by J. B. Turner
Then he opened a locked drawer in his bedside cabinet and pulled out a small plastic bag of white powder.
Nathan chopped up three long raggedy lines on the cabinet, rolled up a twenty-dollar bill, and snorted the lot.
60
Deborah stood in front of a full-length bedroom mirror at McNally’s Fisher Island home, admiring the ivory satin dress he’d picked up earlier from her condo. Her heart was pounding hard.
Sam popped his head round the door gingerly before entering her room. Then he shut the door quietly behind him.
Deborah smiled. ‘So, what do you think?’
‘Are you serious? You look fantastic.’
Sam stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her waist. Then he pulled her close and kissed her lips. It felt good.
‘I’m gonna be sashaying beside some of the wealthiest people in south Florida, and I want to look the part. Besides, if I want to get up close to the princess I’ll need more than a press ticket.’
Sam seemed to sense how nervous she was. ‘Look, you don’t have to go through with this. If you are having second thoughts, don’t be—’
‘I’m fine, really.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’
‘It wouldn’t be any problem to get a replacement reporter up there.’
‘I know that, Sam, but, as I said before, this is my investigation.’ Deborah sighed. ‘Look, there is one thing that’s still bugging me. Gnawing away at me.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Sam, this whole lone conspiracy theory just seems too goddamn neat.’
‘How?’
‘Think about it. Everything we have is pointing to Henke, albeit with Simmons perhaps in a supporting role, right?’
Sam nodded
‘Are we really to believe that this is all the work of Henke? That he’s the lone crazy and that no one else within Langley, or other agencies, is involved in this, or even aware of it at a strategic level? Is this really plausible?’
‘You don’t believe this stops at Henke?’
‘How can it? I believe this conspiracy runs deeper. Which poses even more fundamental questions. Does no one in the Pentagon know about this? And if not, why not? And what about the Saudis’ General Intelligence Directorate? Are they involved? They have to be.’
Sam shut her up with another kiss. ‘Let’s leave those questions for another day. Then we can open this whole thing out.’
Deborah smiled and picked up her matching handbag from an easy chair and tucked it under her arm. Inside she’d crammed her tape recorder, cellphone, notepad, pens, lipstick and mascara.
‘Once this story is done and dusted,’ he said, ‘we’re going to sit down and talk about us, for a change. No more fleeting lunches, or dinners on the run. I want us to be a real couple.’
‘I’m going to hold you to that,’ Deborah said.
• • •
The traffic was heavy. Deborah’s headlights strafed the freeway ahead. She glanced in her rear-view mirror and saw McNally’s SUV right behind her.
As the miles rolled by, the night sky over south Florida inky black, Deborah wondered how the evening would unfold. Would she be able to get near the princess?
She tuned in her radio to a classical station and was pleased to find some soothing Brahms.
After an hour-long drive north, Deborah headed off the freeway and negotiated the dimly lit streets of downtown West Palm Beach, the car’s satellite navigation system guiding her to the destination.
The Norton Museum of Art was fringed by palms. She pulled up in the parking lot behind the museum and checked in her rear-view mirror. McNally had parked directly behind her.
She got out, locked her car and waved towards McNally. She couldn’t see his face behind the tinted windows, but he flashed his headlights anyway.
61
Deborah was directed through the museum lobby to a futuristic three-storey atrium. A string quartet played in the background. Scores of guests chatted noisily. Some of them were sitting on the cantilevered spiral staircase, sipping champagne, nibbling canapés.
Deborah waited for a moment on the terrazzo floor with its cracked ice-blue pattern until a Hispanic waiter approached with a tray of drinks. She selected a glass of grapefruit juice.
‘Excuse me,’ she said, ‘I’m wondering if the princess has arrived?’
The waiter gave a vacant smile. ‘The princess?’
‘The guest of honor.’
‘Oh yeah, sure. Right. Seen her about fifteen minutes ago. Don’t know where she is now, though. Probably getting the VIP tour.’
Deborah looked around at the throng, mostly middle-aged, heavily tanned and immaculately coiffured donors who were dressed to kill. The heady mix of perfume and power hung in the air.
Deborah lingered by herself for a few minutes before drifting out to the west courtyard. She drew glances from a couple of guests before she headed into the Pavilion Room, just off the atrium. A handful of younger guests mingled under an aqua-blue and green glass ceiling. It overlooked a reflecting pool and an isle of palm trees.
Noticing a sign for the galleries, she ambled towards the collection of late-nineteenth and early-twentieth-century American paintings, sculptures and drawings.
Apart from a bored-looking museum official, the room was empty.
Deborah moved on to the Contemporary and European galleries. No one was there either. Where the hell was the princess? Outside the prestigious Chinese collection were two burly men of Middle Eastern appearance, both in dark suits. One was muttering into a cellphone. He looked up as Deborah approached a rather timid-looking female museum official.
‘Excuse me,’ Deborah said, ‘is it okay to see the collection?’
The woman gave a wan smile. ‘Private viewing, I’m afraid. Try again in fifteen minutes.’
The bodyguards moved to block Deborah’s path, expressionless.
Suddenly the gallery doors opened and the Director of the Museum stepped out, followed by more bodyguards. She thanked a slight woman with dark brown eyes who was swathed in a long white silk dress.
At that moment, time stood still.
Deborah quickly switched her cellphone to microphone mode. ‘Excuse me, Princess al-Bassi.’ Her voice was not as steady as she would have liked. The bodyguards eyed her suspiciously but didn’t move. ‘Just a moment of your time, please. I’m Deborah Jones of the Miami Herald. May I ask you a question?’
The princess smiled at Deborah. ‘Yes, of course. I’d be delighted.’
‘Our newspaper is about to conclude an investigation into alleged links between a senior member of American intelligence and yourself, Princess al-Bassi.’
The princess frowned. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘We have evidence that you are mentioned in the twenty-eight censored pages of the 9/11 report. But we are looking for clarification on another point, if I may?’
The princess, stony-faced, said nothing.
‘How long have you known the Deputy Director of the CIA, Charles Henke?’
‘I’m sorry. I think you must have mistaken me for someone else.’
‘With respect, Princess al-Bassi, is it possible that Charles Henke’s previous role at Platinum Security Solutions was the reason he decided to send you highly confidential documents pertaining to national security?’
‘Would you let me pass, please? We have nothing to discuss.’
‘I think we do, princess. I should like you to explain your links to the September 11 attackers, and why it is that you continue to fund jihadists in mosques across Afghanistan and the Middle East.’
The museum director flushed crimson. ‘Please escort this young lady off the premises,’ she snapped to an assistant. ‘Now!’
The bodyguards stepped forward and each of them grabbed one of Deborah’s arms. But before they could march her away she managed one last question. ‘Is it true that you continue to fund
Al-Qaeda to this day, Princess al-Bassi?’
Deborah’s feet did not touch the ground until she was dumped outside. A well-heeled couple getting out of a silver Daimler looked vaguely surprised but took little notice.
Deborah was seething. But what other result could she have expected? At least she had managed to have the confrontation, and it was all recorded on her cellphone.
As she unlocked her SUV, she waved at McNally’s car which was still parked behind her.
She was about to put the key in the ignition when she felt cold steel pressed against the back of her neck.
62
Sam Goldberg paced the thick carpet in his office for the hundredth time.
‘I don’t like it,’ he said to Frank Callaghan. ‘Why hasn’t Thomas called in?’
‘Sam, just relax.’
‘He said he’d call every ten minutes. I’ve not heard from him for twenty-two minutes. He’s not answering his goddamn cellphone. And neither is Deborah. I can’t believe I authorized this. I must’ve lost my mind.’
He stared at the Stygian darkness of Biscayne, car lights moving slowly across the causeway. Then he had an idea and reached for his phone.
He waited a few moments before a woman’s voice answered. ‘The Norton Museum.’
‘Good evening. My name’s Sam Goldberg. I’m managing editor of the Miami Herald.’
‘Good evening, sir. How may I help you?’
‘Who’s in charge of security for this evening?’
‘Hold one minute, sir.’ Sam had to listen to some discreet Vivaldi before a man’s voice came on. ‘Ron Leach, security manager. You’re calling from the Herald?’
‘Yes, Mr Leach. One of my reporters is among the guests this evening, and I was wondering—’
‘Your reporter was thrown out, Mr Goldberg. Harassing one of our top patrons is never a good move.’
Sam winced. ‘I see. Listen, she arrived in a black SUV, and there’s a guy, Thomas McNally, driving a pale blue SUV, who’s supposed to be keeping an eye on her. But I’m not getting any reply on his phone. Can you do me a favor and check outside to see if everything’s all right?’
‘You’re kidding me, right?’
‘Do I sound like I’m joking? Look, Miss Jones has been threatened recently over an investigation she’s working on. Can you help me out? I’m asking you nicely. Please check that the vehicles are there, along with their drivers.’
Leach gave a theatrical sigh. ‘We’ve got a lot on our plate tonight, as you can imagine, but I’ll get one of my men to take a look. A black SUV and a pale blue SUV you say? License plates?’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t know.’
‘Okay, I’ll call you back in five minutes.’
• • •
The minutes dragged as Sam wandered up and down the office.
‘There could be a perfectly innocent reason, Sam,’ Frank said. ‘Look, it’s probably a glitch in the cellphone network.’
‘In West Palm Beach? It’s hardly Nowheresville.’
Frank said nothing.
‘I’m just thinking, what if the psycho who attacked Deborah has got to her?’
‘Don’t go there, Sam.’
‘I authorized the goddamn thing. But my gut instinct was to send Larry Coen out there tonight. After all that’s happened.’
‘So why didn’t you?’
Sam groaned. ‘Because she insisted on going. I thought it would be fine with Thomas there.’ He closed his eyes. ‘How can I have been so dumb?’
‘You did the right thing. You let her continue with the investigation but made sure someone was there for her.’
‘But he isn’t, is he?’
‘You don’t know that.’
Sam jabbed his chest. ‘I feel it here. Something is not right.’
Frank rubbed his eyes. It had been a long day. Suddenly Sam’s desk phone rang and he switched the speakers on.
‘Goldberg,’ he said.
‘Ron Leach at the Norton Museum. My guy checked over the two vehicles, which are still, as we speak, parked in the west parking lot of the museum. Everything’s fine.’
‘Did your guy check if there was anyone in the cars?’
‘He tapped on the windows of both, but there was no reply. I guess they’re still in the reception.’
‘I asked you to make sure the two people were with their vehicles.’
‘Mr Goldberg, there was nothing amiss. No windows broken, no signs of forced entry. The dark tinted glass meant he couldn’t see inside.’
‘This is a goddamn emergency,’ Sam snapped. ‘Break the windows if you have to. Do you understand me? And call the goddamn cops.’
‘Sir, I think you’re overreacting.’
‘Listen to me, Ron. If my reporter was thrown out of the reception, where the hell is she now?’
‘I don’t have time to babysit your people, Mr Goldberg. Now I’m going to hang up. I’ve got work to do.’
The line went dead.
‘Great,’ Sam said.
‘Hang on, hang on.’ Frank frowned, then started clicking his fingers as if trying to remember a name. ‘West Palm Beach, we did an article about a police chief there, couple of years back.’
‘And?’
‘Diane Mosley. She was the first African-American member of the West Palm Beach Police Department way back in the 1980s when she joined up, and she worked her way to the top.’
‘You want me to call her up?’
‘It might sound desperate, but you never know.’
‘You want me to tell her that a young black journalist could be in danger, is that your line?’
Frank held up his palms. ‘I wouldn’t put it so crudely. But just give it to her straight.’
‘Worth a try.’ Sam pulled up the website of the West Palm Beach Police Department, located at 600 Banyan Boulevard. He punched in the phone number and waited.
A gruff voice answered. ‘West Palm Beach Police Department, how can I help?’
‘Good evening. My name’s Sam Goldberg, managing editor of the Miami Herald. I need to speak to your chief urgently.’
‘I’m sorry, she’s in a community meeting.’
‘This is urgent, or I wouldn’t be making the call. I really need to speak to her. Right now.’
‘Gimme a minute.’
‘Thank you.’
Less than a minute later, a woman’s voice came on. ‘Yes?’ She sounded irritable already.
‘I’m very sorry to interrupt your meeting, but I need your help. I have an investigative reporter, Deborah Jones—’
‘I’ve read her work.’
Sam quickly explained the situation.
‘Ah hah,’ Chief Mosley said. ‘You thought that because I’m a black woman I’d jump. Listen to me. My officers are far too busy to go heading off on some crazy wild-goose chase, just because some journalist is not returning her cellphone messages or some security guy has switched off his phone. Please don’t waste my time again.’
63
The man’s hand covered Deborah’s mouth, pressing her head back, as a gum-chewing uniformed security man wandered around the car.
I’m in here, she wanted to scream.
She knew what every woman was told. Always try and make a run for it. But she couldn’t.
So she sat there, knife at her neck, ice in her veins.
The man whispered in her ear. ‘You will die if there’s any noise or any sudden movement. So be a good girl. I like good girls.’
Deborah stared wide-eyed through the privacy glass as the security guard spoke into his radio and then walked away. Where the hell was McNally?
The man relaxed his grip round her neck. ‘Slowly, very slowly, I want you to put your key in the ignition. Then we will drive off. Now, do you think you can do that?’
Deborah nodded, tasting salty tears.
‘Okay, nice and easy, I want you to take I-95 and head south.’
/> Deborah took a deep breath and did what she was told. The knife was removed from against her neck and the man slumped back in the rear seat, where he began to hum softly to himself
Deborah took a wrong turning in West Palm Beach and skirted past the regenerated section of downtown, City Place. ‘Let’s not do anything silly,’ the man said. ‘Take the freeway.’
‘Sorry.’
City Place modeled itself on a European town, full of fine architecture, beautiful fountains, sidewalk cafes, restaurants and bars. Deborah saw a couple of police officers drinking coffees, leaning on their cruisers. She wondered if she shouldn’t just risk it, come to a sudden halt and jump out.
She was doing around thirty miles per hour. She weighed the options but her nerve failed her.
Instead, she took a left and was soon heading along Okeechobee Boulevard. There was the sign up ahead for 1-95 S.
She’d lost the moment.
Deborah glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw the man smiling back at her. She felt sick. ‘Where are we going?’
He smiled and said nothing.
‘I said where are we—’
‘Due south.’
‘Due south, right. Where exactly? Miami?’
‘Maybe.’
Was this how it was to end? Driving to a remote location so he could kill her? Deborah tried to act calm, driving sensibly, not breaking any speed limit, but inside her stomach was churning, her mind was in free fall.
The miles rolled by. Past Greenacres, Delray Beach, Coral Springs and Fort Lauderdale. The lights of the oncoming cars were dazzling.
‘Get onto the South Dixie Highway, and then onto the turnpike,’ the man said.
He wanted her to ignore Miami and head on south, deeper and deeper into southeast Florida.
64
‘Sorry to bother you again, Mr Leach. It’s Sam Goldberg.’
‘I appreciate that you are worried, Mr Goldberg, but we’ve already checked the two vehicles. There’s nothing amiss.’
‘Please check again. I’m begging you.’
‘What the hell is—’