Helius Legacy

by S Alexander O'keefe

  “Well, if that other office is California and they’re looking into a downed chopper, then there’s no question it’s the same bull.”

  “Okay, Reed, how do you want to do this?”

  CHAPTER

  SIXTY-THREE

  Travis County, Texas

  December 9, 1999 / Thursday / 6:00 p.m.

  Agents William Spencer and Ashley Morgan were sitting in the waiting room outside the office of Michaela Russo, the U.S. Attorney for the Western District of Texas. Spencer was looking over his notes on the deal that he’d cut with Reed Franklin an hour earlier. The two men had agreed that Spencer and a representative from the U.S. Attorney’s office would meet with Franklin, Andrea Marenna, and John Caine at 9:00 the next morning. The meeting would take place at the Statesman. Marenna and Caine would tell their story, the entire story, in Franklin’s presence. Franklin would have the right to tape the entire meeting. After the meeting, the FBI and the U.S. Attorney’s office would then decide how to proceed.

  The deal gave Franklin a lot of power. He could spin the facts any way he wanted in the morning paper, and the tape recording would allow him to critique how the FBI and the U.S. Attorney reacted to the story. If Franklin decided that the FBI and the U.S. Attorney had failed to give the suspects a fair shake, he could work that angle into the initial article and in every follow-up. If it later turned out that he was right, Washington would be very unhappy about the bad press.

  Spencer had called Russo about the deal an hour earlier. Initially, Russo had been congratulatory, even cooperative, but then the conversation had started to go downhill. Russo had wanted to schedule a press conference immediately after the meeting in order to announce the capture of two fugitives. Spencer had resisted, arguing that Andrea Marenna and John Caine were only “persons of interest” at this point. When Spencer tried to educate Russo about the growing body of evidence suggesting that Caine and Marenna were the victims of a criminal conspiracy, not the perpetrators, Russo had abruptly ended the conversation, citing a pressing meeting. Although unspoken, the message was clear: Michaela Russo had no intention of allowing William Spencer to deny her a victory speech. Spencer intended to change Russo’s mind on the issue, one way or another.

  “Sir, your body language suggests that we’re about to get into a fight with Ms. Russo.”

  Spencer looked across the coffee table at Agent Morgan’s strong but attractive features.

  “Oh, we might have a polite disagreement or two.”

  “Yes, sir,” Agent Morgan said, a smile touching her lips.

  The door to the inner office opened ten minutes later and Michaela Russo strode into the room. The Assistant U.S. Attorney stood five-feet-four inches tall in heels. She was dressed in a dark blue designer suit that subtly accentuated her attractive physique. Although her cropped hairstyle was less than flattering, her large brown eyes, caféau-lait skin, and beautiful face were striking.

  “Agent Spencer, good to see you again. And you are …?”

  “Agent Morgan, Ashley Morgan.”

  “A woman. Good. Come in. I don’t have much time, but I’m sure this won’t take long.”

  Then she turned around and walked back into her office.

  Spencer stood and invited Agent Morgan to precede him into the office with a polite wave. Spencer noted that Agent Morgan, at six feet, topped Russo by a good six inches. The contrast surprised him. He remembered Russo as being taller, but he suspected that was more her personality than her height.

  Russo walked behind her desk and looked down at her computer screen. Spencer and Agent Morgan waited patiently, continuing to stand. Russo looked up from the computer a minute later, as if remembering that the two FBI agents were there.

  “Sit down, sit down. Now, as I understand it, we’re going to arrest two suspects in connection with the Bosmasian shooting tomorrow morning. I’ll have my staff set up a press conference for late morning. That will give us time to get our talking points in order.”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Russo, I guess I wasn’t clear on the phone. This is a meeting with two people who may have critical information regarding the shooting. At this point, they are persons of interest, not suspects. It’s entirely possible that Ms. Marenna—”

  “I’ve read the police reports and the witness statements, Agent Spencer. We have more than sufficient probable cause to arrest Mr. Caine and Ms. Marenna as suspects, if only on the basis of their fleeing the scene of the crime. Now, I know you have this arrangement—”

  “Which I intend to honor.”

  “That’s your choice, Agent Spencer, but I am not bound by it. If you’re not inclined to participate in the arrest tomorrow morning, that’s your choice. I will have the federal marshals accompany me.”

  Spencer had anticipated that Russo might try this approach. He was prepared for it. Poker was a game he played quite well.

  “That is of course your choice, Ms. Russo. However, I would suggest you consider the fact that there is presently no evidence that any federal crimes have been committed, which means we have no jurisdiction. My arrangement with Mr. Franklin would have allowed us the opportunity to investigate the facts and potentially remedy that deficiency. However, since you are not inclined to allow that to happen, I feel bound to contact Marc Cohen, the City of Austin’s chief prosecutor. The City of Austin clearly has jurisdiction.”

  Russo’s eyes narrowed. Spencer was well aware of the fact that Russo considered Marc Cohen a future political rival. He stood up when he finished.

  “Agent Morgan and I will refer Mr. Cohen to Mr. Franklin. He can make his own arrangements. I assume Mr. Cohen will bring you into the case at a later date, if he decides that the Justice Department has an interest in the investigation.”

  Actually Spencer knew that Cohen would do no such thing. In fact, Cohen would do everything in his power to make sure that Russo never came within a hundred yards of the case. For a second, Russo’s anger at being outmaneuvered warred with her political instincts. The latter won out.

  “Very well, Agent Spencer. We will do it your way. I will meet you at the Statesman offices tomorrow morning. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have other matters.”

  Agent Morgan started forward to shake Russo’s hand, but she had already turned back to her computer screen. The two agents left without another word.

  Spencer had no illusions about the victory he’d achieved. Russo would honor the letter of his deal with Franklin, but she would do everything possible to evade the spirit. Agent Morgan turned to Spencer as they walked across the parking lot to the car.

  “Well played, sir. Of course, it will make for an interesting meeting tomorrow.”

  “It will indeed.”

  Spencer felt his cell phone vibrate in his pocket as he reached for the car keys. “Spencer, here.”

  “Agent Pohlson.”

  “Hi, Don. What do you have?”

  “As you instructed, I’ve been keeping tabs on anything out of the ordinary having to do with Helius Energy. Well, I may have something.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I just picked up a report from the Texas Rangers. Apparently a small war took place at a ranch about fifty miles outside the city two days ago. I did a quick search on that location. It’s currently owned by an historical trust, but it used to be owned by the Mason family. Carter Mason—”

  “—is the CEO and largest shareholder of Helius,” Spencer finished.

  Travis County, Texas

  December 9, 1999 / Saturday / 9:15 p.m.

  A detective from the Texas Rangers met Agents Morgan and Spencer at the El Castillo Ranch at about 9:00 p.m. The Ranger was about six feet, four inches tall, and despite his white hair, he looked like he had just walked off the college gridiron. The detective was polite during their inspection of the site, but he didn’t volunteer much. Spencer suspected the Ranger wasn’t particularly happy about giving the FBI a tour of “his” crime scene, when he could have been home with his family.

  Alt
hough Spencer was uncomfortable with the imposition, he needed every piece of ammunition possible for tomorrow’s meeting. To get that, he needed Ranger Corcoran’s cooperation. When Spencer saw the Special Forces tattoo on the man’s forearm, he smiled to himself and turned to Agent Morgan.

  “Any thoughts about the weaponry that might have been used here, Agent Morgan?” Spencer said.

  Corcoran was standing about four feet behind Agent Morgan, and Spencer could see the skeptical look on his face.

  “The shells indicate that the people defending the ranch were armed with M-16s and Uzis. The assault force had HK MP-5As, but that’s not what did most of the damage. There are too many holes in the buildings. My guess is someone on the other side of that wall worked this place over with a light, maybe even a medium, machine gun—something that could spit out between five and eight hundred rounds a minute, like an M-60 or the newer M-240B.”

  Agent Morgan walked over to the edge of the wall and pointed over the wall at the hills outside the compound and continued, “The incoming trajectory of the bullets indicates that the shooter or shooters were on those hills out there.”

  Spencer could see the expression on the Ranger’s face change as the young agent went through her analysis.

  “Anything else?”

  “Well, this is somewhat speculative, sir, but some of the holes on the west side of the building are awfully big. My read is that a second shooter hit this place with a fifty cal. My guess would be a Barrett or a BMG.”

  Ranger Corcoran walked over to Agent Morgan, a look of respect on his face. “You know your hardware, ma’am.”

  Agent Morgan turned to the Ranger and smiled. “I should. My dad was a master sergeant in the U.S. Army for thirty years. He spent twenty of those years in charge of weapons training at Fort Bragg. I was his top student, even when I didn’t want to be.”

  The Ranger’s face lit up. “Is that right? Why, it might just be that your dad and I crossed paths a long time ago. I was a Green Beret for about ten years, and I spent quite a bit of that time at Fort Bragg.”

  “Well then, you would be the right man to tell us civvies what went down here.”

  The Ranger’s reticence evaporated.

  “Your so-called guess was pretty darn close. There were two gun positions on those hills out there. You’re also right about the hardware, except the machine gun was a C9A. We still have a lot more forensic work to do here, but in my estimation, this was a well-planned and executed military assault. Yes, sir, the folks that hit this place knew their business.”

  It was almost 1:00 a.m. when Spencer returned to his hotel room in downtown Austin. At 1:30 he received a call from the assistant director of the FBI. Two additional people would be attending tomorrow’s gathering. Agent Morgan was right. It was going to be a very interesting meeting.

  CHAPTER

  SIXTY-FOUR

  Travis County, Texas

  December 10, 1999 / Friday / 8:50 a.m.

  The building where the Statesman was located had a small coffee shop in the lobby. Agent Morgan was sitting on one side of a table near the door with a laptop, typing up her notes from yesterday’s walkthrough of the El Castillo Ranch. Spencer was sitting on the opposite side of the table looking over his handwritten notes and working on his third cup of coffee. He’d called Russo’s cell phone twice that morning and left messages asking her to meet with them a half hour earlier so they could update her on what they’d learned, but they’d received no response. Spencer looked at his watch in frustration. It was 8:50 a.m.

  At 8:55, Russo walked into the lobby holding a cup of Starbucks coffee and a small, brown briefcase. She saw Spencer and Agent Morgan, but made no move to stop as she walked toward the elevators.

  “Shall we go, Agents?”

  “Actually, I think we should take a few minutes to talk about some new developments that validate the allegations—”

  Russo interrupted Spencer, but continued walking. “That’s right, Agent Spencer—allegations. And, as far as I am concerned, bullshit allegations. So let’s get your little meeting over with, so I can do my job, shall we?”

  Spencer’s face tightened, but he followed Russo toward the elevator bank. Agent Morgan was a step behind him.

  “Very well, Ms. Russo, but I did try.”

  Russo’s response was an exasperated snort.

  When they walked out of the elevator, the receptionist conducted them to a formal conference room, with traditional dark wooden décor throughout. The conference table in the middle of the room could easily have seated twenty people. A tape recorder was sitting at the head of the table.

  Russo entered the room first, intentionally preventing Spencer from opening the door for her. She had expected Franklin and the two “suspects” to be in the room waiting for her arrival, but they weren’t there. The room was empty except for two men who were standing near the window at the far end of the room. One of the men was tall and lean, with a full head of gray hair. His prominent nose had been broken at least once, giving his strong features a rugged cast. The gray eyes he fixed on Russo when he looked over conveyed a sense of his formidable intellect and something else as well: a quiet sense of power.

  The second man was shorter and almost bald. In contrast to the other man, his face was strikingly handsome. A friendly smile touched the corners of his mouth as he nodded politely to Russo, but the smile never reached his eyes. They stared intently at Russo, cataloguing every detail.

  Russo looked at their expensive suits and assumed the two men were the Statesman’s outside counsel. She started walking toward them, intending to make it clear that they were not to interfere with her interrogation of the suspects, but Spencer walked past her and reached the two men first. He extended his hand to the taller of the two men, a smile coming to his face.

  “James O’Connor?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bill Spencer, FBI. It’s a pleasure.”

  O’Connor smiled and gripped Spencer’s outstretched hand.

  “The pleasure is all mine, Agent Spencer.”

  Then Spencer turned to the second man and extended his hand.

  “Bill Spencer.”

  The smaller man gripped Spencer’s hand, with both hands, as if they had been friends for years.

  “Paul Henri Benoit at your service, Monsieur Spencer.”

  “And I am at yours, Superintendent Benoit. Welcome to the United States and the great State of Texas.”

  “Thank you. It is my privilege to be here.”

  Spencer then turned around to Russo.

  “Gentlemen, this is Michaela Russo, U.S. Attorney for the Western District of Texas. Ms. Russo, let me introduce you to James O’Connor, Assistant Deputy Director of the Central Intelligence Agency, and Paul Henri Benoit, of the DGSE.”

  Russo tried to control the look of surprise on her face, but the effort was only partially successful.

  “The DG—”

  Benoit smiled apologetically.

  “Directorate-General for External Security, Mademoiselle Russo. We are, shall we say, the French version of the FBI.”

  Spencer spoke as soon as Benoit had finished, forestalling the question that he knew was coming next.

  “The attorney general has consented to Mr. Benoit’s attendance at this meeting, and Mr. O’Connor is here because the CIA has expressed an interest in this case.”

  Russo was confused, but she understood the message Spencer was conveying. Her boss had authorized the two men to participate in the meeting. The issue was not subject to dispute.

  Russo was about to invite Spencer to confer with her outside the room when Reed Franklin walked into the room. He stopped at the door and held it open. An attractive woman in her early thirties walked past him and smiled her thanks. Franklin spoke to her quietly as she walked by and gestured to a seat near the end of the table. The woman was dressed in a conservative business suit and a white blouse. Her long brown hair accentuated her attractive face, beautiful brown eyes, and
full mouth.

  A man about six feet tall followed her into the room. He had light brown hair that was starting to gray at the temples and sideburns. His face was hard and chiseled, but handsome. Although the blue dress shirt and dark corduroy pants he was wearing were loose-fitting, they couldn’t hide the muscularity in his neck, shoulders, and thighs. The man paused briefly at the door and his intense gray eyes scanned the occupants of the room. Then he walked over to the table and sat down beside the woman.

  Franklin walked to the chair at the head of the table and made a welcoming gesture with his hands.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome. I am Reed Franklin, editor of the Statesman. My guests are Andrea Marenna and John Caine.”

  When he finished, Franklin turned to Spencer, who nodded politely.

  “Agent Bill Spencer, FBI. This is Agent Ashley Morgan and Michaela Russo, Assistant United States Attorney.”

  Spencer turned to the two men at the end of the table.

  “Let me also introduce James O’Connor and Paul Benoit. These gentlemen have been invited to participate in today’s meeting by the attorney general.”

  O’Connor and Benoit nodded and then sat down. Spencer had expected Franklin to insist on knowing more about the two men, but to his surprise, the editor simply nodded.

  Russo took the chair to Spencer’s immediate left, placing her one chair away from Franklin and almost directly across the table from John Caine. When everyone was seated, Franklin took the lead.

  “I want to thank everyone for coming today. As you are all aware, we’re here to listen to Ms. Marenna and Mr. Caine tell us about a series of events that occurred this past week. In my humble assessment, Mr. Caine and Ms. Marenna have been the victims of a major criminal conspiracy that is newsworthy. As I told Mr. Spencer, I will be recording today’s session and the Statesman will be going to press with that story tomorrow morning. Since I fully expect the perpetrators of this criminal conspiracy to scatter like mice once this story comes to light, I wanted to allow the law enforcement authorities every opportunity to position themselves accordingly. Now, why—”