Jonathan and Boxers shared a look. Unless Stephenson Hughes had a matching tattoo, it looked like Jonathan was wrong about him being the mutilated corpse from Sergeant Semen’s jurisdiction. “Let’s talk more about Fabian Conger,” Jonathan said. “I get the impression that you two were friends.”
“There were no friends in the Brigade. Only fellow brigadiers. But given that, I guess Fabe and I were about as close to friends as you can get. I haven’t heard from him since the last time I was at the retreat.”
“How did he and Ivan-Palmer-get along?”
Hawkins shook his head. “You’re not getting it. You’re assuming some kind of social motivation, and I’m telling you there was none of that. There used to be, back when I was in the leadership, but not after. There was the mission, and there was nothing else. No one ‘got along’ as you think of it. People followed orders and they drilled and they listened. Every now and then, they’d actually launch a mission, but more often than not, it was all about preparing for some unnamed apocalypse. If you haven’t been there, I know it sounds stupid. Hell, it was stupid, but I’m telling you that’s the way it was. As for Fabe and Palmer, I think the best way to put it is Fabe was an acolyte. A disciple. Palmer thought about saying ‘jump’ and Fabe was already out of his chair.”
Jonathan turned what he’d learned over in his head, weighing what they knew coming in against what Hawkins was feeding them. It was time to go from the general to the specific. “Does the name Carlyle Industries mean anything to you?”
Hawkins jumped like he’d been zapped with electricity. He whipped his head around to see if anyone was listening. “Holy shit,” he hissed. “Who told you about Carlyle Industries?”
Jonathan said nothing, made no move. His face remained pleasantly impassive.
Hawkins raised is hands in surrender and turned to walk back inside. “You guys are hell-bent on getting me killed. I’m outta here.”
Boxers blocked his way, and Hawkins looked as if he might cry. “Come on, guys,” he whined. “Please don’t do this to me. People are gonna know where you got this shit, and they’re gonna come after me. As it is, the Brigade is paranoid that I don’t come around anymore. All I’ve got going for me is their trust that I won’t screw them.”
“Quit panicking, Andrew,” Jonathan said.
“You don’t know these assholes. Panic is all I got.”
“Think about what you’re saying,” Jonathan coached, his voice the essence of calm. “They can’t know that you told us about Carlyle because you didn’t tell us about Carlyle. The first time the name came up is when we mentioned it to you.”
Hawkins’s expression turned to an odd miVehicles. Their Government Services Division made computer programs for project management tracking and fire protection systems for military installations throughout the world. Meanwhile, their Defense Systems Division was in charge of unnamed specialized munitions for delivery by “multiple interservice weapons platforms.” Clear as paint. Nowhere in the annual report was there a mention of chemical or biological warfare agents.
She turned to the page that displayed the salaries of the key employees-$8 million a year for Bunting and Rooney, down to $320,000 for Charlie Warren, in all cases before benefits and bonuses. Further down the page, she found the list of key suppliers and contractors, and on that list she saw the name that made her heart jump.
Last year, Carlyle Industries paid $527,468.27 to Ivan Patrick Enterprises for “unspecified security services” performed for the Special Projects Division.
“Good Lord,” she whispered aloud. Her heart racing and her brain screaming at her to shut down the search and contact Jonathan right away, she paused.
What is the Special Projects Division? she asked herself. She navigated backward on the file to reread the entire description of the company, but there was not a word to be found.
“Hmm,” she mumbled. Research became a thousand times more interesting when you had specific questions to answer.
She dug deeper and hit bedrock. The Carlyle files were all heavily encrypted. Venice smiled. This was going to be fun.
Walking into the lobby of the Frederick Palace Hotel was like passing through a portal to the past. Small by the standards of modern hotels, the Frederick Palace’s soaring lobby and dark hardwoods gave a sense of charming warmth that even further endeared this little burg to Jonathan. At Andrew Hawkins’s request, they chose a conversation group in a corner of the lobby farthest from the front doors, across from the empty lobby bar.
Back in the alley, he’d confessed that the reason he’d told so much so far, and the reason why he would answer the rest of Jonathan’s questions was, as he put it, disgustingly mundane: by cooperating, there was a good chance that lives could be saved. Besides, he was sick of carrying these secrets around. He had no idea who the man calling himself Leon really was, but Hawkins sensed that he was on the opposite side of Palmer, and for the time being, that was enough.
Once seated, they dropped their voices to barely a whisper. “You know that Carlyle Industries is a weapons manufacturer,” Hawkins said, easing back into the topic. When he got nods, he pressed on. “And you know that these are not just everyday weapons, right?”
“I’ve heard rumors,” Jonathan said.
Hawkins seemed to understand the hedging and he acknowledged it with a nod. “Yeah, well I’ve heard rumors, too, and I happen to know that they’re true. They’re manufacturing biological weapons over there. We’re talking the kinds of weapons that kill people thousands at a time-millions and millions over time. They’ve got some germ shit called GVX that is engineered to be incurable, because it constantly mutates as it passes from one person to another. Nobody can develop a vaccine, because by the time the vaccine is made, the germ is a whole new disease.”
Jonathan kept a poker face. He’d heard of such weapons being researched, but he had no way of knowing if one had ever been produced. Privately, he’d always dismissed them as useless-a foolish venture that would be strategically counterproductive. “What’s the point of a weaponized virus?” launching something on the bad guys that is ultimately going to kill the good guys, too?”
Hawkins scowled and made a huffing noise. “Hey, I’m just telling you what I know. I’m not sayin’ I understand the strategy.”
“You know this because Fabian Conger told you?” Jonathan asked.
Bingo. Hawkins settled himself. “Fabian’s not a nutcase, okay? He’s overly exuberant, and he’s easily swayed, but he’s a smart, smart man. He did the research. It’s all out there. He looked at the revenues of the company, and he looked at their production, and he looked into the backgrounds of the corporate officers, and he worked with contacts he has in the government, and all this adds up. And I’ll tell you something else that should make you shit your pants.”
They waited for it.
“Carlyle’s selling stuff to the enemy.”
Jonathan cocked his head. “Which enemy?”
“Our enemies. The Arabs. The terrorists. I’m not talking about legitimate contracts. I’m talking about illegal shit that’s under the table.”
“Why would they do that?” Jonathan asked.
“Why do you think? If the enemy ever stopped shooting at us, Carlyle would start losing money. The longer the shooting keeps going, the fatter they get.”
Jonathan wasn’t buying. Neither was Boxers.
Hawkins caught their silent exchange. “Look, you don’t have to believe none of this that I’m telling you, but you’re fools if you don’t. Nobody wants to believe any of this, but on September 10, 2001, nobody wanted to believe that there were thousands of terrorists out there who wanted us all dead. Wanting and not wanting don’t mean dick.”
Jonathan decided to try his diplomatic hat. He didn’t want to push Hawkins away, but Jesus. “That’s a huge accusation against a big company with a lot to lose if word leaked out. A little evidence would make this easier to swallow.”
Hawkins’s expression said,
duh. “Well, that’s the thing, isn’t it? That was Fabe’s obsession when I last saw him. He was pulling every string he could find to get somebody to pay attention to him, but it always ended up right where you said: ‘Where’s the evidence?’ It’s one thing to find evidence on paper, but it’s something else when you try to get your hands on some of this stuff. Apparently, it’s locked up tighter than a nun’s…well, it’s locked up tight.”
You could always kidnap an executive’s kid, Jonathan thought. But that was a card he didn’t want to show. “How was he going to show that they were selling weapons to the enemy?” he asked.
Hawkins shrugged. “I don’t know how he was going to do any of this stuff. But if you prove that these weapons exist illegally and make it public, how difficult can it be to prove the rest? Once the news media get a hold of one really bad thing, they’ll be happy to keep going till they find every bad thing they can. The hard part is that first step-getting people to pay any attention at all.”
Boxers asked, “Do you think he was capable of violence to get what he wanted?”
Something clicked in Hawkins. “That’s what all this is about, isn’t it? Fabe went and hurt somebody, and you’re trying to find out why.”
Jonathan jumped in to control the spin. “We don’t know that Fabian Conger did anything wrong. There’s been some violence, yes, and his name floated onto our radar screen
Charles S. Warren
Director of Corporate Security
Carlyle Industries, Inc.
1500 °Carlyle Boulevard
Muncie, IN 47302
765-555-8515
765-555-0915 (Fax)
From: Ivan Patrick
Sent: April 5 11:17 AM
To: Charles S. Warren
Subject: RE: RE: Your Problem
Don’t be an idiot. I would not be making this contact if I did not have solid information. His plan is a good one and it will take you down. Trust me. It’s already in motion, and he’s already causing leaks that you don’t even know about yet. WE NEED TO TALK! I have a plan that will make all of your problems go away PERMANENTLY and seal those leaks. Rock star trusts me. Not trusting me will be your biggest mistake. Call the ball.
Ivan
But Charlie Warren didn’t call anything for two days. When he did, there was a certain air of panic in the subtext:
From: Charles S. Warren
Sent: April 7 5:17 PM
To: Ivan Patrick
Subject: RE: RE: RE: Your Problem
Ivan,
I’m convinced. Meet me at usual location @ 2200 tonight. Do I need to visit the bank first?
Charles S. Warren
Director of Corporate Security
Carlyle Industries, Inc.
1500 °Carlyle Boulevard
Muncie, IN 47302
765-555-8515
765-555-0915 (Fax)
From: Ivan Patrick
Sent: April 7 8:18 PM
To: Charles S. Warren
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: Your Problem
Negative. New fee structure. See you tonight.
Ivan
Venice stared at her screen, toggling between the different entries. She knew just from the tone and the logical links that she’d landed on a pivotal exchange between the two men. But what did it mean?
She highlighted the entire string and pasted it into an e-mail to herself; and none too soon. Five seconds later, the screen went blank as all data disappeared.›
A thousand miles away, deep in the bowels of Carlyle Industries’ corporate headquarters, computer technician Felix Harrison returned from an extended bathroom break to find an alert flashing on his terminal. Someone had hacked into secure corporate files. This was the second time in as many weeks. Unlike the first attempt, which was a clumsy one from inside the building, this one was both sophisticated and successful.
“Shit!” he spat. Heart racing, Felix slapped the panic button to take the entire system offline and stanch the flow of data. Christ Almighty, this was exactly the kind of stuff that pushed Mr. Warren over the edge-the kind of thing that ended careers in a heartbeat. Hands trembling, he started right into his forensic work.
It would only be a few minutes before Mr. Warren responded to the identical alert he would have received on his pager. When he called, Felix’s only chance of continued employment would lie in his ability to trace down the origin of the attempt.
It took him two minutes to trace the hit back to the National Archives in Washington, DC. His heart sank. Using public facilities like that made it living would need to keep the fact of a kidnapping secret.”
The phone rang for a third time, and she picked it up. “Sheriff Bonneville, hold on a second, please.” She put the call on hold. To Jesse, she continued, “If word leaked out that someone had been nabbed, somebody would call the police, and then the contractor would lose control of his operation.”
Jesse’s defenses started to fall as he saw it, too. “And the real reason to use an independent contractor in the first place would be because the kidnappers warned not to involve the police.”
Gail smiled and winked. “Bingo.” She pushed the hold button again and brought the phone to her ear. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting. This is Sheriff Bonneville.”
“Medina.” The special agent in charge of the Chicago Field Office announced his name as if it were an accusation, but the sound of his voice brought pleasant memories to Gail’s mind. “You ready to have your world rocked?”
“I’m going to put you on speaker,” Gail said as she pressed the button. “I’m here with Jesse Collier.”
“Hey, Jess,” Medina said. “This kid you’re looking for, Thomas Hughes? Son of Stephenson and Julie Hughes?”
Gail glanced, and Jesse nodded. “That’s him,” she said.
“Well, when you find him, hold him, will you? His folks are murderers.”
Gail startled visibly. “ What? ”
“Yep, how’s that for a kick in the head? Looks like they murdered a woman, her two children, and their nanny in Muncie. Ugly scene, too. Early reports say torture.”
“Oh, my God,” she breathed. “What the hell is going on, Vince?”
“Soon as I know, you’ll know. Just thought I’d share. It came up on ICIS if you want to track it. Gotta go.”
With the line silent, she felt pale.
“Love to hear a hypothesis on this one, Boss,” Jesse said.
Chapter Twelve
The security breach while surfing through the Carlyle site had shaken Venice. She’d wasted no time getting out of the Archives and back to the safety of Fisherman’s Cove. Safely back in her office now, she held her breath as she logged into the Interstate Crime Information System for an update on the Indiana investigation. Her stomach fell. By far the most critical investigation in the country-the one that was garnering the most bulletins and alerts-was Jonathan’s triple shooting in Samson, Indiana. Since the last time she’d signed in, authorities had figured out that the incident had involved a kidnapping, but it wasn’t obvious whether they thought the shooter was a rescuer or a kidnapper.
Even more startling was the fact that Indiana investigators had tied the name Thomas Hughes to the location of the shootings. They had him identified as a twenty-two-year-old college student from Ball State University, and he was currently being sought as a “person of interest,” which Venice knew from past experience was a label that spanned everything from potential witness to primary suspect. Whatever it meant in this case, it was not good news.
Thomas Hughes’s name on the screen was highlighted as a hyperlink, which usually foretold involvement in a second or related criminal investigation. When Venice clicked it, she gasped and brought her hand to her mouth after reading only the first two sentencepossible.
With her hands trembling from the sudden shot of adrenaline, she logged out of ICIS and pulled up the link for a super-encrypted telephone site. She donned her headset as her fingers flew across the keyboard to pull up Jonatha
n’s secure satellite phone.
The Hummer was a ridiculous waste of natural resources, Jonathan knew, but given the specific demands of his business and his addiction to high-tech toys, it was the only vehicle that would suffice. In addition to the armored doors and windows, he’d also equipped it with the latest in communication technology. He’d even thought to include a cipher-activated vault below the center console, in which he kept a supply of cash in case of emergencies. Right now, the vault held $25,000 in hundred-dollar bills. Boxers called it the Batmobile.
The hard-lined telephone mounted on the dash was an encrypted satellite phone that allowed him to freely discuss anything with anyone who had similar technology on the other end. Predictably, Boxers called it the Batphone.
And it was ringing.
A wrong number was impossible, but Jonathan nonetheless answered it on speakerphone with a noncommittal, “Yes.”
“Digger, it’s Venice. We’ve got a problem.”
He waited for it.
“The Hugheses are a family of murderers.”
As she drove toward Muncie, Gail Bonneville wasn’t sure what she expected to glean from the scene of the quadruple murder there, but when so many people were dead, and the single name of Hughes was tied to their murders, it was a lead that needed following.
This latest twist was a stunner. What had seemed so clearly to be an altruistic act of bravery on the part of her shooter in Samson suddenly looked like something else entirely. Three people murdered in the rescue of the son of murderers. What could that possibly mean? Every one of the conclusions she’d prematurely drawn to this point was now in question.
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