Dark Waters: A gripping political thriller with a killer twist (Deborah Jones Crime Thriller Series Book 2)

by J. B. Turner

She couldn’t help but feel sad. The room was laid out exactly as if John was still at home, as if Bill and his wife wanted to preserve it as it had been‌—‌where their son had lived and breathed. They seemed unwilling and probably unable to desecrate the evidence of his existence.

  Bill went to get his laptop while Sam flicked through hundreds of CDs and DVDs stacked up beside the single bed. He shouted out band names in the hope that they made up seventeen characters. The Velvet Underground, Jerry Lee Lewis and Captain Beefheart.

  Deborah began trawling through the shelves of mostly classic novels. When Bill got back she began suggesting author names and book titles. ‘Edgar Allan Poe, Patricia Cornwell, Noam Chomsky, Daphne Du Maurier. What about Stupid White Men by Michael Moore or Washington Square by Henry James?’ She ploughed through every piece of fiction and non-fiction that John Hudson had been interested in.

  Time was dragging on, and they had not achieved the breakthrough, ignoring the darkness outside.

  ‘Echo and the Bunnymen.’ It was a good try from Sam, but there were eighteen characters.

  Deborah’s gaze was drawn to one well-thumbed book, spine broken, called Hack Attacks Encyclopedia: A Complete History of Hacks, Cracks, Phreaks, and Spies over Time.

  She began flipping through it at random until she got to a MIT bookmark on page 832.

  ‘Hang on,’ she said, scanning the page. ‘Wait a goddamn minute.’

  Two words leapt out at her. Microsloth Windows. It was a disparaging hackerism for Microsoft Windows. ‘Bill, try this,’ she said.

  Suddenly the screen came alive, dozens of documents downloading in seconds. ‘Holy shit, what have we here?’ Bill cried.

  ‘You’re a genius,’ Sam said, as they craned over Bill’s shoulder to see what came up first.

  Dear Mum and Dad,

  I am writing this letter to you from a crummy motel on the edge of the Everglades, fearing for my life. I believe they’re closing in on me. And this is my only way of talking to you, knowing I may be dead when you read this.

  If something happens to me, I hope the contents stored in my memory stick may survive to bear witness to what I know. Folks, I believe I’ve stumbled onto a conspiracy. Please don’t be mad at me. It involves a cabal within the CIA, working against our country for their personal gain. I believe the man at the center of it is Charles Henke, Deputy Director of the CIA. I discovered these documents through hacking into his smartphone and downloading a Trojan virus in a bar in Washington DC, purely to see if there was anything on the twenty-eight missing pages of the Congressional Report into the 9/11 attacks. You know I felt strongly that we should have had that information. And the virus I had co-created cleaned out everything on the guy’s phone, which included the unexpurgated version of the 9/11 report which he had e-mailed as an attachment to the Saudis from his encrypted Hotmail address. Even I was shocked. He was, in effect, breaking the law as well as breaching CIA security protocol. Treasonable. But the smartphone, which was for his personal use, also contained all the e-mails sent by Charles Henke from that phone.

  They are self-explanatory.

  I wanted to pass what I had found to Deborah Jones, but I believe that Henke and another at the CIA were on to me very quickly. I don’t know how. But they were.

  Mum and Dad, I’ll love you forever.

  Do what you think is the right thing. I only wish I was there.

  Love, peace and respect

  John

  X

  Tears ran down Bill Hudson’s face. Positioning the cursor over the second folder, he clicked it open.

  The first file was the missing twenty-eight pages of the Congressional Report that they’d already seen. The second was the CIA Fallback protocol.

  ‘This is incredible,’ Bill said. ‘Is this what John died for?’

  ‘Almost definitely,’ said Sam.

  They uncovered confidential encrypted e-mail contact between Charles Henke and Princess Hind al-Bassi. One message in particular excited all three of them more than the others. Charles Henke sent it from his Hotmail address on 6 July 2006, with the Fallback protocol attached. His message read simply, ‘As requested, C.’

  It had to mean Charles. He was feeding the Saudi princess, whose name was blacked out of the 9/11 report, highly secretive CIA documents about Al-Qaeda. it was now clear that Charles Henke’s claim that John Hudson had been some patsy who’d come under the spell of a low-ranking CIA spy was an elaborate false trail. Henke was in cahoots with the enemy. And he was conducting his illegal activities away from his secure environment within Langley, on a smartphone, quite contrary to strict CIA regulations.

  Deborah remembered speaking to Larry Coen about the CIA and how they conducted their business. Apparently each member of staff at Langley had two computers‌—‌one connected to classified systems, the other for Net surfing and sending unclassified e-mail. Most of the work of a CIA analyst would be carried out on the classified network. But if staff wanted to copy data to portable devices like BlackBerrys, proper authorization was required. Clearly, Henke was working to his own agenda.

  ‘But why on earth would Henke leak such sensitive material?’ Bill said.

  ‘Money,’ Sam said. ‘We have information that Henke’s wife is a regular gambler, losing tens of thousands, sometimes hundreds of thousands of dollars in Vegas. So he obviously needed money to fund his wife’s ongoing habit and to pay her debts. And, of course, he has his own lifestyle to maintain.

  ‘He lives in a plush colonial home in Bethesda, one of the best suburbs of Washington DC. Worth four million, conservative estimate. Also got a place in Georgetown. Perhaps worth six million.

  ‘The opportunity to earn huge amounts of money occurred when he worked for a security firm before he was handed this plum CIA job. With Henke in charge, they landed a colossal contract with the Saudi oil ministry, which this al-Bassi woman’s brother runs. There will have been a few juicy kickbacks there.’

  Deborah looked first at Bill, and then at Sam. ‘I think it’s time to shake the tree.’

  56

  After a long strategy meeting at the Herald, Harry managed to get out of the newsroom just before three P.M. He drove straight to the Random Everglades Middle School on South Bayshore Drive. Rebecca and Andrew were both there outside the gates, along with a long line of glamorous mothers, nannies, the occasional father and scores of BMWs, Mercedes, Jeeps and other smart cars.

  ‘So, what’s the big deal?’ Rebecca asked, strapping herself into the front passenger seat. ‘You sounded stressed.’

  Harry headed north along South Miami Avenue. ‘I’ll explain everything.’ He took a right onto the Rickenbacker, paid the toll and sped across the bridge.

  ‘Did you bring the ball?’ Andrew asked, when they pulled up at Crandon Beach.

  Harry got it from the trunk of his car and threw it to his son, who quickly stripped to the waist in the blistering sun. ‘Fifteen minutes, okay?’ he shouted.

  His son didn’t waste any time showing off the tricks he’d learned at a soccer training camp.

  Harry donned his shades and headed onto the beach with Rebecca. He told her that their relationship was no longer a secret, and also about the pressure he’d come under to stop the investigation, as well about as the blackmail threats.

  They strolled slowly towards the ocean, to all intents and purposes a happy couple engrossed in each other.

  Harry motioned for her to sit beside him on the hot white sand.

  ‘I just want to get on with my life, Harry,’ Rebecca said. ‘I don’t need this, any of it. All I care about is Andrew. His welfare. His future.’

  Harry put his arm around her and whispered in her ear. ‘This is the only way I can be sure that they won’t monitor what I’m about to say. I don’t know if my car is bugged but I do know that my home is bugged and my phone will have been bugged. That’s why I’m using a friend’s cellphone at the moment.’

  ‘This is
insane.’

  ‘Yes, it is. And I haven’t been thinking straight. This morning I spoke to my lawyer. His name is Arrie Molscher of Molscher and Leibowitz. I’ve decided to go to the feds. In an hour’s time.’

  ‘Are you sure you have thought this through?’

  Harry had to stop for a moment so they could watch Andrew attempt to keep the ball in the air for a couple of minutes, using both feet. He grinned at his parents as the ball finally dropped to the sand.

  ‘If something happens to me,’ Harry continued, giving a thumbs-up signal to his son, ‘you and Andrew will be taken care of. You won’t have to worry about money. All my investments, savings, bonds, they will be yours, Rebecca. When Andrew turns twenty-one, a trust fund kicks in.’

  ‘You’re starting to scare me, Harry. You don’t really think this can happen, do you?’

  ‘It’s simply a precaution. Two hackers are dead, and some ex-CIA author who was helping Deborah apparently ended up killing himself. I want you and Andrew to stay with Artie and his wife and family for the next month, until this is finished. I’ll get the feds to relocate you if need be.’

  ‘I don’t want to be goddamn relocated. What’s the matter with you?’

  ‘This is not a game, Rebecca. I can’t impress that on you enough. You either do as I say, or I’ll take Andrew to Arrie’s place myself.’

  Rebecca broke away from him. ‘What am I going to tell Andrew?’

  ‘Tell him what I’ve told you. He’s a smart kid. He’ll understand. But tell him to keep quiet about it, okay?’

  ‘Will you be given protective custody?’

  ‘Who knows?’

  Rebecca put her head in her hands and groaned.

  ‘I don’t have a choice anymore,’ Harry said. ‘The investigation is back up and running, but I seem to be the one in these people’s sights. And I think they tend to shoot first.’

  ‘How do we get there?’

  ‘Arrie’s driver will pick you up. If someone is following me I don’t want them to know where you are. It’s not far from here. And you’ll have a cottage in the grounds, so you’ll have complete privacy as well as security.’

  ‘And you trust him?’

  ‘Absolutely. But it’s up to you. What do you say?’

  ‘I’m frightened.’

  Harry gazed down the beach towards his son who was still kicking the ball around as some Latinos wearing fluorescent Speedos swaggered by. ‘Look after our boy. That’s all I ask.’

  57

  Late afternoon, and the sky was burnt-orange when Nathan Stone cut the powerful twin-outboard engine of the cruiser two miles from Key Biscayne. It was nearly five P.M. He peered through his binoculars across the choppy waters at the waterfront mansion on South Mashta Drive, the upscale enclave where Cher used to live. The subject still wasn’t home.

  He scanned the frequencies used by the Miami-Dade police marine-patrol boats, by the DEA with their highspeed interceptor patrol boats, and by Customs. The drug smuggling gangs of south Florida were mainly based in Miami. Marijuana and cocaine from the Caribbean and Central and South America were smuggled up and down the Miami River with impunity, despite the best efforts of local law enforcement. But there was nothing doing today. Which was fine by Nathan.

  ‘Where the fuck are you?’ He put down his binoculars and entered a number on his cellphone.

  The familiar voice answered, as he always did, after three rings. ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘I was going to ask you the same thing,’ Nathan said. ‘No sign of our guy. You’ve not lost him, have you?’

  A few moments’ silence before he spoke. ‘Apparently, his car is stuck in a huge jam on Crandon Boulevard. Four-car smash.’

  ‘Is he okay?’

  ‘He wasn’t involved. Hold on.’ A beat. ‘Yeah, I’ve just checked, the traffic has just started moving again. He should be with you in five minutes.’

  Nathan enjoyed the cool salt-water spray on his face. He picked up the binoculars again. ‘Outside security lights have just come on.’

  ‘Sensor activated. He must’ve arrived home. That was quick.’

  A few moments elapsed before the lights came on in the house.

  ‘I’ll let you know when I’m done.’ Nathan ended the call, placing the cellphone in his back pocket. The subject headed out onto the terrace, drinking a glass of white wine.

  Nathan focused in on his subject, the powerful Steiner military binoculars picking up the dark shadows under his eyes. Draining his glass, the man turned around and went back inside.

  Nathan checked his watch. It was 4.59 p.m.

  Not long now.

  Through the binoculars he could see the man was now sitting on a sofa, watching TV.

  Nathan felt his pulse accelerate. He took out his cellphone and rang a number.

  He was calling another cellphone, which he’d taped to a copper gas pipe in the basement, a pipe which he’d deliberately filed until it had fractured.

  A moment later a thunderous explosion tore through the mansion. Giant flames licked the Miami sky, then secondary explosions reduced the house to a blazing shell within seconds.

  58

  The close-up TV shots from news choppers showed the smoldering remains of the waterfront mansion. Fire crews were still at work, using water from the bay. A blonde female reporter stood outside the gates as the sun set in the background and, as if she were doing the weather forecast, intoned that this was a ‘terrible accident for a truly gifted newspaperman’.

  ‘Question is,’ said Sam, ‘how much do you want this story? Is it really worth all this?’

  Deborah switched off the TV. ‘You’re damn right it is,’ she said.

  There had been a somber meeting in the Herald conference room the day after Harry’s death, and now Rafferty and Deborah had moved to Sam’s office.

  ‘I’ll switch it onto the speakers so everyone can hear the conversation,’ Sam said, pressing a button on his phone.

  Deborah’s mouth felt dry ‘Well, here goes.’

  He answered after four rings. ‘Yeah, who’s this?’ His voice was low and gravelly.

  ‘Mr Henke, it’s Deborah Jones of the Miami Herald. Can we talk?’

  ‘Make it brief, Miss Jones. I’ve got an important meeting in fifteen minutes.’

  ‘I’d like to talk again about the secret documents we uncovered.’

  Henke sighed. ‘We have been through all this already. There is, as I told you, an ongoing internal investigation which is reaching a critical juncture, and—’

  ‘I remember what you said. However, we have unearthed further sensitive documents.’

  Henke went quiet.

  ‘Mr Henke, can you explain to me why you sent sensitive CIA strategy documents to a Saudi princess implicated in the funding of some of those involved in the September 11 attacks?’

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. Look, why don’t you—’

  ‘Mr Henke, with all due respect, we need some answers. Otherwise we will have no choice but to go straight to the Senate Intelligence Committee. And then there is the question of the deaths of John Hudson and Harry Donovan, not to mention that of Richard Turner.’

  ‘Don’t ever threaten me, Miss Jones,’ Henke said. ‘And don’t fuck with me. You have no idea what you’re dealing with. No idea at all.’

  And he put down the phone.

  ‘There’s someone I think we’re forgetting about,’ Sam said, breaking the stunned silence in his office.

  Deborah nodded. ‘The princess?’

  ‘Absolutely. She is attending a function in West Palm Beach tonight,’ Sam said.

  ‘How do you know that?’ Rafferty asked.

  ‘I still have my sources,’ replied Sam, with a grin. ‘Princess Hind al-Bassi is one of the biggest patrons of the Norton Museum of Art in West Palm Beach. And I have the last remaining press ticket!’

  Ed Rafferty frowned. ‘You’re going to
ask Deborah to do this?’

  ‘No. This is a job for Larry Coen. We’ve got the story, but we need to know what this princess has to say for herself. Does that sound okay to you, Deborah?’

  ‘Sorry, Sam, but this is my investigation. It has been from the beginning. Now, while I appreciate that you want to protect me, if anyone’s going to ask questions face to face, it’s going to be me.’

  59

  Nathan Stone lay on top of his bed, blowing smoke rings, killing time. He was waiting for the call. In the next room, the raised voices of a gay couple having a blazing argument about the spilled amyl nitrate were keeping him vaguely entertained.

  He heard a van pull up outside the main entrance to the motel. He got to his feet and looked out of the window. A heavy-set Hispanic delivery guy stepped out of a Fed-Ex delivery van with a clipboard and a bulky rectangular-shaped parcel. Then he set off up the stairs.

  Nathan opened the door and waited.

  ‘Robert Jackson?’ The delivery man was puffing slightly.

  ‘That’s me.’ Nathan signed under the false name and checked the man’s badge. ‘Thanks, Ramon.’ He took the parcel and handed over a ten-dollar note. ‘Good service, man.’

  ‘Okay, sir, thank you. Have a nice day.’

  ‘You too.’ Nathan forced a smile.

  Back inside, Nathan locked the door, took his Swiss army knife from his back pocket and ripped open the package. It contained two smaller packets. He felt his heart beginning to thump faster.

  Inside the first parcel was a police regulation belt, nightstick, flashlight, badge, Taser and 9mm Glock 27 with ammo.

  ‘And what have we got here?’ he said to himself, opening the second packet.

  He took out a neatly folded bespoke dark blue police uniform and tie, as well as a shiny gold badge‌—‌with fake name and number‌—‌and black police-issue shoes.

  Nathan took a long shower, shaved, then carefully applied some skin-tone make-up to conceal the marks from the burn wounds on his face. He buttoned up his shirt and tightened the knot of his tie. Checking his reflection in the bathroom mirror, he was pleased to find that he looked just the part.