The man in the crisp, starched fatigues looked at Justin, who’d stayed standing during the entire conversation, and said, “I almost believe you.”
Then he left Justin alone again. From the world outside his tiny window, Justin thought he heard a bird screeching. It was a high-pitched noise, piercing and mournful. When the sound came again, Justin wasn’t quite so sure of its source. It was piercing enough to be a bird. But it was also mournful enough to be a human being.
He scribbled all the names into the floor again. He’d done it so often by now, he didn’t have to think or pause while pushing his finger through the dirt. As he’d done each time, he rearranged them in a slightly different order than the previous time. Looking for patterns and connections. To the left he kept the victims in one column. For the first time, he added Elliot Brown’s name to that column. Next he organized any of the names connected to either the military or the FBI-anyone with a connection to the government’s investigation of terrorism. To the right of that column he listed all government officials. In a column all by itself, he listed the Saudi connection and, after a bit of hesitation, added a final column: Midas. At first he left it blank under the company name, then he added Cooke, who worked for them, and then he remembered that Colonel Zanesworth had told him that it was the vice president, Dandridge, who had made the call asking Cooke to be assigned to Midas as a pilot, so he put Dandridge’s name under that column, too.
Collins Zanesworth Stuller Mishari MidasCookeSchrader Dandridge CookeBrown Stuller Anderson Dandridge Heffernan CookePeck Billings Ingles Lockhardt Heffernan T. Cooke R. Cooke H. Cooke
He stared at the columns, saw no new connections to be made. Took a deep breath-almost reveling in the horrible smell; he’d seen how repulsed Mr. Starched Fatigues had been this last time and somehow it gave him a kind of strength to know he was used to it, was no longer overpowered by it-and he went back to the puzzle. .
Step Two: Hutchinson Cooke’s plane is rigged and he is murdered.
Theory: Cooke was on non-Air Force business. He was working for a company called Midas. Cooke flew into East End airport before the Harper’s explosion. Cooke was killed because he’d made a connection between his cargo on the plane and the explosion. He was killed so he couldn’t make that connection public.
Thought Process: What was the cargo? Two choices: the explosives used to destroy the restaurant or the man who used the explosives-the man who made the cell phone call. Or perhaps both.
Where was Cooke flying from? Unknown. Find that out and it should help to know who or what he was carrying.
Why was Cooke killed? Again, find out exactly who or what he was carrying and find out exactly why he was killed. Best bet: Cooke had been suckered into the flight-he didn’t realize quite what he was doing; when he realized the connection between his cargo and Harper’s, he panicked, maybe threatened to expose his bosses-the people who ran Midas? — and so he was killed.
Who killed Cooke? Heffernan either killed him or covered up the killing.
Justin looked at the list he’d drawn into the dirt. He’d put Heffernan down as a government official. True-he worked for the FAA. That counted. One more government connection. One more signal that this whole thing had to be government-connected. . and high up in the government to reach this level of manipulation.
Okay. Time to take a breath.
Plateau Two: Cooke was killed because he was a link to Collins’s murder and to the explosion at Harper’s. The link is the cargo. The key questions: Who or what was Cooke flying into East End Harbor? And for whom? If he was flying for Midas, what is Midas and who is behind it?
Time to start climbing again. .
Step Three: Martin Heffernan is killed in the explosion at La Cucina restaurant.
Theory One: Same as Harper’s. The explosion is an elaborate and deadly cover-up to mask the murder of one man: Heffernan.
Question: What did Heffernan know that got him killed?
Thought Process: He knew about Hutchinson Cooke. If Cooke was the link to Midas-and had to be eliminated to remove the link-then Heffernan was the link to the government. Heffernan had called the Justice Department to pass along information about Cooke’s death. But Cooke didn’t work for Justice-his boss was Martha Peck, FAA. She didn’t seem to be tied in to this. Although. . she was a link to the murderer or murderers. Despite Martha’s protestation, she knew who removed Heffernan’s file from the FAA office in Oklahoma City. She had to know. She had probably removed the file herself at the person’s request. Find that person, find a closer connection to the murderer.
Justin went through the next deaths quickly. Chuck Billings was clear-cut. He’d been brought in through official channels and, because of his expertise, he found out exactly what those officials didn’t want him to find out. He’d been lured to his death, most likely by the same bureaucrats he’d so distrusted. Justin would put money on Hubbell Schrader as Chuck Billings’s killer.
Lockhardt was also simple. He was killed because he was a final loose end in the murder of Hutchinson Cooke. He knew about Heffernan’s connection and that was enough to seal his death warrant. Justin mentally penciled Schrader into the blank space next to the question, Who killed Lockhardt?
Theresa Cooke was killed because she, too, knew something about her husband’s murder. Or, more likely, about her husband’s job. Theresa was dead, Justin was certain, because she knew something about Midas. .
Justin took another look at his markings in the dirt floor and decided to draw in a new column: Organizations.
So at the far right of his scribblings, he added:
Midas
U.S. government
Yale
Saudi government
He decided to go one subset further:
Midas
U.S. government
Executive
Justice
FAA
Yale
Saudi government
He went back and, remembering Stephanie Ingles and her Yale connection to Dandridge and Stuller, added “EPA” under his “U.S. government” heading. And then suddenly he decided to add another organization. A business that seemed to be at the center of all of this. EGenco.
He began scribbling separate columns for each listing:
MidasExecJustice EPAFAAYaleSaudiEGenco Cooke Anderson Stuller Ingles Heffernan Ingles Mishari DandridgeDandridge Dandridge PeckDandridge Cooke Stuller Anderson
What jumped out at him was Dandridge. He popped up everywhere. Justin twisted around so he’d have a clear space on the dirt floor-he’d begun to think of it as a giant blackboard-and he wrote the name Dandridge, and under that, every possible connection to the vice president that was relevant to the puzzle.
DANDRIDGE
Midas
EGenco
Cooke
Anderson
Stuller
Ingles
Mishari
He erased that list, rubbed it out quickly with the heel of his right hand. Then split the list into two-people and companies.
Cooke Midas Anderson EGenco Stuller Ingles Mishari
In his mind he went over the connections one more time:
Dandridge had made the call to Zanesworth to get the colonel to release Cooke from his Air Force duties so he could pilot for Midas.
Dandridge had been CEO of EGenco.
He’d been piloted by Cooke as vice president. He’d made the call to Zanesworth to get Cooke to come to work for Midas.
He was Anderson’s vice president. They’d known each other since their Yale days.
He knew Stuller from Yale. Stuller was reporting to Dandridge as point man in the government’s search for the suicide bombers.
Dandridge knew Ingles from Yale.
As CEO of EGenco, Dandridge had to have a close relationship with Mishari. EGenco did too much business with the Saudis for that relationship not to exist.
Dandridge was a connection between EGenco and Midas. Dandridge was a connection between
Midas and the government.
Justin studied the names on the list. Rearranged them several times. Stephanie Ingles still seemed to be the weakest point: he couldn’t see any connection between the terrorism, the conspiracy he was convinced existed, and the head of the EPA. There just didn’t seem to be any political link between her area of expertise and the events of the past two months. So he erased her from his list and mentally shoved her off to the side.
After the third time he’d put the names in different order, something began to gnaw at him. Something was trying to burst through. He tried to empty his head so whatever was in the back of his brain could make its way forward. It felt close. Very close. .
But something else struck him now, rushed at him with a burst of clarity. As he saw the list of names, he realized there was a new piece to the puzzle that suddenly fit in. He’d been wondering one thing since he’d been brought to this godforsaken place: Why? Why had they done it? Whoever had given the order to take him couldn’t possibly want him to give damaging information to his interrogator. They didn’t want anyone to know what he knew. They wanted him silenced. So why question someone if you don’t want to know the answers?
Because, he thought, they don’t want to know what you know. They want to know what you don’t know.
So what didn’t he know?
What were the questions the starched little prick kept asking him: What was Midas? Who runs Midas?
They weren’t looking for those answers! Whoever was behind the questioning knew the answers! They wanted to make sure that he didn’t know.
So what the hell was Midas? Who the hell was Midas?
Goddammit, he was close. He could feel it coming. He was so close his brain felt like it was exploding. Information was rushing at him-the reports he’d read, the background on the lawsuits, the history that Roger Mallone had thrown out to him. It was there. It really was. It was all inside his head. .
He heard the familiar noise at the door, immediately ran his hands over the dirt, obscuring everything he’d written, and as he did he felt the bubble burst.
He felt his brain shutting down, the pieces of the puzzle dissolving into nothingness.
He sagged with disappointment.
That’s when the door swung open. Two soldiers stood in the doorway, both holding rifles. They didn’t seem to care about the obscured swirls on the floor or why Justin was on his hands and knees. Behind them was the man in starched fatigues. He didn’t seem to care either. And when the man spoke, Justin didn’t particularly care about them either.
“Clean him up,” the man in the starched fatigues said to the two guards. “He’s going home.”
30
He was thrown into an outdoor shower stall that was big enough for ten men.
The sun at first burned his skin and scorched his eyes, but the fresh air enveloped him like a lovely ocean wave. As he was propelled to the shower area, he was vaguely aware of steel mesh pens that looked like animal cages. It took him a few moments to realize that they were for humans. These were the human voices he’d heard drifting into his cell.
The cleansing water made him aware of the sores on his legs and the bruises on his arms and chest and face. But they didn’t really hurt. Or if they did, the pain seemed unimportant. He let the warm shower water stream into his mouth and drop down his chin and thick beard. He scrubbed himself with soap, scraping off feces and layers of dirt and dead skin, and used some shampoo provided for him to wash his hair three times. He’d been handed a toothbrush, too, already slathered with toothpaste, and he ran the brush across his teeth over and over again until the paste was long gone, periodically spitting water and foam and blood from his mouth in the direction of the drain. The minty taste of the toothpaste tasted like fine wine. It was as if the sun and water were breathing life back into him.
They let him stay in there maybe fifteen minutes. At some point, he was too weak to stand under the hard and steady water flow, but he didn’t want it to end, so he just sat down and let the shower pelt down on him. A guard came to help him stand, and when he dried himself off, he was presented with new clothes. A crisp and clean blue work shirt, an equally fresh pair of chinos, thick white sweat socks, and a pair of sneakers.
He ran his fingers through his long hair, relishing the fact that it was no longer matted and gnarled. He kept grasping his beard with his fingertips; what felt normal in the isolation of his cell now felt coarse and strange and unnecessary. He wanted to rip the thick, bushy growth right out of his chin, and he started to pull it, hard, until he forced himself to close his eyes and relax, told himself that it was over, that he was going home, that he could deintensify his reactions and wait until he was in his own bathroom with a can of shaving cream and a razor. It was just a beard, he told himself, not a symbol of all he’d been through. It was something that could easily be removed when the time was right.
He could see other prisoners in their mesh pens. Justin looked for the man who’d come to see him in his cell, but was unable to pick him out of the crowd.
Two guards came and escorted him-half carried him because his legs were not working all that well-to a tin building that was set up as an office. It struck him as plush and rather luxurious. Justin was told to sit on a folding chair, which he did. The guards stood watching him for several minutes, but he knew that even if they left him alone, he didn’t have the energy to snoop or pry. He sat still until Starched Fatigues strode in and dismissed the guards. In daylight, in these surroundings, the man looked slightly older than Justin had believed him to be. And a bit smaller. Justin studied his face as the man sat behind a desk. The hair was visibly graying on the sides. His eyes had developed lines around them. His face, which was doing its best to look boyish, was beginning to reveal its age, as well as the pressures and traumas that lived inside it.
“You’ve been cleared of any wrongdoing,” he said, looking past Justin rather than at him.
Justin didn’t say anything. There was nothing he thought needed saying.
“You’ll be flown home today. I’ll be your military escort.”
Justin still didn’t respond. A slight tilt of the head was all.
“There is a very strong feeling that you were not acting in the best interests of your country, Mr. Westwood. You were moving into a very dangerous and suspicious territory. But we accept the fact that you were doing what you believed to be your job and didn’t understand the direction your investigation was taking you.”
Justin’s head tilted the other way now.
“I’m sure you’ll also want to know,” Starched Fatigues said, “that the terrorists responsible for the various attacks on our country have been eliminated. The immediate threat is over. We accept the fact that you were not in any way tied to this group.”
Justin couldn’t stay quiet any longer. “They were caught?”
“They were found. They resisted and were killed in a gun battle.”
“Who are they? Who were they?”
“It was a terrorist cell. Five of them were Iraq-connected. They hooked up with three suspected members of Al Qaeda who we’d been tracking for months. That’s how we found them.”
“How many were there?”
“Eight.”
“And they were all killed?”
“That’s correct.” Starched Fatigues shifted uncomfortably for a moment. “We’ll allow you to ask some questions if they relate to your investigation. We believe you deserve that much after the ordeal you’ve been put through.”
“Who’s ‘we’?” Justin asked.
“I’ll allow you.”
“May I ask where the eight men were found?”
“They’d been moving around the country. We stopped them in Delaware.”
“Was anyone from our side killed in the gun battle?”
“Is there a reason for that question? Or an implication behind it?”
“I’m a cop. I like to know all sides of an equation.”
“Well, you’re not
going to be allowed to know the different sides of this equation. Stick to your investigation. Or no more questions.”
Justin tried to focus. He knew he wouldn’t get a lot of leeway. “What was Hutchinson Cooke’s involvement?”
“Before I go into this, understand that this entire conversation is confidential. We will share information with you because we feel you’re entitled to it. But it cannot be shared outside this room.”
“If it is?”
“You’ve got some political clout behind you, Mr. Westwood.”
“That’s news to me.”
“Maybe. But you do. It’s one of the reasons you’re being released. That and the fact that many of the loose ends surrounding the bombings have been tied up. But if you ever talk about anything that you learn here or that happened to you here, you would be violating the security of the United States and a return visit could very well be justified.”
“That’s a good argument for confidentiality,” Justin said quietly.
Starched Fatigues gave what Justin thought was the closest he could come to a quick smile. “Captain Hutchinson Cooke was a traitor.”
“Can I get any elaboration?”
“We’ve interviewed many people who knew him at Andrews Air Force Base, including his commanding officer. Cooke apparently had become wildly political. Been studying the Koran. He’d spent many years flying to the Middle East. He made a lot of friends there and obviously was easily influenced. He’d become convinced that the government here was his enemy.”
Justin had enough energy to squint dubiously and say, “He wasn’t Arab.”
“Neither was the young man in northern California who went to Afghanistan and joined the Taliban. Just tragically misguided.”
“Cooke was working for a company called Midas.”
“That’s right. A Saudi-formed company, based in Iraq. They had an American branch, trying to do business here.”
“What kind of business?”
“Oil.”
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