“Chemical attacks?”
“The Pentagon viewed the use of chemicals as just another way for Iraq to achieve its military objectives. They didn’t envision those chemicals someday injuring American soldiers.”
“What can you tell me about the companies that supplied the chemicals?” Sloane asked.
Mills shrugged. “More than one hundred and fifty total, with about half being American, are suspected to have supplied the basic building components and technical knowledge Iraq needed to develop nuclear, chemical, and biological weapons. UN weapons inspectors confirmed the chemicals to be part of Iraq’s biological weapons program.”
Mills handed Sloane a 1994 document bearing the imprint of the U.S. Senate Committee on Banking, Housing, and Urban Affairs. “Another Senate inquiry concluded that the precursor chemicals provided by U.S. manufacturers were likely the same chemicals used against U.S. troops and largely responsible for the illness known as Gulf War syndrome.” Mills opened his palms toward the ceiling and shrugged. “What more do I need?”
“The magazine article indicates there’s evidence some companies continued to illegally supply chemicals after the Gulf War.”
Mills nodded. “Iraq was forbidden to develop chemical weapons. Yet between 1991 and 1996 the UN Special Commission uncovered a massive biological and nuclear weapons program. Documents have since revealed that the Iraqi government continued to purchase very large quantities of precursor chemicals and cultures from foreign companies.”
“How could those companies get away with it?”
Mills explained a complicated system in which the chemicals were sold through intermediaries in Syria and Jordan with the money to pay for the chemicals coming from Iraqi oil sales. When he had finished he said, “Your secretary said you represent the family of a national guardsman killed over there. Why would you be interested in Gulf War syndrome?”
Sloane removed the magazine from his briefcase, flipped it to the dog-eared page with the embedded box, and handed it to Mills. “I’m not. I’m interested in one of the companies on your list.”
KEN MILLS SIFTED through the alphabetically organized folders. The folder for Argus International was near the front of the box, three inches thick, not including public documents from the SEC and other government permitting agencies.
“They’re in your neck of the woods,” Mills said.
“I’ve been there.”
Despite becoming one of the world’s largest chemical manufacturers, Argus had maintained its headquarters in Old Nisqually, Washington, where Houghton Park Sr. had established the company fifty years earlier. Sloane thought it made sense. The property taxes were probably minimal, and as Jenkins had said, it certainly helped security when your business buttressed a huge military base.
Mills stood at Sloane’s side as he flipped through the file. “Of all the companies, they appear the most discreet.”
“Any thoughts why?” Sloane asked.
“The American public isn’t exactly enamored with this war. That makes Northrup a natural target; every watchdog organization out there wants a crack at him. If Argus illegally shipped chemicals while he was president of the company, the ramifications would be a public relations nightmare for both the administration and Argus, not to mention financially catastrophic. We’re talking about the potential loss of billions of dollars in existing contracts, and Argus would bear the brunt of any legal judgment because so many of the other companies listed in the report are either bankrupt or no longer in business.”
Further documents in the file indicated that between 1988 and 2002, Argus received more than $10 billion in government contracts. “Looks like they can afford it,” Sloane said.
“Maybe,” Mills said. “But let me tell you, nothing makes a Harvard-educated businessman’s ass pucker quite like the thought that he could go to jail. These aren’t Enron-type crimes. We’re not talking about the loss of retiree nest eggs. If Argus is implicated, they’re potentially responsible for the loss of American lives. Think about it. Whose chemicals were we looking for?”
Sloane focused his attention on a list of current and former Argus executives. It read like a who’s who of the president’s current administration as well as of former administrations. Argus did not discriminate between Republicans and Democrats.
“So what’s your connection to Argus?” Mills asked.
Sloane looked up from the documents. “The current head of its security forces in Iraq is the captain who led the mission the night my client’s husband was shot. It may be nothing, but there have been a series of odd coincidences, and I’m not a big believer in coincidences.”
Mills frowned. “Neither am I. Not anymore. I don’t want to alarm you, but the security company I’m working with said Argus is known to hire Special Forces types, soldiers highly trained and skilled in covert activities.”
“I know,” Sloane said. “I’ve seen their operation.”
“Then let me impress this upon you. If things continue to seem out of the ordinary, don’t be a hero, and don’t downplay it. Call the FBI.”
“What did they say, other than to hire security?”
“The first thing they said was to protect the people I love.”
SLOANE STEPPED FROM the elevator and walked across the building lobby with his cell phone pressed to his ear. Outside the building he struggled to hear over the traffic on Wilshire Boulevard.
Tina’s cell phone rang through to her voice mail. Frustrated, he hung up without leaving a message. There was no point. She never listened to her messages. She only checked the call log. Sloane paced the sidewalk, waiting for his cab. Maybe it was better she hadn’t answered. What would he have said? “How are things going? Notice anything unusual?”
He flipped open the phone and tried again. No answer. “Damn.”
Speculating would only cause her alarm, and after what she had been through just two years earlier, abducted from a San Francisco street and held at knifepoint as ransom until Sloane returned the package Joe Branick had sent to him, she was liable to take Jake and leave.
He spotted his cab, hailed it to the curb, and climbed in. “LAX.” Inside, he called his office. Carolyn had him booked on a three-o’clock flight.
“Can you make it?” she asked.
It would be close, but a three-o’clock flight, barring any delays, would put him at Sea-Tac by 5:30. With luck he could be home by six. Tina and Jake would get home around four. That left them alone for two hours. “I’ll make it,” he told Carolyn. “Thanks. See you in a week.” Sloane disconnected and dialed a second number.
Charles Jenkins answered his phone on the second ring. “What did you find out?”
“Too much to explain over the phone. I’m on my way to the airport. How quickly can you get to my house?”
“Half an hour, why?”
“I don’t want Tina and Jake alone. Make up an excuse to be there.”
“What am I looking for?”
“Anything out of the ordinary,” he said. “Sweep the house for bugs.”
“Sweep it with what?”
“I don’t know. Look for things.”
“Argus?” Jenkins asked.
“I think so.”
Sloane hung up the phone and asked the cabdriver to hurry. He sat back envisioning himself poking a stick at a tiger through the bars of a cage. Then the tiger grew angry, lunged, and snapped the stick off in his hand.
SLOANE DEPLANED AT Sea-Tac Airport, phone in hand. The flight had felt like the longest of his life.
“All’s quiet,” Jenkins said. “Jake’s fishing and Alex took Tina for a walk along the beach to give me a chance to go over the house. It’s clean from what I can tell. You want to tell me what has you so freaked?”
Sloane let out a sigh. “I’ll be home in fifteen minutes. We can talk then.”
THREE TREE POINT, WASHINGTON
CARS FILLED THE public easement—fishermen who’d come to fish off the beach at sunset. Sloane double-parked be
hind a van he recognized as belonging to a company that brought scuba divers to the Point. He hurried up the porch steps, calling out as he entered the kitchen.
“Anybody home?”
“We’re out here,” Tina replied.
Tina and Alex sat in the wicker chairs on the sunporch, two glasses of white wine on the table. Sloane tossed his coat on the couch in the living room and walked onto the porch, greeting Alex first.
“This is a nice surprise. What brings you here?” He hoped he sounded genuine.
Alex flipped the dark curls from her shoulder. “You know me. I’m always up for coming to civilization to do a little shopping.”
“Did you find anything?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No. Not a thing.”
“Where’s Charlie?”
“Just went to get another tank of propane,” Tina said. “We want to barbecue.”
He kissed her. “Where have you been? I called earlier.”
Her face brightened. “I have good news. I wanted to tell you in person.”
He wrapped his arms around her waist. “So tell me. I could use some good news.”
Alex stood. “I think that’s my cue to check on the coals.”
“It’s propane,” Sloane said.
“Whatever.” She picked up her glass and walked out, letting the screen door slap closed behind her.
“So tell me,” Sloane said.
Tina pressed closer. He felt the curves of her body. She laughed. “I can feel your heart pounding. Relax. I’m not pregnant.”
He took an exaggerated breath. “Whew!”
She punched his chest. “Stop.”
“Okay,” he said. “Start over. What’s the good news?”
“You remember that design I was doing for the building retrofit in Des Moines?”
“You got it?”
She punched him again. “Don’t spoil it.”
“Sorry.” He cleared his throat for a dramatic pause. “Yes, I remember the design for the building retrofit in Des Moines.”
“Well, I got it.”
“That’s great—that’s your first big job. You’re right, we need to celebrate. How about a trip to Cabo? We’ll leave tomorrow.”
She punched him again and pulled away. “Fine. Be that way.”
“I’m kidding. You know I’m happy for you. Tell me about it.”
“They loved my use of the existing space and my idea for a glass entry to take advantage of the southern exposure.”
“I knew you’d get it. You worked hard on that building.”
“And that’s not the only thing we’ll be celebrating,” she said. She laughed. “You deserved that. From the look on your face you’d think I told you I’m expecting triplets.”
“Hey, a man can only take so much good news in one day.”
“Uh-huh, sure.” She picked up her wineglass.
“So what else are we celebrating?”
“I promised I wouldn’t say, but Jake has something to show you.”
“He caught a fish!”
Her eyes widened and she made another fist, causing him to flinch. “Don’t spoil it. Act surprised.”
“He really caught one?”
“A king. And it’s big, so make a big deal about it. We’re having fresh salmon for dinner. You’re grilling it.”
“So the new lure actually worked?”
“Looks that way.” She headed for the kitchen. “I’m going to make a salad. Bring him and the fish up. He’s dying to see the guts.”
Sloane stepped outside. Alex stood with her back to the house as if enjoying the view. The cloud layer had calmed the wind; the gray waters of the Sound lapped lazily onto the beach and a seagull mewed from its perch on a neighbor’s roof.
“Thanks for coming down,” he said.
“No problem.”
“Everything okay?”
She took a sip of wine and pointed out at the parade of boats on the water. “Charlie says everything is clean as far as a visual will tell us. When he comes back with the propane, he’ll check your car. I haven’t noticed anything out of the ordinary.”
Sloane let out a breath. “I guess I got a bit paranoid.”
“Better safe than sorry.”
“I’ll explain more later; right now I need to go act surprised at a fish.”
“It really is big,” Alex said.
Jake stood at the water’s edge twenty yards down the beach, but this time his head swiveled as Sloane approached, which meant he’d been watching for him.
“David!” The boy nearly dropped his pole, realized he still had a line in the water, and jammed the rod into the rocks, using a bigger stone to keep it upright.
“How’re they biting, Hemingway?”
Jake shrugged, hiding a grin. “Oh, you know, a nibble here and there.”
Sloane played along. “Well, like I said, you have to have patience. Only the really experienced fishermen land the big fish.”
Jake nodded. Then he burst. “Then that would be me!” He dropped to his knees in the rocks and pulled off the top of the cooler. He’d packed the salmon in ice. Its tail bent up the side. “Can you believe it?”
Sloane squatted. “My God, it’s huge!”
“I felt it hit, and when I pulled back, I knew I had him. My pole was bending so far I thought it was going to break in half. But I didn’t panic. I just let him take the line. Then I started reeling him in, but not too fast. I played with him and let him have his runs to tire him out.”
The boy’s knowledge amazed Sloane. “How long did it take to land him?”
“About twenty minutes. Mr. Williams used his net when I got him close, but only after I got him in.” Jake pointed to the man fishing just down the beach, who acknowledged Sloane with a wave. “He said we’ve been using the wrong spinners.”
“Your mother told me.”
“The kings like the pink ones, not the green ones. And you have to put a piece of herring on the hook. He hit on my third cast. Can you believe it? Mr. Williams coached me on how to bring him in.” Jake rushed to add, “But I did it all by myself. He didn’t reel at all.”
“I’m really proud of you.”
“There must be a run going on,” Jake said. “I’m going to get up early and fish.”
“We leave for Cabo tomorrow morning.”
The boy’s face brightened. “We’re going to catch so many fish,” he said.
“Hey, you two!” Tina shouted to them from the lawn and waved her arms. “Are we eating salmon tonight or not?”
“I have to bring the fish up to Mom.” Jake stood and hefted the cooler. “She’s going to let me clean it. You want to watch?”
Sloane nodded. “What self-respecting guy wouldn’t want to see fish guts?”
Jake started up the beach, stopped. “My pole.”
“You go ahead. I’ll reel it in and bring it up.”
“Thanks, David.” The boy did a duck walk carrying the heavy cooler between his legs. He set the cooler on the driftwood logs and yelled back down the beach. “Bye, Mr. Williams. Thank you.”
The man smiled and waved. “Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow, Jake.”
“That would be great,” Jake said, his joy apparently making him forget that he’d be on a plane to Cabo.
Sloane picked up the pole and reeled in the line until he felt it snag.
“Jerk it straight back.” The fisherman approached. “Just give it a quick tug toward you.” Sloane jerked the line, felt the lure pop free, and continued reeling. “It settles to the bottom when you stop reeling. Most people make the mistake of pulling to the side, but with multiple hooks it just sets the snag.”
“He’s sure excited.” Sloane looked up the beach as Jake disappeared behind the hedge. “That’s his first big fish.”
The man focused on the water, deliberately reeling. He wore a green fly-fishing vest with multiple pockets and a floppy hat. “He’s a nice kid. I enjoy his company. Most kids that age just grunt at an adult.�
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“I’ll let his mother know. She’s the guiding force.”
Mr. Williams pulled in his line, cleaned seaweed from the pink buzz bomb, and checked the piece of herring hanging from the three-pronged hook. “He was using the wrong color. The kings like pink this time of year. Don’t ask me why, though.”
“Can I pay you for it?” Sloane offered.
The man flicked the pole back over his shoulder and snapped it forward. The reel hummed as the spinner shot through the air, ending with a plunk thirty yards offshore. He let it sink a moment before reeling in. “Forget about it. It was worth it just to see the look on his face. Reminded me of when I caught my first fish.”
“Are you from around here?”
“Me? I grew up in Minnesota. We used to have to cut holes in the ice to fish.”
“Well, I better get up and learn how to clean a fish. Looks like he might be catching more. Thanks again.” He turned and started up the beach.
“Not a problem. You have a nice family, Mr. Sloane.”
Sloane stopped, turned. Tina had taken his last name, but Jake had kept his biological father’s name. “How did you know my name?”
The man continued to reel.
“How do you know my name?”
“I know a lot of things, Mr. Sloane: How to fish. Your name. Jake’s name. Tina’s name.”
“Who are you?”
The man glanced up the beach in the direction that Jake had departed. “Me? You heard Jake. I’m Mr. Williams.”
“Who the hell are you?”
The spinner came out of the water twirling and swaying like a pendulum.
“Who the hell—”
Mr. Williams calmly pulled a knife from his vest, snapping the blade open with a flick of his wrist. Sloane stopped. The man grabbed the lure, cut free the seaweed and piece of herring, and threw both into the water. Two seagulls descended quickly to fight for the scrap of fish.
“No luck today. Not for fish anyway.” He snapped closed the knife and calmly fastened the hook on one of the pole’s eyeholes, bending the tip slightly. Then he looked at Sloane. “Guess I’ll have to come back.”
Wrongful Death: A Novel Page 11