by Chris Jordan
“Just as well you made the Gatling connection,” she begins. “I won’t have to explain that part. You’re familiar with what his company does in the war zone?”
“In general,” Naomi says. “As a private contractor, GSG provides security, interrogation and forward reconnaissance, including target identification. Also heavy involvement in Predator drones, the arming, flight and maintenance thereof. Young Mr. Gatling seems to have a hand in every aspect of the war on terror.”
Bevins nods slowly. “That he does. And that’s where the problem lies. He’s become, shall we say, just a bit too enthusiastic.”
“By enthusiasm, you mean torture.”
Bevins looks surprised. “No, that’s not what I meant. Okay, yes, you’re right, his crews have been accused of taking it too far, the so-called chemical interrogations, but that’s not what I came to tell you about. You already know that part.”
“There’s another part?”
“Oh yes,” Bevins says. “The part where Taylor Gatling goes rogue. The part where he plays God. The part where his powerful friends, many of whom have become rich with his help, have conspired to assist him in his mission, or at least to cover for him when the crap hits the fan.”
That has us all sitting up straight, paying attention.
“What I’m about to tell you is classified. The mere fact that I’m sharing it with you is a crime.”
“Only if someone in this room testified to such,” Naomi says. “I assure you, that’s not going to happen.”
“Okay,” Bevins says. “Here goes. You’re aware that Gatling’s interrogation units were accused of injecting suspects with so-called ‘truth serum’ drugs, correct? That was in the public record. That’s when the so-called Intelligence Committee went into executive session, to hear the rest of the testimony. The minutes of that meeting have been heavily redacted, but I was able to look at the original testimony. GSG actions go way beyond chemical interrogations. On more than one occasion his civilian crews have targeted suspected terrorists without authorization. They have launched Predator missiles, Hellfire missiles and taken out targets on their own. This is clear from the testimony. For months Gatling had been complaining to his Pentagon superiors that the CIA, which has the authority to order assassination strikes, had frequently refused to do so because they didn’t trust some of the targets identified by Gatling’s men. Thought they were being overenthusiastic, IDing every tribal leader with a beard as al Qaeda. Gatling disagreed, vehemently. He’s one of the righteous, a true patriot, and they’re a bunch of CIA wimps afraid to pull the trigger, defend their own country, even if it does mean the occasional wedding party gets blown to smithereens, or a school is mistakenly targeted, both of which happened. You get the picture? Taylor Gatling is running his own private war. He has the men, he has the ability to deliver death from the air and he has used it. This is well-known within the Pentagon, but if you think that means Gatling is about to be prosecuted or his contracts canceled, you would be wrong.”
“Because of the retired generals, the ones who invested in Gatling Security Group.”
“Exactly, and a number of lower-ranking officers, all of whom covet high-paying jobs with GSG when they retire or resign. Which means they’re willing to provide cover by retroactively approving Gatling’s targets. Covering both his ass and theirs. Pretending it was all a mistake, the authorization got lost in the paperwork. The Intelligence Sub-Committee has so far done nothing about it, and if we’re waiting for them to grow balls, we could be waiting forever. It’s far easier, and less dangerous politically, to look the other way.”
“It has ever been thus,” Naomi points out. “But what has this to do with Professor Keener?”
Bevins gives boss lady a steely look, as if daring her to make the connection. “Nothing, directly. But something else came up before the committee, in secret testimony. Something very instructive, if you know enough to pay attention. There was a question about GSG’s involvement in unauthorized domestic surveillance.”
“QuantaGate.”
“Yes. QuantaGate, and specifically Professor Keener. That push to have the FBI investigate Keener? It came from Gatling himself. And when the Bureau reported finding no evidence of espionage, Mr. Gatling apparently decided to take matters into his own hands. He had become convinced that Keener was, indeed, passing secrets to the Chinese, and initiated what he called ‘countermeasures.’ He claims, and the committee apparently believes him, that the so-called countermeasures were nothing more than surveillance, as authorized by the Patriot Act.”
“But you don’t believe that.”
“Someone targeted Keener for assassination. It could have been Gatling.”
“And he framed Shane at the same time, as revenge for testifying against his father?”
Bevins shrugs her agreement. “Two birds with one stone.”
“This all makes sense,” Naomi says. “It fits the facts as we know them. But one thing I don’t understand, one thing that haunts me: If Gatling knew he was going to have Keener taken out, to prevent him passing secrets, why kidnap the boy at all? Why take Joey Keener?”
Bevins has a strange look on her face. The same look people get just before they’re going to be sick. “I was hoping you knew,” she says.
As near as he can determine, the security system at the Nantz residence is state-of-the-art. There are no cheesy stickers guaranteeing quick response, because pros know that the logos are a dead giveaway as to what kind of system is in place, and therefore how to defeat it. The installation has been subtle, but Kidder knows what to look for. Every window, door and lock has been equipped with pressure-sensitive alarm devices. There are at least a dozen mini surveillance cameras mounted on various corners, and those are only the ones he can see. No doubt they’d been installed by professionals and cover every conceivable angle. Bust out a single pane, an alarm starts blaring, either at a security service, or the local cops, or both. Plus you’ll be starring on the video cameras. Hi there, world, this is me on my way to prison.
Too bad Nantz hasn’t contracted with Gama Guards. The very thought makes him want to giggle. That would be too easy, and not all that much fun. Bottom line, it doesn’t matter what kind of system she has, or how foolproof they think it is, there’s one surefire, never-fail way around it.
All he has to do is determine who the first responders are.
Kidder finds a nice, comfortable spot behind a Dumpster in the so-called public alley. He’s good at waiting. Back in the day when he’d been in the military, an elite warrior trained to kill with his bare hands, he’d once had to hold position for fifteen hours until the target, a terrified gray-haired hajji with a comically hooked nose and a rap star’s gold tooth, finally crawled out of the wreckage of what had been his home. Thought he’d made it, too, until he felt the cold muzzle against the base of his skull. Kidder put him down like Old Yeller—his own personal joke, because of the tooth. Of course he kept the tooth as a souvenir, who wouldn’t? Had it drilled and put on a matching gold chain which he wears around his neck as a reminder of the fun times over there in the sandbox.
Old Yeller, yuk, yuk.
With infinite patience Kidder begins to assemble his custom-made weapon. The twelve-inch rifled barrel from where it has been strapped to his leg. The plastic hand-stock from his right trouser pocket. The spring-loaded trigger mechanism from his left trouser pocket. And from beneath the carefully buttoned flap of his shirt pocket, a single fifty-caliber, five-hundred-and-seventy grain, center-fire, round-tipped, soft-nose bullet.
Just the one bullet. Because all he needs is one shot.
Chapter Forty-Two
Elephants Not in the Room
I’m dreaming about prison when the alarm begins to whoop. In my dream the prison cells are a kind of concrete maze, with some cells branching off into dead ends, others leading to the next cell and the next. There are no prisoners, none that I can find. The prison/maze seems to be empty. Except I keep hearing something on
the other side of the concrete walls, just around the next corner. Something furtive but alive. Something, or someone, that I have to find, and which keeps me hunting from cell to cell, heart pounding.
Whoop whoop whoop.
The alarm isn’t particularly loud, but is accompanied by flashing lights throughout the residence. And if that isn’t enough to wake me, Teddy pounds on my door. “Alice! Get up! Someone’s trying to break in!”
The nightmare about the prison hasn’t cleared from my mind, and at first I think that it’s me that’s trying to break in. Finally I surface enough to get what’s going on, hurry into a bathrobe and find Teddy prancing around outside the door like his feet are on fire.
“Come on,” he says, grabbing my arm. “We have to get to the safe room!”
That’s the drill. If the security alarm goes off, indicating a possible break-in, we’re all supposed to pile into the safe room—a windowless vault not far from the library—and wait until the first responders from Beacon Hill Security clear the premises. Mrs. Beasley, clad in a very handsome pair of men’s pajamas, has beat us to the safe room and sits there with her arms crossed, looking somewhere between bored and resolute. Naomi, fully, if hastily, dressed, arrives a moment later with Milton Bean in tow. Mr. Bean has wrapped himself in a sheet and looks like he escaped from a toga party, and isn’t sure if he should be amused or terrified.
“What’s going on?” he wants to know.
“Probably just a false alarm, but we need to take precautions.”
Naomi helps Teddy secure the door to the safe room. The vault is appointed like a small airport executive lounge, with low-level lighting, comfortable seating, a small refrigerator stocked with food and beverages and a video console wirelessly connected to all the security cameras in and around the residence. We watch as first one Beacon Hill Security patrol car rolls up in the public alley, then another, and finally a Boston Police patrol car arrives street-side. The Boston cops will secure the exterior of the building, which means they’ll walk the perimeter and check for signs of break-in. The Beacon Hill Security guards will, by previous arrangement, enter the residence and conduct a room-by-room search.
Fifteen minutes after the alarm first sounds, the Beacon Hill boss punches into the safe-room intercom, enters the code and informs us that the premises are clear and the situation is, his word, “contained.” And so we emerge unscathed if bleary-eyed to the news that a bullet has been fired through the third-floor window of Jack’s bedroom. That’s what triggered the alarm. No one has actually attempted to enter the premises.
“That glass is supposed to be bullet-resistant,” Naomi says, shocked by the news.
“Under normal circumstances it would be,” the security chief tells her.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Whoever did this was firing something like an elephant gun. We found a large hunk of lead in the bedroom ceiling. Had to be a fifty caliber, and to get through the glass—it punched a hole as big as a grapefruit. The angle indicates it was fired from ground level, from the vicinity of the alley.”
“An elephant gun, you say?”
He shrugs. “Something powerful enough to stop an elephant. Your window barriers will stop penetration from small-arms fire, up to and including an Uzi on full auto. So this had to have been a high-powered rifle with special ammunition. We’re going to turn the slug over to the police, see what they make of it. With your permission.”
Naomi nods her permission and turns to me. “My God, what if Jack had been there?”
“Saved by his wife, you might say. I’ll be sure to tell him that.”
“This is serious.”
“I am serious. Jack should know that in his case there’s an advantage to staying married.” When she frowns her disapproval at my jocularity, I add, “Come on, this was a drive-by shooting, not a serious assassination attempt.”
“With an elephant gun.”
“Don’t get hung up on the size of the gun. Whoever did this obviously knew they needed a powerful weapon to make a statement. Had they wanted to kill one of us, they’d have fired into a room that was occupied. The lights never came on in Jack’s room because he never came back from happy hour with his state cop buddy. It can’t be a coincidence that the shot was fired into an unoccupied room. And into the ceiling at that.”
Naomi stares at me, her brain buzzing through the possibilities, and in the end she agrees with my assessment. “The odds favor your theory,” she admits. “This was likely a warning shot, intended to discourage our investigation.”
“No chance of that.”
“None whatsoever,” Naomi says, resolute. “As a precaution I’ll keep the Beacon Hill security guards stationed outside the residence, at least for now.”
“So we can all go back to bed?”
“That’s advisable. We’re all going to need as much rest as we can get. That goes for you, young man,” she says to Teddy, who has lingered nearby, awaiting instructions. “By my estimation you haven’t had a full sleep cycle in at least three days. I want your mind clear for the next assignment, which is going to be difficult.”
“What’s the next assignment?” he asks instantly, beating me to it.
“I’ll know more tomorrow,” Naomi says enigmatically, and marches off to her room, as if on a mission.
Teddy waits until she’s gone before touching me on the arm to get my attention. “She’ll know more tomorrow?” he asks, puzzled. “What’s she going to do?”
I think about it. “My guess? She’s going to call the Benefactor.”
Our young computer genius says not a word to that, but looks like he’s seen a ghost.
Part 3.
Joey
Chapter Forty-Three
Under a Veil of Leaves
Over the course of the next forty-eight hours absolutely nothing of interest happens. Okay, the Red Sox did somehow manage to win, barely, all three of their away games at Toronto. And a city councilman from Dorchester was found gamboling in the duck pond at the Public Garden, having declared his intention to interfere with the swans. He was stark naked. Lucky for the big birds he was too drunk to accomplish his task. Or maybe lucky for him, considering how aggressively swans tend to respond when under attack from naked councilmen. In Revere, a group of rowdy teens was arrested for underage drinking at the beach, and in Lexington a possibly rabid fox terrorized a neighborhood before lying down to take a nap on someone’s porch and being identified as a perfectly healthy Pomeranian called, appropriately enough, Barker. The dog was taken into custody without incident and returned to its owner.
Okay, so I take it back about nothing of interest happening. I’m learning to be more specific: nothing of interest happened concerning our current case, at least nothing we knew about. We being everyone but Naomi, who spent hours on her secure line, waving me away whenever I happened to approach in a vain attempt to eavesdrop. Whatever she’s up to, she won’t discuss it, although my bets are all placed on our mysterious Benefactor, who, as we know from previous cases, has influence in very high places. Jack occupies himself with legwork, following up on the late Jonny Bing’s possible connection to the frozen corpse found at the foot of his bed in the vain hope that it might somehow, improbably, lead to Joey Keener. Teddy continues to plumb the depths of the World Wide Web, hoping to uncover something that will prove Taylor Gatling’s complicity in the murder of Professor Keener or the abduction of his missing son. Dane has been spending most of her time at the hospital, where Randall Shane continues to improve both physically and mentally, to the point that she’s worried the politically ambitious Middlesex County District Attorney will change his mind and put Shane behind bars while he awaits trial. Everything Shane has recalled in the past couple of days confirms what we already know, which is gratifying but essentially useless.
We still don’t know what we don’t know, and it’s making me as crazy as that overactive Pomeranian snapping at ankles in historic, upscale Lexington, birthplace of
American liberty and Rachel Dratch. Our only suspect, Pentagon darling Taylor Gatling, has a motive for silencing the professor, who he suspected of treason, and for framing Randall Shane, revenge served cold, but what possible reason would he have for stealing and keeping Joey Keener? Teddy, whose eyes are beginning to rotate in his head like the cherries on a slot machine, has been unable to find any link with Keener and Gatling, other than the obvious connection having to do with Gama Guards contracting to provide security for QuantaGate. Despite the coincidence of both victim and suspect being from New Hampshire, the two men seem to have had nothing in common. Gatling was raised in the southern part of the state, on the seacoast, to a moneyed-at-the-time family, and Keener bounced around foster homes in the north. Moreover, Keener being ten years older than Gatling, he was already out of state as a Caltech undergrad when Gatling was pulling pigtails in elementary school. Their one undeniable connection is that both profited from Pentagon contracts, but the same could be said of thousands if not tens of thousands of individuals.
In the late afternoon of the second day of nothing, Jack finds me on the roof, where I’ve been watching the dinky sailboats to-ing and fro-ing on the Charles.
“Those are dinghies, not dinkies, and they’re tacking, not to-ing.”
“I say they’re to-ing and fro-ing. Tacking is something upholsterers do.”
Jack laughs, shaking his handsome head. As usual he looks like he just stepped out of the pages of GQ, sporting a pair of Armani sunglasses that perfectly complement his gorgeous summer-weight suit. The dark glasses fail to hide his frustration because with Jack it’s all in the lips, that’s where he expresses himself, from cynical sneers to pensive, pouting moues. “Teddy’s been asking me about the Benefactor,” he says.
“What did you tell him?”
“Identity unknown to me. And that if he tried to dig something up, and somehow managed to establish a possible connection between Naomi and a wealthy and influential individual who might be financing this enterprise, he would be fired so quick his Mohawk would smolder from the friction.”