The Enemy Inside

by Steve Martini

  Late that night, Herman took over and worked out the destination with the company and its pilot so that Norman Ives would not be involved in any of the details. The carrier agreed to fly Alex and Herman to a small dirt strip, thirty miles from Zihuatanejo on Mexico’s Pacific Coast, about an hour north of Acapulco by air. They filed no flight plan and avoided radar over the border by flying well out to sea before heading south down the Mexican coast. The landing strip sometimes used by drug dealers had no control tower, customs, or immigration. Herman had used the place years earlier in his prior employment, once when it was necessary to bring in a special cargo of American firearms needed for security.

  Ixtapa was a small community just a couple of miles north of Zihuatanejo, its sister village. Both were perfect. Low-key tourist destinations nestled in the hills over the ocean where no one would ask any questions of two Americans relaxing on vacation.

  The only real wrinkle was communications, how to stay in touch with the office and keep track of what was going on.

  It was the mysterious manner in which people kept dying behind the wheel of their cars that gave Madriani and his friends pause. It had the distinct odor of high tech about it. Especially after witnessing the startled look on the face of the driver and the girl next to him as their vehicle launched them down the road toward eternity, their destiny at the gas station.

  It wasn’t a far reach to imagine that whoever was doing this might have the technical savvy to invade the firm’s electronic communications, to say nothing of their cell phones. Hackers were doing it all the time. Most people didn’t care, but for those who did, recent developments in the news made it clear, you could no longer trust your cell phone or your computer when it came to personal or professional privacy. And they weren’t dealing here with mere matters of legal etiquette, feared breaches of the sacred seal of lawyer-client. Anyone probing these communications was probably looking to kill Alex and anyone else unlucky enough to be near him at that moment.

  There was no sure way to protect against the penetration of communications and no time to look for encrypted phones. Even if they could find them, it was hard to know if they were equipped with the latest scrambling software.

  The trio, Paul, Harry, and Herman, after thinking about it, decided that the best option was the one used by the Unabomber. He had managed to stay off the radar screen of the most technologically advanced government on earth for more than a decade—by going primitive. No computers, no telephones, no wires leading to his shack in the woods, not even electricity. They agreed not to use e-mails, the Internet, or phones, either cell or landlines, to communicate.

  Any messages would go by snail mail or private delivery services, and even then they would not be delivered directly to the condo unit, unless it was an emergency. They would be collected by Herman, if sent by mail, at general delivery in the post office. If sent by private carrier he would pick them up at the carrier’s local office. It might take a few days longer to get there, but they believed that the risk of its being intercepted and read were far less. They would keep the content of any messages short and cryptic, giving away as little information as possible.

  The clerk behind the counter took the envelope from Herman. He put it on the scale, checked the waybill, completed his portion of it, and then entered whatever information was needed into the company’s computer. This produced a stick-on barcode. He peeled the sticker from its backing, slapped it onto the envelope, handed Herman his copy of the waybill with its tracking number on it, and dropped the envelope into the mailbag for shipment to the airport with the next delivery.

  Herman turned and headed for the door. He would hop in a cab and in a few minutes he would be back under the cabana with Ives, fondling a cold bottle of Dos Equis.

  TWENTY

  The headquarters of the Washington Gravesite are located on K Street in downtown D.C., just a few blocks from the White House. The offices are in a high-rise office building between a dairy trade association and a door with a brass plaque on it bearing the name of a lobbyist and his associates.

  Inside the smoked glass doors of the Gravesite there is a front counter with a receptionist. Behind her in an open area the size of a basketball court is a small army of employees chipping away like inmates on a rock pile at the keyboards in front of them. Some of them are wearing headsets, talking on the phone as they type. The place has the appearance of a boiler room, no art or pictures on the wall, no indoor plants. Just steam coming out of the ears of the people working.

  If the markets and their analysts are correct, the old world of newsprint is breathing its last, being replaced by flickering screens and stories that are updated by the second, faster than the human brain can absorb them.

  Most of the people working here are young, in their twenties, burning with the fervor of a new generation of journalists. You can smell it in the air and see it on their faces. For them it’s the Wild West. They are finding their feet in a new industry. Hard news blog sites are cropping up on the Internet like iron printing presses and fixed type on the old frontier. Some of them have their own brand of journalism and their own rules. It’s a changing universe and one with a lot of downsides for the dinosaurs.

  Many people are scared, especially those in their middle years. The pace of change has many of them terrified. If you work in a paper mill or a warehouse, drive a truck, or deliver newspapers, you have to wonder what the future holds.

  On his website, Tory Graves claims to be watching over government because many in the traditional press and television have given up the ghost. “No longer reporting hard news, they are now in the propaganda business, depending on which side of the partisan divide they stand and who is in power. WE PRINT THE NEWS!” These last four are words that might have spilled from the mouth of William Randolph Hearst or his fictional alter ego Charles Foster Kane in another age.

  They are splashed on a banner in bold black type and hang above three sets of doors on the far wall. It is toward one of these, the double doors in the center, that I am directed.

  He offers me a Coke or something else to drink. When I turn him down, he cuts to the chase. “I don’t have a lot of time. We’re approaching deadline. I’ve got another meeting with my staff in forty minutes, so whatever it is you want, could you make it quick? I would appreciate it,” he says.

  Tory Graves appears to be in his mid-fifties. Beady little eyes but otherwise not bad looking. Tall, slender, disheveled, a wrinkled dress shirt that looks as if it’s been slept in for a couple of days. He wears a pair of wire-rim glasses propped on his forehead atop a full graying mop of hair that has the look of an overdue meeting with a set of shears.

  He flops into the chair behind his desk that has the same cluttered appearance as the man, stacks of papers and books, a half-eaten apple on a napkin on the back corner nearest him. Looking at the frenetic soul seated there, I suspect this may be his lunch.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t mean to be rude. How is Alex? I have been meaning to call him. I just haven’t had the time. I hope he’s all right. Is he making out financially?”

  Ives has been off payroll, on leave now for a month. Graves, for some reason, docked him immediately following his arrest. He didn’t fire him, but instead told him in a letter that had the scent of a lawyer’s hand on it that Alex was suspended without pay pending the disposition in his case.

  “He’s all right,” I tell him. “Worried, of course, but he’s doing OK, at least for the moment.” I leave a little wiggle room, since “OK” in this case embraces hiding out in Mexico as insurance against being killed.

  “How can I help you?”

  There is no sense trying to dance around the pink gorilla sitting in the middle of his desk, so I go right to the furry beast. “I take it you knew that the victim in this case, the person killed in the accident with Alex, was Olinda Serna?”

  “Emm.” He runs his hands through his hair, pulling it over the crown of his head. It immediately flops back over
his ears the instant his hands leave it. “I’d heard that,” he says.

  “And you know who she is?”

  “I know she worked for a law firm here in Washington.”

  “I believe you also know that she figures prominently in a major news story that your publication is currently working on.”

  “Where did you hear that?” he asks.

  “I don’t have time to play around,” I tell him.

  “We may be on the trail of a hot story, but then we work on a lot of big stories,” he says.

  “This one, I’m told, is a capper.”

  “So?”

  “So you don’t think it’s strange that Serna, who was being probed and poked in the journalistic sense by one of your reporters, ends up dead, killed in an automobile accident three thousand miles away on the other side of the country? In the middle of nowhere? And the car she collides with is being driven by that same reporter?”

  He looks at me, turns his nose up, and glances up at the ceiling. You can tell from his expression that the thought has crossed his mind. “How much did Alex tell you?”

  “Enough to know that this is no coincidence.”

  “My first thought,” he says, “was perhaps that he was following her a little too closely. Then I saw the news reports that said he was drunk. Mind you, I never knew Alex to drink. And certainly not on the job,” he says. “You need to know that the Gravesite had absolutely no knowledge as to any history of prior alcohol or drug abuse on Alex’s part. If that’s what this is about, I’m going to have to end the conversation now. Because I’m going to want to bring in my lawyers.”

  “What?”

  “If Serna’s heirs are pushing Alex and looking for deep pockets behind him,” he says, “they’re barking up the wrong tree here.”

  “What? You think I’m here looking for cover in a tort case? Some whacked-out theory of agency? That the Gravesite might be liable for monetary damages if Alex was on the job when he killed her?”

  “You tell me,” he says.

  “Furthest thing from my mind,” I tell him. Though I hadn’t thought about it until now, this could be another headache down the road. “That’s not what this is about. Alex wasn’t drinking at the time of the accident. At least he wasn’t drunk. The police report shows only a small amount of alcohol in his system. No more than one drink.”

  “If that’s true, how did the accident happen? What does Alex say?”

  “He was unconscious. He doesn’t remember anything.”

  “You mean he has amnesia?”

  “No. Not in any ordinary sense,” I tell him.

  “What then?”

  “We believe he was drugged. Driven out to the site by someone else and used to stage the accident.”

  He gives me a look like I’m a man from Mars, smiles, and says, “Are you serious?”

  I nod. “Very much.”

  “You’re telling me Serna was murdered?”

  “Looks like it. What’s more, we believe that two other people besides Serna have now been killed because one of them was unlucky enough to have been used to set up the accident. She knew too much, and for this reason we believe she was killed.”

  “You are serious!” he says. The expression on his face is not so much one of shock as that of a prospector who’s found gold.

  “I need to know what’s going on. What it is that you’re investigating, and how Serna fits into the picture.”

  “Holy . . . I always suspected they were hard-core,” he says, “but I never envisioned this.”

  “Who?”

  “What kind of evidence do you have?” He grabs a pencil and starts fishing on his desk for a fresh piece of paper. “Tell me,” he says. “Can you give me the names of these two other people? The ones who were killed? You do have evidence?” Our meeting is suddenly turning into my interview.

  “We’re unable to prove the presence of drugs in Alex’s system. We think they used what are called roofies . . .”

  He stops his scribbling long enough to look up and say, “You mean the date rape drug.”

  “That’s the one.”

  He writes it down.

  “It works its way out of your system very quickly and leaves you with no memory of what happened during the time you were under. None of this is for publication,” I tell him.

  “Of course. Of course,” he says. “Have you told anybody else about this?” Graves wants an exclusive.

  “Not yet. But I may be forced to tell a jury, and to do it sooner than I would like, given the sparse evidence we have. That’s why I’m here talking to you.”

  “Ah, I see,” he says. “So you don’t have any hard evidence.” He puts the pencil down.

  “Circumstantial only. I may not be able to prove any of this unless I can show a compelling reason why someone else might have wanted to kill Serna.”

  “I’m not sure I can help you,” says Graves.

  “You said these people are hard-core. Who are you talking about?”

  He shakes his head. “There’s nothing I can tell you,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

  “I know you’re working on a hot story. Alex told me so.”

  “What exactly did he tell you? He didn’t give you any documents, did he, anything in writing?”

  “No. But I know that Serna was involved. I know it has to do with offshore banking and private numbered accounts. I know it all started a few years ago with the campaign by the Treasury and the IRS to identify American taxpayers who were believed to be evading US taxes by hiding money in undisclosed foreign accounts. I know that some funny things started happening when Uncle Sam got too close to powerful people believed to hold some of these accounts. Perhaps some politicians?” I wrinkle an eyebrow and look at him, a human question mark.

  “Alex has been talking out of school,” he says.

  “Alex is in trouble,” I tell him.

  “Still, you really don’t know anything,” says Graves.

  “So enlighten me.”

  He tilts his head, looks at me, a pained expression. “I wish I could.” Hands back in his hair. “I wish I could. I really do. But I can’t.”

  “If I can’t tell a judge and a jury what’s going on here, Alex is very likely to end up in prison. A long stretch,” I tell him. “You do understand that?”

  “I’m sorry. I wish I could help. But the story is no longer mine.”

  “What do you mean? Alex told me you knew everything.”

  “Well, he was exaggerating,” says Graves. “There are still things we don’t know and some important details we haven’t been able to confirm.”

  “But you can tell me what you do know.”

  “Can’t do that either,” he says.

  “If you force the issue, I can drag you in front of a judge, subpoena your records and notes. You know as well as I do the court will compel you to turn them over. There is no shield law that’s going to protect you in a case like this. A man’s liberty is at stake. The court will balance the equities and I got news. You’re going to come up short.”

  “I understand and you’re probably right. But you still won’t get anything,” he says.

  “The judge could put you in jail,” I tell him. “Contempt for refusing to comply with a court order.”

  “Hell, you’d probably be doing me a favor,” says Graves. “All that publicity would serve to increase the value of the Gravesite. Besides, there are forces at work here you don’t understand.”

  “Enlighten me,” I tell him.

  “I don’t know how much I should tell you,” says Graves. “Maybe we should just let everything fall where it may.”

  “Aw, come on, be a pal to your employee,” I tell him. “A hint or two might keep Alex out of the slammer.”

  “I doubt it,” he says. “Problem is, I don’t own the story any longer, the stuff involving Serna.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Graves takes a deep breath. “Alex doesn’t know about this. Nor do any of the peo
ple out there.” He gestures with a nod toward the outer office. “If they knew they’d all be looking for other jobs. You see, I own the Gravesite. I started it twenty years ago. I tried to root it in the old traditions—Drew Pearson, Jack Anderson. You know. But between you, me, and that wall over there, the entire operation is heavily in debt. It’s the problem with e-journalism, the problem with changing technology, with many of the businesses operating on the net. It’s the question of how you monetize your product. How to get people to pay for it.”

  “That’s interesting. I sympathize. But what’s that got to do with Serna and why the world caved in on her?”

  “Everything,” he says. “Do you know who Arthur Haze is?”

  “Who doesn’t?” Haze is in his eighties, a billionaire media mogul with a chain of newspapers, radio and cable channels that span a good chunk of the globe. Most people want to be rich and famous. Haze, from a young age, wanted to be famous for being rich. And he succeeded.

  “In the last four years, I’ve entertained two offers to buy the Gravesite outright. Both of them from Haze. I turned both of them down. It wasn’t the money,” he says. “I don’t want to sell. The Gravesite isn’t for sale to anyone and especially to someone like Haze. He would turn it into a tiny cog in a massive media machine. It would get lost.

  “But then a year ago I ran into difficulties. I could no longer meet overhead. I cut some jobs. Didn’t want to, but I had no choice. All I was doing was buying a little time. I thought about moving out of the high rent district. But even with that, the writing was on the wall. I could make payroll for maybe a few more months and that was it. I needed capital. I needed a loan, a big one.

  “I went to the banks. They turned me down flat. The financial value of the Gravesite is in its future, which, like everything else on the web, is highly speculative. They weren’t willing to take the chance. There was only one place I could go—Haze,” he says.

  “He had mountains of cash. When I first approached him, he thought about it and said no. All he had to do was sit back and wait until I went under. Then he could pick up the Gravesite for pennies on the dollar. I had to find something that would force him to change his mind. And I did. It was the story that involves Serna,” says Graves.