Down Among the Dead Men

by Ed Chatterton

  To compound matters, neither Hagenbaum nor Mills are fools, or anything close to being fools. They are both well informed about the data and both have a firm understanding of the weaknesses in Frank's case against Noone.

  'That's why I'm here,' he says. 'To gather some harder evidence. I'm looking for your help.'

  'We don't see what we can do.' Hagenbaum looks at his watch. 'Noone has committed no crime. You have nothing.' Hagenbaum is younger than Frank, around thirty. He's smart and knows it. Frank wants to smash his perfect white teeth in.

  Instead he counts to ten. 'We have Noone involved in a case with six dead. We have a witness who was assaulted by Noone. We have a psychologist's report which matches Noone's profile. And we have him at JFK at a time when Terry Peters' phone was used to make a call. It's more than nothing.'

  'I'll give you the phone,' says Mills. 'And what you say about the CCTV at the airport is a concern.' He looks at Hagenbaum. 'You think?'

  'It's not good.' Hagenbaum pauses. 'But it's not enough to push me to your view, Frank.'

  Frank doesn't remember telling Hagenbaum he could call him by his first name but he lets it pass. It's an old trick that Frank uses himself to subtly remind subordinates of their unthreatening status. Searle employs it all the time. Except that Searle is Frank's boss and Hagenbaum isn't.

  'So what can you give me?' Frank checks his watch now. If this is going to be a complete pile of shit he might as well get moving.

  'We will of course extend all hospitality,' says Mills.

  'What does that mean, exactly?'

  'You can use Lieutenant Mills' interview rooms. We can facilitate any meetings with Benjamin Noone or his representatives.'

  'And we can help you with any secretarial and logistical requirements.' Mills says this as if he's offering Frank a gift of emeralds.

  'Secretarial?' It's hard to keep the scorn from his voice. He shakes his head and then looks at the two men in the room in turn.

  'You're both officers of the law, right? You both want the same things as me, at least on paper. I'm telling you straight that Ben Noone is a killer. Now, what do I have to do to get you on our team?'

  Hagenbaum stands and adjusts the sleeve of his black jacket.

  'Bring us something,' he says. 'Something we can use.' He extends his hand and shakes Frank's. 'Frank,' he says, then nods towards the lieutenant. 'Lieutenant Mills.'

  As the door closes behind him, Frank turns to Mills.

  'Fucking Feds,' says Mills and shrugs. 'What can you do?'

  'I want to talk to Noone,' says Frank. 'Will you be able to help me with that?'

  Mills nods. 'We can call him,' he says.

  Frank stands and shakes Mills' hand.

  'If it's not too much trouble,' he says.

  Seventeen

  'You heard how Warren's doing?'

  Frank steps into the car and Koop pulls out of the parking lot into the LA traffic as if he's done it all his life. After his meeting with Hagenbaum and Mills, Frank had called Koop and is coming with him to meet Dooley.

  'Noone's still at home as far as Warren can tell.'

  Frank raises his eyebrows.

  'I think Warren's a bit spooked from yesterday,' Koop offers by way of explanation. 'Must have been a big moment Noone walking in on him like that.'

  'Very big.'

  The two of them are quiet for a moment as Koop negotiates a busy intersection.

  'So not too productive?' asks Koop.

  'Terrible,' agrees Frank. 'But at least we know where we are. And they've agreed to "facilitate" a meeting with Noone. Once we have something more.'

  Koop smiles like he's trying not to. He's got something, thinks Frank. He was always like this when he'd made progress; a child at Christmas. Frank feels his pulse tick up a notch.

  'What?' says Frank. 'Spit it out.'

  'I think we might have an opening.' He fills Koop in on what he's found out about Noone's tail and his theory about the money being a key. It's good, but not good enough to have Koop grinning like a demented chimp.

  'Daedalus,' says Frank. 'Why is that ringing a bell?'

  Koop jerks a thumb towards the back seat. 'The file's in my bag,' he says.

  Frank sees the sheaf of freshly printed material. 'Been shopping?'

  He flicks through the printouts. Koop's got information on Daedalus, on Noone's name change, on the Santa Monica property and a secondary sheaf of paper on some congressional hearings in progress in Washington.

  Frank holds these up with a questioning expression.

  'Just read it,' says Koop. 'See if you see it the same way I do.'

  Eighteen

  It's just after five-thirty on the morning of 20 March 2003, and Baghdad begins to explode. The first air strikes are called in by commandos from the CIA Special Activities Division, who had been on the ground for weeks, possibly months. The preparations by this unit, and others like it, have been plotted by the Northern Iraq Liaison Element and are crucial to the campaign. By 12 April Iraq has fallen and Saddam's statue is being toppled in Firdos Square.

  The invasion is not the end, but the beginning of a decade of bloodshed and horror affecting millions.

  Frank looks up from the file.

  'Iraq?'

  'Keep reading,' says Koop.

  The unit that had called in the first strikes was composed of veterans in the field. One of those vets retires from active service three months after the invasion. Returning to the US he starts a private company specialising in the protection of private contractors flown in to begin the gigantic infrastructure rebuild across Iraq. It's a boom time, at least for those involved in this kind of business. The company recruits more retired veterans as well as specialists from other western countries.

  'Does this make sense somewhere?' asks Frank.

  'It gets better.' Koop follows the GPS prompts and turns a corner.

  Daedalus, although later to the game than some of the companies formed after the Afghanistan invasion two years previously, is doing more things right. In the toxic atmosphere of the war it blossoms, a multi-layered, complex cactus. Inside five years it is the dominant player in the US industrial overseas security sector. In 2009 it's gobbled up by Loder Industries and becomes a multi-billion-dollar outfit in its own right.

  At the end of 2010 there are questions raised about defence contract procedures by one of Loder's competitors when Daedalus is awarded sole rights to the Iraqi and Afghanistan private security requirements. The man at the centre of the controversy is Dennis Sheehan, one-time US Secretary of State. Sheehan, the majority shareholder of Loder Industries, is a broad-shouldered, silver-haired man in his seventies, with the build of an athlete run to fat. He had the reputation of a bruising, unforgiving politician and that's carried over into his private business, which he runs with ruthless efficiency.

  'Interesting,' says Frank. 'But I don't see what use it is to us.'

  'Look at the last sheet.'

  Frank flips over the page.

  It's a photo of Sheehan taken – judging from the clothes – sometime around 1970. Sheehan's in a business suit and smiling as he stands behind Richard Nixon. He's much thinner, there are no glasses, and his hair is black. In the photo he looks around thirty years old.

  'Sweet Mary, Mother of God,' whispers Frank.

  Nineteen

  Just as Frank and Koop arrive at the cafe to meet Dooley, Warren calls to let them know Noone's on the move.

  'Just track him,' says Frank. Koop's got Warren on speaker.

  'I hope he's not going to the fucking desert again,' says Warren. 'I don't want to do that drive twice in two days.'

  'We found something' says Frank. What he's just seen on Koop's printouts has shaken him and he wants Warren to be aware of what they are dealing with. He tells Warren about the Daedalus connection.

  'Be careful,' says Frank.

  'You think?' says Warren and signs off.

  Poms. Jesus.

  Noone's heading back into the c
ity but this time he leaves the freeway and sticks to Santa Monica Boulevard.

  Warren checks the GPS and thumps the dashboard in frustration. The fucker could be going to Palm Springs again.

  Instead, when Noone reaches Beverly Boulevard, he exits and parks at a place called the Farmers Market. Warren watches him leave the jeep in a paying lot and walk towards a shopping centre.

  As quickly as he can, Warren pulls into the lot and parks. He walks over to the jeep and sees that Noone has bought a two-hour ticket.

  Warren walks in the direction taken by Noone, conscious that, out of the car, he's all too visible. About fifty metres away he glimpses Noone's head disappearing through a walkway leading into an old-fashioned market. Warren follows, breathless in his effort to keep up, and finds himself in the middle of a bewildering wooden maze of cafes and shops and delicatessens. He's standing next to a Korean barbecue stand. Warren didn't even know there was such a thing as Korean barbecue. It smells wonderful.

  To his left is a row of shops. The low-ceilinged space is busy with what looks like a predominantly local crowd. On the GPS Warren had noticed that the place was smack up against the TV giant CBS. Several of the passers-by wear T-shirts with the names of TV shows written on them.

  He can't see Noone anywhere.

  'Fuck.' Warren thinks about calling Koop again and dismisses the thought. He's been a cop for too long to keep running to someone else every time there's a problem.

  From what he can see the place is set out on a square grid. At either end there are areas full of tables with umbrellas. Warren takes the chance that Noone is meeting someone here and is at one of the tables.

  He buys a baseball cap from a souvenir stand and jams it on his head. It's not much but it's something. Warren approaches the cafe area slowly, keeping himself hidden behind the brightly lit shelves of a bakery.

  He's just about to move on when he spots Noone looking directly at him.

  Warren curses under his breath and, doing his best to look unconcerned, lets his eyes skate across Noone's. Warren turns to the bakery shelves and in the reflection from a chrome edging sees Noone walking in his direction.

  Warren slips down the side of the bakery and turns left, moving as quickly as he can through a narrow passageway. At the end he finds himself outside an old-style ice-cream shop called Bennetts. A glance over his shoulder tells him that Noone's still coming his way. Warren darts down the side of Bennetts and heads right down a passageway with a sloping roof. His breath is coming hard now. At the end of the passageway he turns and doubles back on himself. If Noone's following then Warren's banking on him not expecting this.

  To his relief, when Warren emerges into the Farmers Market there's no sign of Noone.

  Warren zigzags back towards the Korean barbecue joint. He pauses at the end of a service alley and leans against a wall to get his breath back.

  A hand clamps itself over his mouth and another grips his nose hard and Warren is dragged back through a doorway. Inside it's freezing cold and Warren realises that he's in a cold storage area servicing the market. Noone has Warren's head clamped between wiry, muscled arms and the Australian can't get free. He reaches up, frantically clawing at his attacker, but it's no good. Warren's badly out of shape and Noone isn't.

  A few frantic, panicky seconds tick by. Noone is breathing hard close to Warren's ear. He smells of expensive cologne. Warren can hear his own blood pumping madly through his lousy veins and then a black tunnel starts to form at the edges of his vision and the sound of his blood is drowned by a distant humming and all he can think is how stupid it is that after all the anti-smoking warnings, he's going to die, like this, with his feet in the air in the cold storage area behind a Korean barbecue. Warren's phone starts to ring, muffled inside his pocket, but it's too late, much too late.

  Twenty

  Sam Dooley's already at a booth when they arrive at the coffee shop.

  He's an imposing black guy about Frank's age with a belly and a taste for smart clothes. Next to him Frank feels scruffy. He's not what he imagined from Koop's description of his role.

  After the introductions are made and coffee ordered for Frank and Koop, Dooley fills Koop in on some of his history. The Gang Detail had been formed in the wake of the Rampart Division corruption scandal of the late nineties in which a large number of officers were implicated in gang crime. Dooley's one of the results of the overhaul. Recruitment standards were raised and pride restored. It's clear to Frank that Dooley's proud of his contribution.

  He listens politely but Frank's mind keeps flashing on to the old photo of Dennis Sheehan and the implications for his case. It's a fucking time bomb and Frank feels out of his depth. This – if what they think is true turns out to be so – is way beyond his pay grade.

  'Keane,' says Dooley. 'Am I boring you?'

  'Sorry,' says Frank. 'Jet lag.'

  'Yeah.' Dooley purses his lips. He turns to Koop. 'I guess I might have been talking too much.' He juts his chin at Koop's file. 'What you got?'

  Before they'd arrived at the coffee shop Frank and Koop had agreed to keep the Sheehan photo under wraps until a point in the meeting with Dooley when it feels right. With Frank's stock apparently so low with the US authorities, he needs time before making any wild assertions about the Noone case to a sceptical local.

  'We need a friend,' says Koop. 'You're it.'

  Frank outlines the case he's chasing and fills Dooley in on bringing Koop and Warren in as consultants. As Frank's talking he can feel Dooley closing off. Dooley sits back in the booth, his body language indicating growing discomfort.

  Frank can't blame him; if a US cop had shown up on Merseyside with two freelancers in tow and a hinky story like this, Frank would have been less than happy. But he perseveres.

  'I know it's not something that you'd like,' he says, 'but I'm beginning to think that Noone's planning to kill again.'

  'If he's your guy.'

  'He's our guy, believe me.' Frank tells Dooley about Noone's trip to Palm Springs and about the way he shook off the blue Toyota. 'There's something he didn't want anyone to see.'

  'Probably a boyfriend,' says Dooley. 'Palm Springs is a big gay town.'

  'Maybe. It wouldn't be something that would surprise me. But I don't think it is. Noone's being followed by people from Daedalus. They're a –'

  'I know who they are,' interrupts Dooley. 'We deal with them all the time through the D of C. Rent-a-cops, mostly.'

  'Maybe here,' says Koop. 'But the Daedalus core business is several rungs higher than that. Ex-Special Forces, CIA, hardcore military intelligence people. They're running big operations in Afghanistan and Iraq. All of it legal as far as we know, and the people are top quality. It would be a mistake to see them as amateurs.'

  Dooley's expression hasn't changed but Frank can sense they've got him at least paying attention.

  'OK, then I guess the question is,' says Dooley, 'why are Daedalus following Noone?'

  Koop looks at Frank and raises his eyebrows.

  'Show him,' says Frank.

  'Daedalus is owned by Loder Industries,' says Koop. 'Loder Industries' majority shareholder is Dennis Sheehan.'

  Dooley's fully with the program now. He's leaning forward, eager. 'Ex-Secretary of State?'

  'The same.' Koop takes out a photo showing Sheehan giving evidence to the congressional hearings. He places it on the table and rotates it so that Dooley can see.

  'OK,' says Dooley. 'But I'm still not getting the connection.'

  Koop takes out another sheet. This time it's a photo of Noone taken from the Hungry Head pre-production publicity website for The Tunnels. Noone's smiling, looking right at the camera. Koop puts it next to the shot of Sheehan.

  Dooley shrugs.

  Koop places the photo of Dennis Sheehan with Richard Nixon and puts it next to the one of Noone. Dooley bends closer, his eyes widening. He takes the photo of Noone and slides it across to take out Nixon.

  'You see it, right?' Frank leans for
ward and taps a finger on the image of the young Sheehan. 'We think Dennis Sheehan is Ben Noone's father.'

  Twenty-One

  Noone, breathing hard, lets go of the dead guy and lowers him to the floor of the cold storage room. Conscious that someone could walk right in at any time, he bends and takes out the man's wallet, holding it by the edges. He lets it flip open and sees the guy's driver's licence. It's not a California issue.

  Warren Eckhardt.

  Australia?

  What the fuck is an Australian doing snooping around Los Angeles?

  For the first time in a while Noone wonders if he's done the right thing. Maybe this guy is a tourist after all. Then he flashes on the restroom in Morongo and knows that Eckhardt's no tourist.

  A further inspection of the wallet reveals Eckhardt's ID card, still showing him as a Queensland police officer. What the fuck?

  Noone places the wallet on the floor and finds a cheap prepaid phone in the dead man's jacket pocket. He slips the phone into his own pocket. Then he replaces the wallet in Eckhardt's jacket after wiping the corners to remove any trace of his own prints.

  Standing, he checks that the alley is empty before wiping the handle of the storage room door and slipping out. Noone's last act is to push the door shut behind him with the toe of his boot before walking calmly away.

  Noone takes the long route around and back to a cafe in the centre of the market. He sits at the counter and orders a coffee from the Latino server. A few minutes later and there's a tap on his shoulder.

  'Ben.'

  Noone turns and sees his agent, Fiona Berens. She's a small, dark-haired woman in her thirties, dressed in grey. Like almost everyone working in the LA media she has the body of a gym rat. She pushes her sunglasses up on her head and kisses Noone's cheek.

  'You're cold,' she says.

  Noone shrugs.

  'Been here long?' says Berens.