Brendan began to tell Lazard his story, censoring himself a few times, but otherwise laying out the tale, omitting the personal details and delivering an improvised résumé, including his three years as a beat cop for Mount Pleasant, and the blink of an eye he’d spent as a homicide detective in Oneida County. He described the Rebecca Heilshorn case, and how it had led to the human trafficking and prostitution rackets, but didn’t share how he felt the evidence had coalesced around Titan. He skipped ahead to the showdown with Heilshorn at Roosevelt hospital.
“Heilshorn,” Lazard interrupted in a musing tone.
“You’ve heard of him.”
“You were the man who killed him?”
Brendan had a flashback to the office at Roosevelt Hospital, and saw Sloane running through the door and hurling the fire extinguisher at Heilshorn, hitting him square in the chest, a blow he had never recovered from. It was Sloane who had killed him, but Brendan said, as he had been saying for months, “Yes.”
With this information in the open, Brendan relaxed. He decided it was time to do what he had come here to do. Ask what he needed to ask.
“So as I said, I believe you met with the Deputy Chief of CSS.”
There was a twinkle in Lazard’s eye. “You believe correctly.”
“A man named Wick.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Why?” Lazard looked thoughtful. But it seemed put-on. “Business. The IMF has a long relationship with the CSS.”
“New York Police took me in after Roosevelt Hospital. But the CSS were there. I met with one of their agents. A man named Staryles. They’ve been around, in some way, since I first investigated the murder of that woman three years ago. Tell me about them.”
Lazard scowled. “That’s a piece of string.”
“Give me the basics.”
“Okay. The Central Security Service are cryptologists. Signals intelligence, tactical information assurance. It is an agency of the US Defense Department.”
The wind swept through the yard, spinning the snowflakes. Brendan glanced at the guard standing at the entrance to the yard who looked back briefly before returning his attention to the phone he was poking at. He was beneath an awning by the door, somewhat sheltered from the storm.
Lazard didn’t seem bothered by the wind tousling his hair. He turned his face into the breeze and smiled. “Here it comes,” he said. Then studied his palms as the flakes landed on them and melted. “The CSS was founded after World War II, following the deactivation of the Army Security Agency.” He glanced up at Brendan. “AFSA became responsible for all US communications intelligence and security. But at the physical, tactical level, it was the army, navy, and air force performing intelligence tasks, and these entities were not willing to accept the authority of the AFSA. So, the National Security Agency was created.”
“Okay . . .” said Brendan, thinking it seemed like these intelligence agencies kept mutating into larger, more powerful bodies.
“Now, again, the tactical, on-the-ground forces, these are the specialized soldiers, sailors, and airmen. These are marines, coastguard. Men and woman doing the work. And as they’re working independently, information is lost. There needs to be cohesion. There are increasing cryptologic requirements as the enemy upgrades, there needs to be unification of signal intelligence among these Service Cryptologic Agencies — the SCAs. Otherwise it is a . . . how do you say it, a ‘pig roast.’”
Brendan thought the usual expression was cruder, but he let it go. Lazard went on, and Brendan was beginning to see where it was all headed.
“NSA was meant to integrate with these Cryptologic Agencies, but there was resistance. So, the CSS is formed as an inter-service organization. A way of merging all the armed services, all the intelligence, promoting full partnership with the NSA and the SCAs.” Lazard took a breath. “It was conceived this way, executed this way — on paper.”
“But in the end,” Brendan said, picking up the thread, “the CSS is really a fourth service. Right? There is the army, the navy, the air force, and the CSS.”
“Yes. A tremendous organization with all of the resources of the three other services, the intelligence of the NSA, both under presidential directive and free to operate independently. The best of all worlds, and unknown to most people. With one particular aspect that is perhaps the most elusive.”
The wind cut through his clothes and stung his skin. “Tell me.”
“US Cyber Command. They’re the ones really responsible for the development of the internet. Alongside the Department of Defense — or, really, as a silent partner, Cyber Command built the initial World Wide Web.”
“How do you know this?”
Lazard shrugged. “It’s public information. It’s all public information, if you know where to look. But many people in your country don’t know. Or, don’t want to. And, okay, also because the CSS has been the service used by the International Monetary Fund for more than ten years. The Fund leads geopolitics. The CSS enforces, so does the CIA, so does everyone, really; all foreign policy efforts come down to money. The CSS recruits from black-operative covens like the Joint Special Forces Command. A few navy seals, some marines. Men and women who have seen the agenda first hand. Men and women who have given up all semblance of a normal life.”
“Staryles.”
“Yes. Staryles is one of them.”
“But Staryles was working for Heilshorn.”
“Assigned to him, yes, most probably.”
“Why? What does Heilshorn have to do with the Central Security Service?” Brendan had his own theories, convictions he had already shared with Sloane Dewan, beliefs he had already spat into the face of Heilshorn himself, and seen them confirmed in Heilshorn’s eyes, but he wanted to hear it from Lazard.
“Liquidity, for one. Underground capitalism. The existence of the black markets to prop up the economy. But, ultimately, control. Control of the money. What else?”
The two men faced one another through the windblown swirls of snow, the CO watching them from inside the door to the yard.
“The US wants to maintain itself as the world power, Mr. Healy. It must maintain control of the money supply, of the petrodollar. When contractors like Halliburton, amongst others, cost the taxpayer billions, fresh revenue is needed to maintain the status quo. Your country is the largest financial contributor to my former organization, the IMF. So of course we must talk together with the biggest politico-military organization you have. Shame, I just couldn’t resist that little maid.”
His eyes glassed over as he looked beyond Brendan, into the weather. “You see? I took a chance. Like any good businessman, any good investor, I must calculate risk. I must look ahead to the future. I must see several steps ahead, and then I must act, even against that risk.”
Brendan realized they were talking not just about the housekeeper who claimed sexual assault, but Lazard’s responsibilities with the IMF, and perhaps something else.
“I’m wondering if you’re really here in Rikers because of something you did to a housekeeper,” Brendan said.
Lazard grinned. Melting snow coursed down his expressive features. “Maybe not,” he said. “Maybe we are both here for greater reasons than the allegations suggest.” He raised his considerable eyebrows, then grew serious. “I see the decentralization of money as the biggest threat your country faces. Not being able to control the money supply. Not to regulate, tax, and control.”
The storm intensified. Brendan glanced once more at the CO who remained beyond the door. He was watching the two convicts, with an amused expression. Perhaps he liked seeing them pummeled by the wind. Brendan turned back to Lazard.
“Most people dismiss these attempts to decentralize money as libertarian junk. Or the idea of the government controlling the population in these Machiavellian ways as wacko conspiracy theories.”
Lazard stepped closer, the snow a thick, shifting curtain between him and Brendan. “Maybe so. And then again, most people tho
ught Mein Kampf was a fairytale when it first came out.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN / THURSDAY 2:20 PM
Eddie Stemp sat on top of a red tractor at his sprawling farm in Barneveld, NY. The two black SUVs pulled into his driveway, churning up the dust. Jennifer exited the first vehicle and started over towards Stemp. She raised her hand in a wave. He stayed where he was on his tractor, clocking them like a sniper. She knew he was a former soldier, from the information collected during the Heilshorn case, though she hadn’t been able to find records of it in the State Department files. She kept her hand in the air.
“Edward Stemp?”
“Good morning, sister,” he said, and put on a big smile. He climbed down from the tractor and suddenly he became friendly. He wiped his hands on a rag hanging from his belt and offered his hand. She took it, his grip was rough and calloused.
Two security guards flanked her. Stemp turned his high-wattage smile on them, and his eyes darted to the third, who remained by the vehicles.
Stemp was shirtless, well-muscled, tanned, and sweaty. He had short dark hair, pearly white teeth. There was something about him that recalled an experience she’d had in college. She’d once met the head of one of the religious groups on campus, and he’d emitted a cultish vibe, a stoned-immaculate look like he’d drunk the Kool Aid. Stemp’s demeanor wasn’t exactly that, but there was a reach to his gaze she found discomfiting. “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said to her bodyguards, raising his voice for the benefit of the one furthest away.
Stemp watched him for a moment, his head still, his eyes following as the security guard started a sweep of the property.
“I’m sorry about all of this,” Jennifer said. “I’m not used to an entourage.”
“Oh not at all,” Stemp said, but she thought it was a false decorum. And she knew her detail was on edge after the scare at Largo’s place.
“Would you like some coffee?” He gestured towards the small, quaint farmhouse behind him. The house was surrounded with fields. Green shoots poked up in furrows of soil, pointing through the wavering heat towards the horizon. “My wife is taking the kids to Bible study, and then she has her errands. The place is ours for an hour or so.” Stemp gave Jennifer a look. He was telling her that it was all the time they had.
“Coffee would be great,” she said.
He nodded, wiped his hands again and glanced at each of the three guards.
Jennifer turned to the men standing beside her and said, “Thank you, gentlemen.” That was their cue to remain outside. “Ma’am,” said the guard on her right.
She and Stemp went into the house.
* * *
The house smelled like bacon and coffee. The kitchen was small with a faded linoleum floor, white washed cabinetry, a breakfast table against a wall and a window with a view out over the property.
Jennifer was looking out at the cornfield when Stemp put a steaming mug of coffee in front of her. She pointed to the earth with rows of green shoots. “Knee-high by the Fourth of July?”
He nodded and sat down across from her. “Corn grows very well here.”
“How long have you been working this land?”
His eyes rolled up to look at the ceiling as he considered. She could smell his sweat. He had pulled on a cut-off flannel shirt. His dungarees were stained with paint, oil, and dirt, and he wore large work boots with the steel toes worn through the leather. “Seven years,” he said, and dropped his gaze to her. “Yep. Seven lucky years.” He sipped his coffee. When he was finished he said, “In all that time I’ve never been visited by anyone from the US Department of Justice.”
“I apologize for the unscheduled visit.”
He waved a hand in the air, grime under the fingernails, dirt caked into the creases of the skin. “It’s a welcome break from all the work.”
“I can’t even imagine. What prompted you to get into farming? Family business?”
He was shaking his head, no. “My family business is military. My father worked for NORAD for thirty-five years.” It was a frank statement.
“You were in Iraq?”
He nodded. “Briefly. Early on.”
She looked him over. “You must’ve been young.”
“I was in the multinational force. Coalition forces.” He seemed to look into the past.
“But that wasn’t all for you. You stayed in Iraq, but you went into something else?”
Now his eyes snapped into place and he gave her an edgy look. She flinched.
“I did,” he said. “I went into private security.”
Jennifer tried the coffee, which was strong and sweet. This was a significant link in the chain, but she didn’t want to betray that and make Stemp nervous. She acted like it was no big deal. She thought of Largo talking about Titan’s no-bid contracts in the Middle East.
“And you . . . what job did you do when you returned stateside? Before you started farming.”
Stemp grew rigid. “Ma’am,” he said, “you told me on the phone this was about tying up loose ends on the Heilshorn murder. Now, I’m happy to reiterate what I told the detectives back then. But if you’re looking for more than that, I think you need to be forthcoming.”
She set her coffee down and sat back a little. “Of course, Mr. Stemp.”
“Call me Kim.”
“Kim?”
“My given name.”
“I’m not trying to conceal an agenda here, Kim. I am following up on the Heilshorn murder, absolutely. I know you’re a smart man. You’ve been forthcoming about your time in the military and, as you said, private security. I appreciate that very much. What I’d like to ask is whether or not your transition into working as a driver for XList escorts was facilitated in any way by your employer in Iraq. And who that employer was: Meecham, Blackwater, or someone else?”
He set his coffee down on the table beside him. He remained straight as a board, and placed his hands on his dusty knees. Like a diligent parishioner in a church pew, perhaps. Jennifer caught sight of movement outside as one of the dark shapes of her detail moved past the window.
“I stayed in security when I returned home. It was enough to provide me the start-up capital for my farm. To provide for my family.”
“I don’t doubt your integrity or your devotion to your family, and your finances are none of my business. But, Mr. Stemp, I’ve just visited Philip Largo. So if you’re uncomfortable revealing your Iraq employer, I wonder if we could talk about Largo instead. And Rebecca.”
Stemp said nothing. He remained statue-like at the table. His eyes, Jennifer saw, seemed to gray over a little.
She could hear the ticking of a clock in the other room. It was hot and sticky in the kitchen. A bowl of fruit, pestered with fruit flies, sat on a hammered chest. The window beside the table was open but there was no breeze coming through the screen. It was the type of humid summer day that soaked clothes and frizzed out hair. The sky had been open, but she could see a wall of hazy clouds on the horizon.
Stemp had gone mute, so she continued.
“My understanding is that you were in the business of driving escorts, while Rebecca Heilshorn was still involved.”
Something passed behind Stemp’s eyes. Then he blinked, as if awakening from a daydream, and he turned and looked out the window. His posture seemed to relax and he picked up his coffee.
“Rebecca has a child named Leah, correct?”
She watched this register in his expression and continued. “During the course of the investigation, the detectives considered you as a possible paternal match for Leah. But that’s not the case.”
His gaze was cool, and growing cooler in all the heat. “No, ma’am.”
“But you know who her real father is, I think. Do you, Mr. Stemp?”
He brought the mug of coffee to his lips, never taking his eyes off her. His crow’s feet deepened as he concentrated on her. The moment became uncomfortable. Then he lowered the mug and spoke.
“Yeah, this is a great plot of land for corn
. Potatoes, lettuces, carrots — just the right PH balance to the soil. You’ve got to regulate soil temperature, though, that’s key.”
“It was Rebecca who brought the trouble to Philip Largo,” she said, ignoring his non sequitur. “Largo believes it might be related to his move to block construction of a building in Albany. That and he just didn’t step to the tune someone wanted him to. Alexander Heilshorn. Who, if I may make a rather circuitous connection, is affiliated with your employer in Iraq. And I believe that employer was Titan.”
Nothing at all now from Stemp. He only watched the rippling heat over the cornfield; she saw his eyes seek out those same shouldering thunderheads in the distance. Perhaps she’d pushed too hard too soon, but time was running out.
“Just about seven years ago,” she recapped, “about when you started here on your farm, Largo was caught with a prostitute. He claims he didn’t know she was a working girl, but the media didn’t care, his opponent for governor didn’t care — it was chum in the water. So nobody bothered to publicize his version of the story. There were no criminal actions because the girl hadn’t, in fact, ever declared herself a pro.”
“You seem like a nice woman,” Stemp said.
“Mr. Stemp, Philip Largo can identify you picking up the escort after the night that brought him down.”
“I told you, ma’am, I admitted it. I drove for XList. I’m not proud of it.”
She felt a minor relief, but she didn’t think his statement was accurate. He hadn’t admitted working for XList, specifically, until just now. “Is that all you did, drive the escorts? Protect them?”
“Mrs. Aiken, I have a family.”
“We can protect you.”
He shook his head. “No you can’t.”
“Mr. Stemp. Kim. We are the Justice Department. We coordinate with the FBI, with Homeland Security. My task force is set up so that we can do exactly this — obtain critical information and protect our sources.”
“Ma’am . . .”
DAYBREAK: a gripping thriller full of suspense (Titan Trilogy Book 3) Page 11