ll have a car and discreet driver ready to pick you up in a few minutes.” He went over to the sink. “May I ask where’s your appointment?”

  “At the election headquarters of Senator Jackson Hale.”

  That got his attention. “What, you intend to volunteer?”

  “No.”

  “Confess all?”

  “Hardly. No, I’m going to see a friend of mine.”

  He put the dishes in the dishwasher. “Former DoD co-worker?”

  “No again. She’s a close friend. Girlfriend, I suppose you could say.”

  “But you live in New Hampshire.”

  “I do. And I intend to stay there.”

  “Does she want to go back to New Hampshire after the election?”

  I stood up from the table, new phone in hand. “Not for a second.”

  He smiled. “Now I know why that’s your last appointment.”

  My ride was a black Lincoln Town Car, and my driver was a cheerful Nepalese man who proudly told me that he had once been a Gurkha soldier, serving in the Royal Gurkha Rifles, and that Lawrence had once saved his life at some remote outpost in Afghanistan. His name was Suraj Gurung.

  At a traffic light he turned, grinning. “So ever since then, I am in Mister Lawrence’s debt. Especially since he arranged for my family and me to come here, to this blessed land.”

  “Mister Lawrence is lucky to have you at his side.”

  Suraj chuckled. In the front seat of the Town Car was a copy of that day’s Washington Post. He reached underneath the paper, pulled out a long, curved knife called a kukri. “Many Taliban have felt the kiss of this, and if anyone attempts to harm Mister Lawrence, they will get a sweet kiss, indeed.”

  I was dropped off on M Street, at an impressive office building that had a huge banner stretched across the lobby entrance: HALE FOR PRESIDENT CAMPAIGN HEADQUARTERS. I went down the street and purchased that day’s Post from a kiosk, and then slowly walked back to campaign headquarters. I took my time. I slowly went up the sidewalk and down, and then, on a return trip, my patience paid off.