by Rick Pullen
“Can we talk?” Geneva asked.
“I think so.” Beck held her hand as they walked swiftly along Old Town’s narrow brick sidewalks, stopping to stand aside and let a young couple with a very large Doberman on a leash go by in the opposite direction. The neighborhood was a mixture of old homes and red brick condominiums and apartment buildings.
“What’s going on?”
“We’re being watched.”
“What?”
“That was some sort of listening device hooked to my electrical outlet.”
“Listening to our conversations?” “I assume so.”
“To us? To us being intimate?”
“Maybe.”
“Oh my god.”
Beck stopped at the corner, and they faced each other as several cars passed. “I don’t really know. I think maybe we’ll go to the movies this after-noon—anything but spending the day in my condo. What I do know is we won’t be having any serious conversations there until I figure this out.”
43
The next morning, Beck arrived early in the newsroom and went straight to Nancy.
“I think my condo is bugged.”
“What?”
“I know. Sounds absurd, but I found something in an electrical outlet.”
“Are you sure?” “Sure, I’m sure.”
“Hold on.” Her voice was weary. She punched a couple of keys on the conference room phone. “Bob, got a sec? Beck and I need to talk.” She hung up and turned to him. “Come on.”
The discussion in Baker’s office was also behind a closed door.
“But why?” Baker asked.
“All I can think of is someone wants to somehow stay a step ahead and use what they find to discredit my story,” Beck said. “Can’t imagine they get their jollies from watching sausage being made.”
“This seems real cloak-and-dagger to me. A bit sensational. We’re talking about a newspaper story. Politicians know better than to bug a reporter. That’s political suicide. I just don’t buy it.”
“But what about the murder in Cayman?” Nancy chimed in. “This is not your regular political story.”
Baker paused, looking at both of them. Beck wasn’t sure if his boss was buying it. Then Baker finally spoke. “I’ve dealt with this type of thing before,” he said. “Long time ago. I forget who we used. Let me talk with Bennett in security. We will have someone qualified over to your home this afternoon to do a thorough sweep of your place.”
IT TOOK THE SECURITY CREW less than thirty minutes to locate four listening devices. Even in the bathroom. What did they think they would find there? Beck wondered.
It bothered him that whoever was spying on him had monitored everything in his bedroom, living room, and dining room, though nothing on the balcony or kitchen. Whoever it was didn’t know his habits at least. But the bedroom. Should he tell Geneva?
The ponytailed technician held up a small device in his sinewy hand, the one Beck had taken out of the wall behind Red. He held it up to the light and admired its craftsmanship. “Oh, this is a beaut. Don’t see these very often. They’re expensive. You must have some important enemies Mr. Rikki.”
Beck winced, thinking about what someone out there had overheard. “I’m afraid I might.”
“Pretty sophisticated stuff. This could pick up every conversation within twenty feet and broadcast it a hundred yards or more. So whoever was monitoring this could be just about anywhere. Could be one of your condo neighbors or someone in a car down the street.”
“How long has it been there?”
“No way to tell. It was hardwired to your electrical outlet, which doubled as an antenna. Could have been here a long time.”
Thanks to Red, Beck had a good idea of just how long it had been in his condo—sometime after he bumped into her and put her back in place.
He quizzed the tech more. For someone who didn’t consider himself tech savvy, Beck was drilling pretty deep about the details of the device and how it worked. He was in reporter’s mode, only this time the story was about him.
He felt violated. This was his safe place and now someone had walked in when he wasn’t here and looked at all of his stuff—his photos, his awards, his books, maybe even his personal financial files in the closet in the bedroom.
He wondered if anything had been stolen. But then, if these guys were real pros, they wouldn’t rob him for fear of raising suspicions and being discovered. He’d check his condo anyway. He would change the locks again and invest in something more substantial. Maybe he needed his own security system.
And what had they heard? He didn’t have the heart to tell Geneva that the sounds of their lovemaking—the heavy breathing, the moans, and her husky voice exclaiming his name—were probably recorded on someone’s smartphone, entertainment for a bunch of perverts drinking booze somewhere.
And had they heard him talking to Red? Could they figure out his secret from his one-sided conversations? He needed to erase the thought. It made him feel ill to think about.
He called Nancy and explained what they had found.
“Then you’re going to have to be a lot more careful. We”—she paused—”are going to have to be a lot more careful. Watch what you say in your home. Maybe you should start working more at the office.”
Beck almost panicked at the thought. “I’ll be fine. It’s not like I talk to myself in my condo. Who does that?”
44
As Amtrak’s Acela subtly leaned unnoticed into the track curves at ninety miles an hour on its journey to New York on this chilly Monday morning, Geneva reviewed her plan. Everything had fallen into place. Keith had done his part, and Beck had done his. She needed to await today’s stock market reaction and pray the Pentagon did the right thing. She was anxious. The end was now in full focus, but there were still so many things that could go wrong.
As soon as she arrived at her tiny hotel suite, she flipped on the cable news channel and began to prepare for her rendezvous with Keith. She stripped and pulled a tight black sweater over her head and slipped into her skinny black designer jeans. She looked at herself in the bathroom full-length mirror. Like a second skin, the sweater revealed plenty of cleavage and every contour of her body.
Perfect bait, she thought. She needed to reveal enough but not too much, so she could reel in her catch and keep him firmly on the line. She turned in front of the mirror, examining her profile. She had worked hard. Yoga, treadmill, free weights. They had helped sculpt her figure. She knew it wasn’t all of her doing and silently thanked her parents for the family gene pool.
The news channel caught her ear. Something about the Pentagon. She stepped quickly into the living room and looked at the television.
“The Pentagon official stated that, due to this week’s revelation that New Jersey Senator David Bayard may be taking money under the table from defense contractor Lamurr Technologies, the drone contract it recently rewarded to Lamurr was—quote—under review,” the newsreader said.
Geneva pumped her fist. Victory, she thought. Wait till they hear this back at the office. What will old man Dymon think then? It’s happening right now. The Pentagon is sending signals it will quickly reevaluate the politics of the situation. Serodynne should have the contract within the week, she thought. She was so excited, she wanted to share the news with Sue Nijelski, but then she heard the knock at her door. She checked herself in the mirror one more time. She pushed her breasts up, but without a bra, gravity put them in their proper place. This is as good as I get, she thought.
She grabbed the bottle of chilled champagne she had opened earlier and turned her back to the mirror to check her outfit one last time. Why was she so nervous? She was on the verge of winning. She was close—too close—she told herself. She couldn’t afford a misstep now.
Geneva threw open the door and faced Keith, thrusting her body and the bottle of champagne forward as an offering.
“Wow.” His mouth hung open.
“Don’t drool. We have so
mething to celebrate.” She grabbed his striped necktie and pulled him through the doorway, then kicked the door closed with her foot. She set down the champagne, turned, and kissed him hard on the lips. Theirs was a long, passionate kiss, and he held her tightly.
Geneva finally pushed back, grabbed the Dom Perignon, and poured two glasses. “I was hoping for something nicer, but this was the best the concierge could find at the last minute.” She took a sip and clinked their glasses, never pulling her eyes away from his. “Here’s to our success,” she said.
“Here’s to us.” His eyes wandered down her sweater. He made no attempt to hide his desire.
As much as she enjoyed his attention, Geneva reminded herself she was here for a purpose. The most difficult part of their plan was yet to come. They had to move the money and make it disappear, which would be risky.
“Watch this,” she said, pointing to the television.
They both sat and watched the cable news channel as it announced a surge in Serodynne’s stock value while Lamurr’s dropped by hundreds of points.
“We’re richer than god,” said Keith.
“God and all the gods put together,” Geneva said. “But not if we don’t get busy and finish this. We need to start cashing out.” “When do you want to start?”
“Do it gradually beginning tomorrow. We don’t want to draw attention to what we’re doing.”
“I can’t believe I did this. I can’t believe we did this. I can’t believe we made so much money. This is more than I ever imagined. And I owe it all to you,” Keith said. He looked into her eyes and kissed her. She let him, and they lay back on the bed and began to make out, his hand sliding under her sweater.
45
Beck hunched over his computer, sipping his fourth diet cola of the day and surfing the web for stories about the public’s reaction to his Bayard story. He looked at the clock—nearly lunchtime, which always meant most reporters were missing in action from the newsroom.
Public reaction to Beck’s story had been immediate. Letters to the editor ranted in large cities and small towns across the country—in red and blue states alike. By Wednesday, the national media outlets awakened to the coming storm and piled on.
Privately, Beck loved every moment of it. But Nancy had warned him not to gloat. He must be the poster child for humility in public. The last thing he wanted to do, she explained, was to destroy the credibility of his story by coming off as an arrogant ass. The media, she reminded him, weren’t exactly beloved by most Americans, and especially by conservative Republicans.
Public opinion polls began to show a shift of discontent, but there was no outward display by the presidential campaign of candidate Ford Patten that he had even noticed. Dissatisfaction with his vice presidential choice, however, was now chipping away at Patten’s lead. Bayard’s future dominated the discussions on cable television political talkfests.
And Bayard refused to budge. Bastard, thought Beck. But then, if Beck were in his shoes, he’d probably do the same thing. He thought about Bayard squirming uneasily and knew he—Beck Rikki—was the cause of all of his discomfort. Beck basked in the feeling.
The familiar buzz of Fahy’s burner cell broke the silence. Beck yanked open his middle desk drawer, remembering he had dumped the phone there for the day since it felt bulky in his pocket. The phone rang and vibrated, causing his collection of cheap pens to tremble and dance atop dog-eared reporter’s notebooks, half-eaten protein bars, and a stack of crumpled yellow sticky notes.
“Meet me at two,” said the familiar voice. He hung up before Beck could respond.
NEARLY TWO HOURS LATER, Beck found Fahy in his customary spot near the rear of the dingy restaurant dining room, his back to the wall. He wore a dark pinstripe suit—straight from the office, no doubt. He began to speak before Beck could sit down.
“You’re going to be served with a subpoena later today, ordering you to disclose your Justice Department source. Oliver is behind it. He’s mad as hell. You just had to put the Justice Department investigation in the lead of your story. Jeez. Why did you do that? I thought you knew better. Now he wants your head.”
Beck felt panic. “He can do this?”
“Federal prosecutor. Federal judge. You bet. Now, our agreement is still in place, right?” Fahy’s voice quivered ever so slightly.
It was the first time Beck had seen Mr. Boy Scout’s confidence waver, which made him feel even more unsettled. “Our agreement’s still good. I do not reveal my confidential sources.”
“You’re willing to go to jail to cover your source?”
“That’s our agreement, although I admit I never seriously considered jail a possibility.”
“Consider it.” Fahy blew out an audible sigh and looked around the restaurant. Once again, they were the only Caucasians gracing its shabby interior. An elderly couple sat at a table in the middle of the room, and two teenagers, who probably should have been in school, pawed each other at the lunch counter, his hand well below her waist. Construction workers, in paint-splattered black jeans and work boots, sat at tables on the other side of the room, sipping mugs of steaming coffee—likely driven inside by the cold drizzle that had started during morning rush hour. None of the other restaurant patrons appeared the least bit interested in two white guys having a conversation.
“I’ve never revealed a confidential source,” Beck said.
“And you’ve never been threatened with jail time if you refused.” Fahy talked softly, almost in a whisper. Beck noted his Irish complexion seemed to have changed. Fahy’s skin was blotchy, as if he had been in the sun too long or maybe had an allergy. Or maybe it was stress, Beck thought.
“Why the rush? The government never moves this quickly. What’s got Oliver’s shorts in a twist?” Beck instinctively lowered his voice too.
“Oliver wants to deflect attention from Bayard and make you the issue. No doubt he also wants to impress the man likely to be the next president of the United States. It’s good politics and good PR, as far as Oliver’s concerned.”
The restaurant owner brought over two large white cups of black coffee and placed them on the table in front of them. No cream. No sugar. No chitchat. He walked back to his post, threw a dish towel over his shoulder, and leaned on the lunch counter to read the local Hispanic weekly tabloid. Something in Spanish screamed across the page. Beck wondered if it could be his story.
Fahy took a sip of his coffee.
“What about President Croom or the attorney general? Don’t they have a say?” Beck warmed his hands on his cup.
“Oliver is going out on a limb. The attorney general’s policy is pretty straightforward. The AG must approve any news media subpoenas, not Oliver. So I’m sure there will soon be some very unhappy people in the Croom administration. Oliver’s quietly gone ahead anyway and is playing the odds. Without notifying anyone, he went before a federal grand jury late yesterday, rather than to a judge, to obtain subpoenas for you and your newspaper.”
“Me? I have to go to court?”
“Had he sought permission from a judge, the judge probably would have made some inquiries, which probably would have resulted in the AG signaling to turn down Oliver’s request. But he was shrewd. He went to the grand jury. And you know what they say about a grand jury—it will indict a ham sandwich. So imagine how difficult it was to get a couple of subpoenas issued for you.”
“You saying even though I’ve done nothing wrong, I could go to
jail?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.” Beck could feel his stomach churn.
Fahy looked over Beck’s shoulder. Someone had entered the restaurant. Fahy held his gaze and said nothing for several seconds. Beck finally turned and looked behind him. It appeared to be just another construction crew member in splattered jeans and a light jacket. The man appeared to finally recognize the work crew at the far side of the room and head in their direction.
Fahy sighed loudly again and looked Beck in the eye. “Oliver is basic
ally daring the attorney general to object, and the way I see it, Oliver has this whole thing figured out. If Croom and the AG say anything— try to kill the subpoenas—their motives will be questioned. Not only do they appear to be politically motivated this close to an election, but they also could be accused of being soft on crime. What politician wants that? On the other hand, even though Oliver has gone rogue, he looks like a man doing his job, searching for the truth. Who looks better in that scenario?”
“Oliver can get away with that?”
“Sure. What’s he got to lose? His boss and the president are both lame ducks. In a couple of months, they’ll be job hunting. This is all about Oliver sucking up to the next president of the United States.”
“Isn’t he just a government bureaucrat?”
“Oliver was a helluva prosecutor in his time. And remember, he served in Bill Croom’s White House. He still has a reputation as a skilled trial attorney. Even as head of Justice’s criminal division, he prosecutes one or two cases a year to keep his skills sharpened. So no one will question his move as anything unusual. Plus, it’s a high-profile case. What self-serving prosecutor doesn’t want a piece of that?”
Beck hadn’t seen this coming. He’d hit Bayard and the Republican ticket really hard, and now they were using all of the government power they had amassed over the years to strike back. This sure wasn’t in his high school civics book.
“What are Oliver’s chances of being the next attorney general?”
“After they check his background, I’d say he’d have a tough time. They’ll check with the FBI, who will hand over what they have.”
“But they have nothing. I’ve found nothing on Oliver. Last time I checked, having a half brother wasn’t illegal.” Beck took a sip of coffee. It was bitter. Must be the bottom of the pot. Fitting, given the way things were going.
“Maybe Oliver sees this move as a way to protect himself,” Fahy said. “This might be his only play for the office. Or maybe he’s looking for the big paycheck at some law firm or lobby shop. This is Washington, after all, where people tend to delude themselves about their own importance.”