by J. B. Turner
‘You both need to slow down, honey,’ Lauren said. ‘You’re killing yourself with this investigation.’
‘Sam said you fancied Barbados, Deborah,’ Miriam added. ‘I know a great retreat on the west coast.’
‘Maybe once this is all over.’ Deborah smiled as she crouched down beside Sam and held his hand before kissing it lightly. ‘You made it, tough guy’
Sam nodded. ‘Not so tough. But I got the all-clear. Doctor says I’ve got to take it easy for a little while.’ To her surprise, Deborah found herself in tears.
• • •
Later in the afternoon Deborah and Sam were picked up by Thomas McNally with two of his men in tow. They headed for McNally’s place on Fisher Island. Deborah strapped herself into the back seat of the SUV—Sam was in the front—as they drove at high speed, with several counter-surveillance U-turns along the way, until they got to the ferry terminal beside the Macarthur Causeway. From there it was only a seven-minute journey across to the exclusive island home of the superrich. A huge cruise ship was just docking at the port.
Deborah turned to McNally as they reached the gatehouse. ‘Are you sure this is okay with your wife?’
‘Andrea? Are you crazy? She’s already got your rooms made up—they overlook the water. New laptop for you, Deborah, and for Sam, so you don’t have to head into the office. You should have let me know earlier.’
‘You’re very kind.’
‘Happy to help.’
The barrier lifted up and the guard saluted as they drove through. Huge palm trees shrouded the entrance to the white stucco house. A beautiful woman dressed in pale pink was waiting at the top of the gravel drive.
‘Call me Andrea,’ she said, kissing Deborah on the cheek. Deborah noted the expensive perfume. Then she hugged Sam.
‘This is all too much,’ he said. ‘You shouldn’t have.’
‘Nonsense, Sam. You’re guests, so you’ve got the run of the whole house. Anything you want, just holler.’
It was cool inside. Terracotta floors, modern art on the whitewashed walls, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the moonlit water.
Deborah’s room had a waterside view. Gleaming luxury yachts bobbed in the heavy swell. The decor was cool beige throughout and there were starched white cotton sheets on the bed with a large lamp on either side. A new laptop was already switched on.
‘You won’t be bothered here unless you want to be,’ Sam said.
‘I need to work. You know that.’
‘Can’t you just take it easy for once?’
‘You know what I’m like.’
Sam smiled and held her close. She could feel how he had lost weight, and there was a fragility to him that made her ache with tenderness.
Andrea fixed them a chicken salad with French fries and a couple of bottles of Diet Coke. Then they all sat outside on the deck.
Deborah held Sam’s hand and immediately felt better. McNally fixed himself a large Jack Daniel’s and his wife a white wine spritzer. Deborah noticed Sam casting a wistful eye at the whiskey. But, dutifully, he swallowed his Diet Coke.
‘Helluva face the guy left you with,’ McNally said.
Sam laughed. ‘You don’t think it makes me look more rugged?’
‘Just makes you look more of any ugly bastard than you were in the first place.’
They sat for a while in a companionable silence. The air smelled sweet.
‘Deborah, I believe you or Sam or both of you were probably being followed,’ McNally said eventually, ‘and it is possible that part of the problem was your cell-phones.’
‘You mean my phone was bugged? Or Sam’s?’
McNally smiled. ‘All cellphones have microphones and advanced technology fitted as standard. It is perfectly easy for government agencies, and I’m talking primarily the NSA and FBI, to monitor what you’re saying, if your cellphone is on your desk or in your pocket, wherever. It’s a roving bug. And it’s not even illegal. There was a case at the end of last year where it was revealed that the feds were listening in to some of the most powerful guys in the Genovese family via their cellphones. The judge ruled that it was legal because federal wiretapping law allows the authorities to listen in on conversations that take place near a suspect’s cellphone.’
‘So the CIA could listen in on my conversations if my cellphone was just lying around on my kitchen table, or on a restaurant table, or in my back pocket? Even if it was switched off?’ Deborah was surprised that neither Sam nor she knew about this.
‘Kinda scary, huh? The only way to beat it is to remove the cellphone battery.’
‘So how is this done?’ Sam asked.
‘What usually happens is that software is remotely installed on a handset without you, me or anyone knowing anything about it. The microphone is then activated, even if the goddamn thing is turned off. You could be in a meeting with Deborah, both your phones switched off, but people could be listening in. I have some of the best counter-surveillance experts in the world on my payroll and they have worked for government agencies. The American government is the world leader in this field and I can say, without a word of a lie, that their intelligence agencies use this technique on a daily basis.’
‘That’s unbelievable,’ Deborah said.
‘Think about it. A cellphone sitting on the desk of a newspaper editor, reporter, or politician can be transformed into a powerful bug, enabling certain agencies to listen in. And no one will be any the wiser.’
Deborah said, ‘Everyone has a cellphone these days, even my mother.’
‘That’s why I’ve taken the liberty of removing the batteries from your old phones, in effect disabling them, and have supplied both you and Sam with two new cell-phones for the duration of this investigation so that you can’t be monitored. They’re activated, and they’re waiting in your bedrooms for you to use immediately. I got them from Israel.’
Deborah leaned over and patted McNally on the back of his hand. ‘I appreciate all you’re doing for us, Mr McNally. Really I do. And I’m impressed.’
Sam smiled. ‘God it’s good to be out of hospital. And how wonderful to have such friends.’
50
The women went to bed early but Sam was savoring his escape from intensive care and was glad to stay up a little longer, even without the aid of a couple of shots of Jack Daniel’s.
‘Hey, before I forget, I’ve got something for you,’ McNally said. He got up and went inside, returning a few moments later with a buff file.
‘Deborah asked for this,’ he said. ‘All she needs to know about Charles Woodrow Henke. And I mean everything. Makes interesting reading.’
‘Can I take a look?’
McNally shrugged and handed it over. ‘You’re paying for it, man.’
Sam scanned the pages quickly. ‘Well, well, well,’ he said. ‘So his wife loses a fortune regularly on the blackjack tables in Vegas.’
‘Nobody’s perfect.’
‘Says here that Henke started off his military life in the marines. Served in Beirut and Afghanistan in the 1980s with the CIA. Served as an “adviser” to the Colombian government and the Contra rebels. Maybe Deborah really is on to something. In the 1990s he was helping the Iraqis in the war against Iran. Reassigned to the Armed Forces Institute of Pathology for six months.’ Sam saw the connection immediately: Simmons and Henke. But he didn’t let on. ‘Station chief in Beirut and then in Kabul. Also worked in Riyadh. Nice crowd he hangs out with.’
‘Read on. It gets even more interesting.’
‘He left the military for a five-year stint as the chief operating officer of Platinum Security Solutions. Never heard of them.’
‘Very low-profile. They supply thousands of security personnel, advisers and bodyguards—ex-Special Forces and the like—to Iraq, Afghanistan and other trouble spots.’
Sam scanned a two-page Wall Street report. ‘Business is booming, share price at an all-time
high. Good time to own Platinum stock.’
‘Read on, man.’
‘“A 1.2 billion-dollar five-year contract with the Saudi oil ministry has transformed the fortunes of this previously moribund company since Henke took over the reins,”’ Sam quoted from the report.
‘Apparently Charles Henke has contacts on Capitol Hill, in the Pentagon and at the highest levels of this administration. He has a lot of muscle. And he’s biding his time to become director, which could be within the next three months. But that’s not all. I gather his ties to the Saudis are cause for concern within the Agency.’
‘How come?’
‘He’s a regular at the Saudi Embassy. I even heard a rumor that he has a townhouse in Georgetown which was paid for by the Saudis. I’m also told, by one of my best sources, that Henke has taken over at Langley. He calls the shots. The official line is that Cunningham has been based for the last few months in Kabul, with occasional trips to Islamabad to speak to the ISI. But I’m hearing serious whispers that that is not the case.’
‘Are you saying that Cunningham isn’t in Afghanistan?’
‘Shortly after Charles Henke joined, and I’m talking a matter of weeks, Cunningham had some sort of breakdown. No one knows why. But the White House was terrified that this would leak out. He is recuperating at a military facility in California.’
‘Jesus. Sounds like a fucking coup d’état.’
‘Sam, want a bit of advice?’
‘Shoot.’
‘I would never dream of telling you whether to continue with an investigation or not. That’s your business. But these guys are dangerous. You were lucky. Sommers wasn’t.’
‘You don’t believe that shit about a mole inside the CIA?’
‘It’s not out of the question. Remember Aldrich Ames?’
Sam nodded, recalling the case of the former CIA counter-intelligence officer and analyst—and alcoholic—who had been passing secrets to the Soviets for years. ‘You reckon Henke could have gone bad?’
‘I think you need to shake the tree. Call him. Tell him you don’t believe the line he’s pushing. Say you’re going to pass what you’ve got to the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. Nobody fucks with them.’
‘What if he says fine, go right ahead?’
‘Hand over the documents to the chairman, Harold Steinberg. He’ll find out if they are fakes or not. And it also keeps you in the clear, in case Henke’s story really should stack up.’
Sam considered the idea for a few moments. The Senator was a wily old-style Democrat and wasn’t afraid to confront the powers-that-be. ‘I don’t know. We need something more concrete. Further proof. But my priority just now is Deborah. How can I keep her safe?’
• • •
Sam stayed on the deck alone after McNally turned in. He was startled by a sound. The French doors opened. It was Deborah. She was wearing a large oversize white shirt and was barefoot.
‘You okay?’ he asked.
She smiled. ‘Couldn’t sleep. I heard Thomas clomping around upstairs, so I decided to join you, if that’s okay. It’s nice here.’
Deborah sat down beside Sam and he reached out for her hand, squeezing it tight. The moonlight cast a pale light on her honey-brown skin. Deborah stared out over the water, soaking up the tranquility, breathing in the balmy south Florida night air, feeling at peace. They sat in a dreamy silence for what seemed like an eternity, watching ibises swooping down low on the still waters of the Cut.
‘Don’t let me be alone tonight, Sam,’ Deborah said. ‘I don’t ever want to be alone again. I’ve never been so scared as I’ve been these last few days.’
Sam felt his throat tighten. For a few seconds he just smiled at her, admiring her beauty, glad that she was by his side. Then he leaned over and kissed her lightly on the cheek. He smelled the sweetest perfume.
‘I want you to be with me tonight, Sam. I want you to be with me every night.’
They stood up and she put her arms around his neck and pulled him close. ‘I need you, Sam.’
He kissed her long and hard. Then, arms around each other’s waists, they went inside.
51
The beam of white light from the Cape Florida Lighthouse—on the southernmost point of Key Biscayne—strafed the dark, oppressive Miami sky every five seconds as shards of blood-red sky appeared on the horizon. Harry Donovan breathed hard as he pounded the beach on an early-morning jog, unable to sleep, not knowing what to do or who to talk to. Sweat poured down his face.
Why the hell did they have to kill the dog? Even with Sam due back, the investigation didn’t have a chance in hell of making it into the paper with both him and Juan united in their resolve.
His cellphone rang and he interrupted his run to answer.
‘Hey, honey,’ his wife said, ‘Where are you? I just woke up and you were gone.’
‘Trying to stretch my legs, that’s all,’ he panted. ‘I need time to think.’
‘Honey, don’t shut me out. I understand how you must feel under pressure, Harry. But so do I.’
Using the back of his hand, Harry wiped the sweat from his brow.
‘Go and speak to Ron. I know that’s the right thing to do. The feds will understand,’ Jacqueline said.
‘Jackie, we need to think long and hard about this. There are implications for everyone.’
‘You’re being really so indecisive.’
‘If I go to the feds today, there’s no turning back.’
‘You mean the fallout if that conversation with Cunningham was recorded?’
‘I’m way past caring about that shit.’
‘It’ll be fine, Harry.’
‘You didn’t wake up while someone was in our house and killed the goddamn dog. They didn’t leave a trace. Nothing on camera, even. If I’m going to speak to the feds, I want to be absolutely sure that my wife, my son and my son’s mother, are safe. You’ve got to trust me on this.’
‘For how long?’
‘Forty-eight hours, max.’
‘Promise?’
‘I promise.’
He ended the call. Almost immediately his cellphone rang again. ‘Donovan,’ he sighed.
‘Harry, Eddie Rafferty here.’ It was the Herald’s abrasive ex-publisher who had retired six months earlier.
‘Eddie, how the hell are you?’
‘We need to talk.’
‘You wanna meet up for lunch?’
‘No. I want to see you in the newsroom asap.’
• • •
Eddie Rafferty was in Juan’s plush corner office. He had put on even more weight and was bursting out of his dark blue pin-striped suit. He stood up slowly and shook Harry’s hand.
‘Nice to see you again,’ he said, slumping back down in his seat.
Harry Donovan pulled up a chair opposite Rafferty. ‘I thought you had retired to Key Largo?’
‘Not any more,’ Rafferty replied. ‘I’m the paper’s new publisher.’
‘Sorry am I missing something here?’
‘I’ve been brought in to sort out this mess.’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘I’m talking about the breakdown in trust between the Miami Herald’s managing editor, Sam Goldberg, and the publisher, Juan Garcia. Is that right?’
‘This is outrageous! Why haven’t I been notified?’
‘You have. The letter from Steve Ronin is on your desk. Why don’t you go check it out?’
Harry shifted in his seat. ‘I will.’
‘Steve is the chairman of the company which owns the Herald, but—’
‘I know who Steve Ronin is.’
‘Someone is trying to silence this paper. A clear warning was sent to Sam and Deborah that the investigation was to be halted.’
‘How the hell did you get involved?’
‘Sam contacted Steve yesterday from the hospital, and he got the whole low-down.
Steve didn’t even know he was in hospital. That’s outrageous.’
Harry said nothing.
‘So he contacted me to see if I could help out over the next six months, until the situation is resolved.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Look, I’m not casting aspersions on you. Let’s be quite clear about that.’
‘Then what the hell are you doing, goddamit?’
‘Getting the Miami Herald back to doing what it does best. And by that I mean not shrinking from difficult stories and crumbling at the first hint of pressure.’
‘You think that’s what I did?’
‘I think that’s what Juan did. He made a wrong call. You were merely loyal.’ Rafferty shifted in his seat. ‘It’s your job, Harry, to resist pressure from any intelligence agency or any arm of government. Do you understand?’
Harry’s mind was whirling.
‘This is Juan’s first major position with a major American newspaper and I believe that his experience as a publisher, albeit a highly successful one, wasn’t best suited to this particular role. As you know, Harry, Juan’s father is a prominent figure in the Cuban-American community here in Miami and swears unswerving allegiance to the Stars and Stripes. Frankly, I think that Juan was suckered.’
‘Obviously I’m going to have to consider my position.’
‘You read the documents Deborah unearthed, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, I did. But there was an authentication question.’
‘Run it by the CIA. That’s what Deborah’s been trying to do.’
Rafferty leaned forward, hands clasped together on the desk. ‘Let me be quite clear. The investigation is now back on. Sam needs a few more days to recuperate. Meanwhile, Deborah can get things back on track… Look, if you’re not happy…’ Rafferty paused. ‘Sam wants you to stay put. He thinks you’re a solid executive editor, and he admires the job you do.’
Harry could not conceal the truth any longer. It all came tumbling out. The calls at the country club. The photos to the house. The dead dog. The blackmail.
‘Jesus Christ, Harry.’ Rafferty leaned back in his seat. ‘Why didn’t you say? This changes everything. Have you called in the police?’