by J. B. Turner
Just after one A.M., as Deborah awoke from a doze to find the television still on, CNN were showing the latest outrage in Iraq—a multiple suicide bombing in Baghdad.
Her cellphone rang. It was Robert Sommers. ‘Can we talk?’
Deborah switched off the TV with the remote, not wishing to wake Jamille who was sleeping in the spare room. ‘Do you know what time it is, Robert?’
‘I can’t sleep, like you. Listen to this. I just received a very interesting call from a friend of mine who knows Cunningham. He says that everything that has happened can be traced back to this one guy who is known to those within Langley. I asked him to be a bit more precise. Apparently this guy was part of the NCS.’
Deborah knew that meant National Clandestine Service. Sommers had explained that before. ‘Not good, right?’
‘This guy has been all over. He’s worked psychological ops in Central America, Iraq, Eastern Europe. He’s a real hard case.’
‘So where is he now?’ Deborah asked, knowing the answer.
‘Right here. In Florida.’
‘And they reckon this is the same guy who killed John Hudson?’
‘Yes. Deborah… I believe he is following orders from those at the very top.’
Deborah said nothing.
‘Question is, is this more disinformation to put you off the scent, to stop you going after Cunningham? To put the frighteners on. I think you need to take great care.’
Deborah shivered. ‘I’m starting to feel like a fly in a spider’s web.’
‘I think you should get out of your condo. You’re a sitting target. Look what happened to me. That was a cute set-up. Trust me—they’ll stop at nothing.’
46
Less than an hour later Deborah had packed a bag, picked up some essentials including the documents and her laptop, and was being driven through the near-deserted dark streets to the relative safety of Jamille’s small house in affluent suburban Pinecrest, a hundred yards from Gulliver Preparatory School.
She managed to grab a couple of hours’ sleep on the couch before being woken just after dawn, when Jamille’s kids piled into the living room and switched on the TV. The news showed footage of the Hyatt and the compromising photos of Sommers. In a strange place, with Sam still in hospital, Deborah felt that her whole life had become surreal.
After showering and changing, she and Jamille went along to Hudson’s funeral at Woodlawn Park Cemetery in Little Havana, amid the splendor of Gothic statues, granite angels, and marble crypts. Hundreds of mourners attended. Scores of them were in their late teens and early twenties, some dressed casually, probably college friends of John.
As the coffin was lowered into the rock-hard earth, Bill Hudson, dressed in an immaculate dark suit, black tie and white shirt, wept openly, and his wife Kate fell to her knees.
The sky was the most perfect blue, but the sound of a mother’s helpless grief in the still, humid air sounded like the wail of a wounded animal.
• • •
Faith called Deborah later that afternoon.
‘I don’t want any excuses, girl,’ she said. ‘I mean it.’
Deborah laughed. ‘I’ll be there, don’t worry’
‘You better, otherwise I’ll be dropping you for the next game.’
‘I’ll be there, Faith, I promise.’
‘You hear Gloria’s news?’
‘I thought she wasn’t due for another fortnight?’
‘Twins. Can you believe it? Goddamn—Gloria a mother? Listen, the girls are heading across to the South Miami Hospital tomorrow night. You wanna tag along?’
‘I’ll try.’
‘Good. Anyway, I wanna see you shakin’ what you’ve got tonight. You hear me?’
Deborah laughed. ‘You just watch me.’
She hung up and leaned back in her seat, thinking about Gloria Tillett. She had fought her way out of Overtown, like most of the girls. Previously she’d worked the streets, feeding her crack habit, but after leaving her abusive pimp husband she had put herself through school with some of the money she’d saved and become a successful businesswoman, organizing conferences across south Florida. The previous year she’d got married again, to a funny, kind man called George Manders, who owned a couple of garages in Coconut Grove where they now lived happily together.
Increasingly, Deborah found herself wondering what it would be like to have children. She knew that Sam would be a good father. But she was not at all sure how she would handle things.
She checked her e-mails on her BlackBerry. But there was nothing important. She then began surfing the Net on Jamille’s laptop, killing some time before she headed down to Palmer Park.
Trawling through the New York Daily News website she spotted Pam Molloy’s byline emblazoned on the front page. She had an exclusive on a young boy being gunned down by police raiding a crack den in the Bronx. Having children was a big responsibility. And could bring great pain.
Deborah clicked on to the paper’s archive and pulled up a few articles on the CIA director, Michael Cunningham, in which dire predictions of a ‘twenty-year onslaught’ against Islamic terrorists were made. There was another short piece about a private function in New York at The Waldorf that had been hosted by the Saudi Consulate General.
Her gaze lingered on the black and white photograph taken one month earlier. On the far left of the picture was a man in a formal dinner suit. The Deputy Head of the CIA. His name was Charles Henke.
‘You okay?’ Jamille asked from the doorway.
‘I’m fine. Just thinking about what Robert was saying last night, about disinformation and about the way the CIA works. What if we’re only scraping the surface? What if this whole thing goes deeper within Langley? Maybe a network. A cabal working to their own agenda.’
‘Girl, you really are crazy.’
‘Then I got to thinking about Cunningham. I have been focusing almost exclusively on speaking to him. But what do we know about Cunningham’s number two?’
Jamille crouched down beside the screen. ‘Is that him?’
‘Yup. He’s tipped to take over at the end of the year. He’s the man I spoke to. The man who spun me the line about a spy within.’
‘So?’
‘Now I’m thinking it might be a very good idea to know more about him…’
• • •
Just over an hour later Deborah was sweating profusely under the floodlights at Palmer Park, doing killer relay sprints up and down the pitch.
‘Call that effort?’ Faith barked from the sidelines. ‘Don’t think you’re fooling me, girls. Dig deeper. Come on, let’s see you! You think I do this for the good of my health?’
Deborah gritted her teeth, feeling her calf muscles tighten minute by minute.
‘We might not be the most talented team in the league, but we sure as hell are the fittest.’
Deborah’s heart was pounding as the sprints continued.
‘This is for your benefit. You want the girls from Hialeah to beat us down in the last few minutes? Ain’t nobody stronger than us. And ain’t nobody gonna come close to us this season. Pain? You call this pain? Just suck it up. And you will get stronger, fitter and meaner. You hearin’ me, girls?’
The rest of the session was taken up by passing and moving, dribbling and shooting. Afterwards, mentally and physically spent, Deborah threw her sports bag into the trunk of her car.
‘You gave it your all tonight, honey.’ Faith came over and patted her on the back. ‘Show the same commitment at the weekend and we’ll go, top of the league.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
On the side of the pitch a Lexus pulled up and two thickset men in smart suits stepped out.
‘What the hell is going on here?’ Jamille said as they both flashed their Miami-Dade police badges.
‘Miss Deborah Jones?’ the older of the two asked. ‘Do you know a Robert Sommers?’
‘Yes, I do. Sorry,
is there a problem?’ Deborah said.
The detective’s face remained impassive. ‘Miss Jones, I’m sorry to say that we’re going to have to bring you in for questioning.’
‘Hang on just a minute…What is it?’
‘We’d rather you accompanied us down to HQ.’
‘If you’ve got some questions I’ll answer them in front of my friends, if you don’t mind.’
‘Very well. Did Mr Sommers call you around one o’clock this morning?’
‘Yes, he did.’
‘What did you discuss?’
‘An investigation I was working on. I can’t say any more. Why?’
‘Miss Jones, we believe you were the last person he called from his cellphone.’
‘Last person? How?’
‘Robert Sommers is dead. He was found by a maid just over an hour ago in his bathtub at the Hyatt.’
47
The clouds were swollen with rain when Harry Donovan’s flight touched down at Miami. He yawned as he headed home across the causeway for a quick shower and change of suit. He hadn’t slept a wink since his conversation with Jackie. Turning along South Mashta Drive, he saw the huge palms lining the street bending in the wind. He felt knots of tension in his stomach at the prospect of seeing his wife again.
As he glided through the electronic gates and into the driveway of his home he wondered what kind of mood she would be in.
‘Hey, honey, only me,’ he shouted, as he shut the front door.
Harry dumped his briefcase and bags, wondering where his wife was. He checked in the kitchen, then upstairs in the bedroom. He heard the shower in the bathroom. Then he went through to his study. He shut the door behind him and switched on his laptop to check his e-mails. Quite a lot from Juan. He reached over the filing cabinet beside his desk and pulled out the bottom drawer. He flicked through several folders but couldn’t find the budget cuts that Juan was proposing.
Strange. He remembered going over the figures the previous day before he’d left for the airport. He was sure he’d put the file away.
‘Honey,’ he said again as he headed into the bathroom.
Jackie shrieked when he opened the door. She was wrapped in a huge fluffy towel and was drying her hair. ‘Shit, don’t ever do that,’ she snapped.
‘Sorry.’ He pecked her on the cheek. ‘Honey, did you tidy up some of my files by any chance?’
‘Me? Why on earth would I do that?’
‘I don’t know… By mistake?’
Jackie stopped drying her hair and scowled at him. ‘Harry you know damn well that I never touch anything in your study. Only Concheeta.’
‘Where is she?’
‘She’s off today and tomorrow. Vacation. Even servants are entitled to a short break, Harry. But she knows it’s more than her job’s worth to touch any of your stuff.’
‘I need to go over those figures before I see Juan,’ Harry said.
‘Don’t look at me.’
Harry turned on his heel and stormed downstairs, muttering under his breath. He fixed himself a coffee, wondering if he hadn’t indeed misplaced the file. But after racking his brain he felt sure that the papers had been put straight back in the filing cabinet.
He went through to the living room and switched on Fox & Friends. John McCain was grinning beside Cindy, his glamorous wife, who was running her hand through her platinum-blonde hair and wearing an expensive lilac suit and pearls. Her smile was rigid. Facelifts were great, Harry reflected, if you just wanted the one expression.
It was common knowledge that the business and political contacts of Cindy McCain’s father had helped John McCain to gain a foothold in Arizona politics, just as Jackie and her family’s extensive contacts had been instrumental in the behind-the-scenes lobbying to help Harry secure the executive editorship of the Miami Herald. Harry’s political beliefs, not too different from McCain’s, had brought him to the attention of those who wielded power, including Michael Cunningham who had longstanding links to the paper, one of the biggest opinion formers in Florida. Big military, low taxes, vehemently anti-Castro—Harry knew he ticked all the boxes, unlike Sam Goldberg who was considered a ‘bit of a crazy’ by Cunningham.
‘You find what you were searching for?’ Jackie came into the living room, resplendent in a sleek pale yellow suit.
‘I’ll have a look later.’ Harry switched off the TV with the remote.
They went through to the kitchen together. ‘Good trip?’ she asked.
‘Had better.’
‘You eaten?’
Harry picked up the copy of that day’s Herald and studied the front page. Syria, city corruption charges and the suicide of a nightclub boss. ‘I’m fine. Thanks.’
As his wife put on a fresh pot of coffee and made some toast, he suddenly realized how quiet it was.
‘Where’s Roxy?’ he said, referring to the family Doberman which was usually around.
‘I don’t know—I just got up. I assumed he was down here.’
‘So where the hell is he?’
Harry’s cellphone rang, abruptly interrupting the conversation.
‘I have some interesting news for you.’ It was the educated voice again.
Harry indicated to his wife that he was heading upstairs to take the call and she nodded back at him.
‘I’m tired of these games,’ he said, slightly out of breath as he slumped in his leather study chair, shutting the door behind him. ‘I want you out of my life.’
‘All in good time. We just wanted to make sure that you hadn’t forgotten our little talk.’
‘You said you had some news for me.’
‘I believe Sam Goldberg is going to be released from hospital tomorrow. You know what that means? He’s going to want this investigation to proceed. And he’s going to wonder why his attractive investigations editor isn’t allowed on the premises.’
‘I’ll deal with it.’
‘I don’t think you understand.’
‘What don’t I understand?’
‘I’m not convinced you’ve got the message. About just how serious we are. Do you want me to tell you what we found in the middle of the night?’
‘Found?’
‘In your home. While you were gone.’
Harry sat bolt upright.
‘Relax. We just wanted to show you how easy it would be to get to you. Or to your wife. Or anyone dear to you, if this proceeds.’
Harry dreaded what he was going to hear next.
‘I’m just reading these projections for 2014/15 at the Herald. Very ambitious plans. If this was leaked to the Sentinel, I don’t know—’
‘This is stopping. And it’s stopping right now.’
‘This is the last time I will ever call you. I just wanted you to be aware that any attempt to resurrect this investigation, or to contact the police or even the feds, will not be tolerated.’
Harry took some deep breaths to calm himself down. Then he went downstairs and relayed the conversation to his wife who was staring fixedly out of the window.
She didn’t look round.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
Suddenly, Jacqueline put her hand to her mouth and started screaming.
Down below, floating on its side in the pool, was their dog, blood trailing from its neck.
48
The gurney bearing the black body bag that contained the bloodstained body of Robert Sommers was wheeled out of a side entrance of the Hyatt by uniformed cops. Parked diagonally across the street was Nathan Stone, his shades on and New York Mets hat pulled down low. He pretended to read his paper but couldn’t keep his eyes off the van with the blacked-out windows.
As the van pulled away he followed at a safe distance.
Nathan lit a cigarette as he tailed the morgue van. From Coral Gables it wound its way in bumper-to-bumper traffic along the South Dixie Highway to the downtown towers. He pulled up close by the three-building c
omplex which comprised the state-of-the-art Joseph H. Davis Center for Forensic Pathology, which was located at the edge of the sprawling Jackson Memorial Hospital and the University of Miami Medical School campus.
Nathan’s cellphone rang.
‘The networks are calling it suicide,’ the familiar voice said. ‘You done good.’
‘What else are they saying?’
‘Exactly what we wanted them to say. Robert Sommers killed himself after being caught with a Cuban call girl. Tragic.’
Nathan took one last drag of his cigarette and dropped the end out of the window.
‘Did he say anything before he died?’
‘Like what?’
‘Like how many copies of the fucking documents are still kicking around?’
‘Said he had seen a hard copy Deborah had but didn’t have a clue where it was being kept. He took a long time just to tell me that.’
‘Shit, Nathan. How did you allow him to get so close?’
‘He fooled me. I didn’t have a clue which train he was going to take until it was too late.’
‘We’ve got a decision pending. And it’s going to be made in the next twelve hours.’
‘Sam Goldberg is the key. If we keep him in our sights, then we’ll have her.’
‘Is it getting too much for you, Nathan? You want a vacation?’
‘Not now. I’m starting to enjoy myself. Just like the old days.’
‘It is important that you stay completely focused.’
‘Once this business is over I’ll take off for a couple of months. But until then I’m your man.’
Nathan stared across the street as a large car pulled up outside the morgue bureau. Out stepped a good-looking gentleman in a well-cut dark suit. Nathan allowed himself a wry smile.
Dr Brent Simmons was carrying a briefcase.
49
Sam was dressed and ready for Deborah. He was sitting in an easy chair beside his bed. His face looked pinched and his clothes were hanging off him. Sam’s sisters hugged Deborah tight when she arrived.