The Enemy Inside

by Steve Martini

  The whole thing, the field test, had an air of the unprofessional about it. It had the scent of the American CIA, whose budget was being slashed and whose better operatives were being turned out to pasture in the post–Iraq War world, with other unaligned terrorist groups rampaging through the ruins. She couldn’t be sure who the French makers of the equipment were dealing with.

  It was true what they said about the Americans. No one could rely on them any longer. They had reached their zenith and were now on the way down, a toothless lion dying in its den. Not only did their government lack the political resolve to defend itself or its allies, it was now missing the basic proficiency to carry out politically sensitive covert operations. To silence those who needed silencing.

  A US military clerk with low or no security clearance had taken highly classified government cables, copied them to thumb drives, and delivered them to Internet bloggers for transmission to the public over the World Wide Web. The embarrassment that followed compromised US diplomats removed from their posts, the State Department held up to ridicule, and the National Security Agency exposed for eavesdropping on US allied leaders. Another clerk had stolen top secrets and absconded first to China and then Russia, leaving a trail of confidential American secrets like bread crumbs in his wake. No one knew yet the full extent of the damage, certainly not the American public. Their government was powerless to do anything about it other than downplay it and look for political cover.

  At the same time, Washington was awash in amateurish domestic scandals and clumsy cover-ups. To listen to them, every computer the government owned had crashed on cue, coincidentally destroying evidence of government-committed crimes in the process. No one believed the obvious lies—“the spin,” as they called it from the White House—but those in power didn’t care. They couldn’t be prosecuted because they controlled the machinery of enforcement, and to them, that was all that mattered. They had lost all sense of the art, always to provide one’s prince with the refuge of credible deniability, what the British called a scintilla of truth.

  Ana made a mental note. These people, whoever they were, were incompetent and, for that reason, dangerous. She would do whatever was possible to learn who they were so that she could avoid doing any business with them in the future. But first she had to recover the laptop, the software, and the small dish antenna that the French mercenaries who built the device had given them to field test.

  She finished her coffee, paid the waiter, and grabbed her purse. A minute later she was racing down the street astride the blue Piaggio BV500, helmet on her head, cruising toward the train station and her trip south back to her estate in order to pack for her trip to L.A.

  FIVE

  This morning we huddle in the conference room at our office, behind Miguel’s Concina and the Brigantine Restaurant on Orange Avenue in Coronado.

  Pages and files are spread out all over the table as I sit with Harry and our investigator, Herman Diggs, trying to gain a handle on the latest blizzard of paper affecting Alex Ives.

  Alex is staying with his mother and father at their home following the bail hearing. This was an exercise that proved to be easier than we thought and is still a mystery to me as to why. There was good news and good news. The first being the apparent lack of knowledge on the part of the cops regarding Ives’s connection to Olinda Serna. They seem to be blissfully ignorant of the fact that Ives and his employer were working on a hot news flash in which Serna presumably had a talking role. We don’t know the details because Ives still isn’t telling us, and his boss has, to date, been unavailable, at least to me. I have left three phone messages for Tory Graves at the Washington Gravesite, the digital dirt sheet for which Ives works. None of these have been returned. We assume that if the cops knew about the connection between Ives and Serna, the prosecutor would probably have dumped it on us during the bail hearing, evidence of possible intent in an effort to deny bail. Though this is not a certainty. Using this information in a surprise package at trial could do wonders for a conviction, even if they made no effort to enhance the charges. Letting the jury know that Ives knew Serna and was pursuing her when he passed out behind the wheel and killed her is one of those “wow” factors certain to light up the jury box.

  The other happy news was the cost of bail, a mere twenty-five-thousand-dollar bond imposed by the judge, well below the local bail schedule. How this happened is a mystery, though it appeared not to be the doing of the prosecutor as much as the man seated behind him. Beyond the bar rail in the first row of spectator seats was another man, suited up for combat and packing a slick patent-leather briefcase. We found out later this was one of the premium-priced lawyers, a criminal practitioner from Serna’s law firm up in L.A.

  Apparently they thought enough of her to send somebody down to watch. He conferred with the deputy D.A. over the railing and, after they talked, the prosecutor asked for only twenty-five thousand dollars bail. Even the judge was surprised.

  The D.A. then went on to explain that Ives had a job and family contacts in the community. He even gestured toward Alex’s mom and dad sitting behind us, as if the state had produced them, shining character witnesses for the defendant. He told the judge it was a first offense, only marginal evidence of alcohol in the defendant’s system. He never even mentioned the French-fried cadaver in the other car, so that by the time he was finished, there was nothing left for me to talk about. I sat there with my thumb in my mouth. If you can’t say anything on behalf of your client that is more helpful than what the D.A. has to say, it is best not to say anything at all.

  When the judge demanded that Ives surrender his passport and agree not to leave the state pending trial, I looked at the prosecutor wondering if he might object. It was almost as if somebody wanted Ives to skip town and jump bail.

  His parents posted the bond out of pocket change. I had a come-to-Jesus moment with the kid outside the courtroom and told him in no uncertain terms not to wander too far. Even if his boss demanded that he travel back east on business, he was not to go. He promised me that he would not, smiled, and they left. Stranger things have happened to me in courtrooms, but not recently. It left me to wonder.

  “According to the accident report, neither driver appears to have applied their brakes prior to impact,” says Harry. He has the document prepared by the California Highway Patrol in front of him on the table. “No skid marks on the pavement, though the intersecting road traveled by Ives was dirt until it reached the county highway where they impacted. Still nothing on the pavement to indicate any braking. Serna’s rented car was moving at a relatively slow rate of speed, estimated between thirty and forty miles an hour at the point of impact,” says Harry.

  We are in the process of trying to find out if the navigation satellite system and its proprietors will be able to supply us with any information as to the car Alex was driving and the location of the party that night.

  “Let’s start with the time of the accident.”

  “According to the report, the estimate of time is about eleven P.M.” says Harry. “The witness who pulled Ives from the burning wreck called it in at eleven-oh-six. He said he tried to get to Serna, but the flames were too hot. That slowed him down on the call.”

  “What was the speed limit?” I ask him.

  Harry flips back one page. “Fifty-five,” he tells me.

  “So why was Serna going so slow?” I ask.

  “Maybe she was looking for something,” says Herman. Herman Diggs is a big man, African-American to the soul, former athlete who blew out a knee in college and lost out on a career in football. He has been with us for ten years now, long enough and on such intimate terms that he is now part of the family.

  “Not much out there to look for,” says Harry. He turns the file toward Herman, who looks at the printout, a satellite photo, probably from Google Maps, showing an overhead shot of desolate desert, a narrow strip of concrete like a gray ribbon running across it with a red marker at the fatal intersection.

&nb
sp; “There is the other road,” says Herman. He means the dirt strip traveled by Ives. “Maybe she was looking for that.”

  “You think they were meeting up out there?” I ask him.

  Herman shrugs a shoulder. “What did the kid tell you?”

  “Nothing. Says he can’t remember,” I say.

  “If they were getting ready to meet, we can be relatively certain that Ives wasn’t sitting around waiting for her,” says Harry. “According to the report, the estimated speed of Ives’s car, a late-model luxury sedan, was approaching eighty miles per hour and accelerating as it entered the highway and impacted the other car. Caved in the entire driver’s-side door on Serna’s car. Bent it like a pretzel.”

  “Sounds like a missile,” says Herman. “Where’d a kid that age get a ride like that? Must be six figures fully dressed out with all the gadgets and gizmos.”

  “It was owned by his parents’ aviation servicing company,” I tell him. “They let him use it from time to time.”

  “Bet they don’t do that again,” says Herman.

  “According to the accident report, this kind of high speed and acceleration prior to impact is consistent with a driver who has fallen asleep or gone unconscious behind the wheel.” Harry is still on point, trekking through the report.

  “Still, she makes no effort to evade him. She must have seen him coming,” I say.

  “On a dirt road doing eighty. That would likely send up a dust trail a blind Indian could follow,” says Herman.

  “Let me see that photo again,” I tell Harry. He passes it over to me. It is difficult to tell from the air, but there doesn’t appear to be any elevation, rises that might obscure Serna’s vision of the approaching vehicle. No trees or other obstructions.

  “She could have been looking at something in her car,” says Harry. “A map. Maybe her cell phone. That would explain why she was traveling so slow.”

  “Maybe.” I pass the report back to him.

  “More interesting,” says Harry, “is the fact that the preliminary toxicology report shows the absence of any drugs in Ives’s system.”

  This was the big surprise of the day. We are all smiles around the table with the news. While it may not cut our client loose entirely, it offers a big headache to the prosecution, who now must explain to the jury how the defendant became unconscious behind the wheel.

  The cops are now batting zero for two. No alcohol, at least nothing approaching the presumptive level of intoxication, and no drugs. So that means we have an unconscious client under the influence of nothing.

  “Any kind of medical condition,” asks Herman, “might account for his problem?”

  “Not that we know of,” says Harry.

  “I asked Ives on the phone this morning and he says no,” I tell them. “He’s never passed out, never fainted. Had a physical two months ago and passed it with flying colors.”

  “So what caused it?” says Herman.

  “Could have been drugs,” I tell him.

  “But they didn’t find any,” says Harry.

  “Some of the more complex drugs take a while. Could be weeks before they have a final report. And then there are some they don’t even look for in the routine screenings unless there’s a reason.”

  “You mean roofies?” says Herman. “The date rape drug?”

  “There’s that one and there’s others. It is a possibility,” I say. “Police don’t usually order them up in the normal toxicology screening.”

  These are known as predator drugs, used by some perpetrators either to engage in sexual assault on the unconscious victim or to rob them. Either way the victim usually remembers nothing when it’s over.

  They work like conscious sedation and in some countries are used as an anesthetic. Those under their effect lose motor coordination. Their eyes may be open but nothing is being registered in the brain. They result in near total loss of memory during the period that the victim is under the influence.

  “Fits the profile of what Ives described as his symptoms,” says Harry. “They’re absorbed into the system quickly. All trace gone within at most seventy-two hours. They show up in urine tests. Here they drew only blood.” Harry’s skimming through the report. “Here it is, ‘Benzodiazepine.’ They didn’t check the box, didn’t ask for it.”

  “It’s too late now,” says Herman.

  “I asked Alex about the possibility the last time we talked to him, you and I at the jail,” I tell them. “The question whether somebody might have slipped something to him. It wasn’t lost on him. The thought had crossed his mind before I mentioned it. He wondered about the girl, the one who invited him to the party, and whether it was a setup. The single glass of champagne. The fact she never showed at the party. It weighed on his mind.”

  “I know what you’re saying,” says Herman. “There’s no way Ives coulda driven like hell and gone out into the desert if somebody slipped him a roofie. What that means, somebody delivered him out there. Accident was staged. Is that what you’re sayin’? That whoever did it, killed Serna? So there was no mishap involved.”

  I nod.

  “Here we go again,” says Harry. “Why can’t we just keep this simple? Straightforward DUI with the cops showing no evidence. We push hard enough and they’ll kick him loose. Case over. We can move on.”

  “They nearly did that at the bail hearing,” I tell him. “The question is why? Think about it. What do we know?”

  “Not much,” says Harry.

  “On the contrary. We know that Ives was shadowing Serna, not in a physical way, but he had her in the journalistic cross hairs over something. According to Alex, it’s big, but for the moment off the record. Somebody drugs him and takes him out into the desert. They smash two cars together, one of them at high speed carrying Alex, the other one with Serna inside. Was she conscious at the time?” I ask.

  “What, you think they drugged her too?” says Harry. “Why not just drown her and dump her on some beach somewhere?”

  “Because then there would be evidence. Somebody would have to walk in the sand to dump the body. She might struggle. You’d get bruising, maybe something under her fingernails. This way there is nothing. Major collision and fire. The bodies are burned. If it had worked out the way they planned it, both of them would be dead and we wouldn’t be involved to ask any questions.”

  “You think they were out to get the boy as well?” says Herman.

  “Be my guess. Given the reckless nature of the collision. There was certainly no assurance Ives would survive the impact, let alone the fire. The only reason Alex is alive is because a passing motorist pulled him from the wreck. If I had to guess, I would say that our Good Samaritan wasn’t part of their opera. Something they failed to plan for.”

  “You know you’re getting paranoid,” says Harry. “Soon you’ll be seeing black helicopters.”

  “Give me another theory that explains the events,” I tell him.

  “OK, tell me one thing,” he says. “Both cars were moving. If both Serna and Ives were unconscious, how did they do that?”

  I think for a moment, shake my head. “I don’t know.”

  “There you go,” says Harry. “Problem with your theory is it doesn’t work.”

  Harry goes back to the accident report, looking for something. He finds the pages and starts to read, running his finger over the paper.

  “Have you talked to the kid about this?” says Herman. “The fact that somebody may have tried to kill him?”

  “Not in so many words.”

  “Don’t you think you should? Assuming you’re right, if they tried once, what’s to stop ’em from trying again?”

  “Nothing, I suppose.”

  “He can’t run,” says Herman. “Can’t hide. Bail conditions see to that.”

  “Yeah. It’s all pretty convenient, isn’t it?” I tell him.

  Herman arches an eyebrow. “So what do we do? Where do we go from here?” He flips open his little notebook ready to jot down whatever litt
le tidbits I can give him.

  “Two unknowns,” I tell him. “First the mystery girl. We have only a partial name and a description. Asian, very good looking, long dark hair about the middle of her back, about five foot five or five six. First name or nickname, Ben. She has a tattoo on the inside of her left thigh, red and blue, probably a dragon or the tail of a dragon.”

  Herman is still scribbling on the notepad.

  “I would start with the local tattoo parlors.”

  “Hell, there must be seven thousand of them,” says Herman, “and that’s only on one block downtown.”

  “Got your work cut out,” I tell him. “Harry and I need to go to work on Alex, to loosen his tongue regarding this hot news tip he’s got involving Serna. Makes sense that if that’s the only connection between the two of them, and if the accident was staged to trap them both, that the story he was working on is probably the reason.”

  “OK, tell me this,” says Harry. He finally looks up from the report. “Says here there is no evidence of mechanical malfunction in the steering or brake systems of either car. And catch this, no evidence of any malfunction or tampering with the accelerator, cruise control, or other speed maintenance systems in either vehicle.”

  “They can tell all that from the burned-out remains?” says Herman.

  “Steel doesn’t burn,” says Harry. “So, if he was unconscious, on roofies, unable to coordinate his arms or his legs and there was no alteration to the steering, the accelerator, or the cruise control, how did they do eighty miles an hour and steer one car into another in the space of a small intersection? And don’t tell me they did it remotely because if they did, there would be evidence of hardware left behind no matter how small it was. The cops would have found it.” Harry looks at me across the table, tapping the page of the accident report with his finger.

  It is a good question, and one for which I have no answer.

  SIX

  The phone on her desk buzzed. Maya Grimes reached for the receiver.