by Randy Dutton
“So, in other words, he may have succeeded too well?”
“Yes.”
Anna bit her lower lip. “Sven’s not used to rejection. He’s narcissistic...always thinking he can get and do whatever he wants. That’s how he lost his last job, and how he got this one. I think we enabled him to subvert authority.”
“We should rein him in.”
“That may be harder than you think. He’s pretty stubborn…cocky even. The more we direct him, the more I fear he hides from us.”
“Anna, you hired him.”
She quickly retorted. “Yeah, but not before you approved it.”
He chuckled. “Touché. Look, I want you to probe a little, see what he’s planning. He’s been invaluable. I don’t want to lose him.”
“Neither do I.... I’ll probe.”
Chapter 16
June 24, 1000 hours
Profit Oil Company HQ, Dallas, TX
The clock on the wall chimed 10 AM. Tom Heyward leaned back at his solid oak desk on the top floor of the Profit Oil Company Building. He glanced to his left to the wall dedicated to the accomplishments of his family – photos of his two sons and two daughters, often engaged in their own choice of sports.
Some photos showed Pete, his eldest child, as a star quarterback at Texas A&M, another with him as a Marine First Lieutenant receiving the Silver Star and Purple Heart while lying in a hospital bed. The next, Pete’s mentor and MIT professor was awarding him a PhD.
The photos of Patrick, the baseball star and mechanical engineer, were grouped with photos of his youngest daughter, MacKenzie winning an ice skating competition.
Photos of his eldest daughter, Paula, at equestrian jumping competitions now included her husband and two children.
The largest photo, in the center, was of Irma, his lovely wife of nearly 40 years, surrounded by their family.
Tom drummed a pen, considering what he would say that afternoon at the emergency Board of Directors meeting. Business was a disaster. The government was restricting the very resources that had built his business. He considered the carbon taxes and fees levied against his company as usury. The day after the UN conference in the Maldives Tom had decided on a course of action.
“Sir”—his his intercom squawked with a nervous voice—“there are two gentlemen here to see you, I think you need to take this,”
“Send them in Peggy.”
Two officious men types strode into his office. They wore dark suits, one of European design, and both had severe expressions.
“Mr. Thomas M. Heyward? CEO of Profit Oil Company?” One gentleman started.
Tom nodded.
“My name is Jack Marber of the Federal Marshal’s Office, and this is Detective Peter Lansing of Interpol.”
“Yes, what’s this about?” Tom asked curiously.
“Sir, I am serving you a subpoena to appear at the federal courthouse at 1 PM.”
Tom pressed the intercom. “Peggy, get our lawyer, Rick Clarke, in here, ASAP!”
The detective handed Tom the subpoena. “Mr. Heyward, you are under investigation for conspiracy to commit murder—”
“Of whom?!” Tom asked incredulously.
“Of a Mr. Hassan, Environmental Minister of the Maldives.” He read him his Miranda Rights.
“He’s dead? I wasn’t aware...Hell, I didn’t kill him. What makes you think I did?”
The telephone rang. It was Rick. “Don’t say anything Tom! I’ll be right there.”
“Rick, I’m being accused of murdering an official in the Maldives!” Tom stammered.
“Not a word, Tom!” Rick yelled over the phone.
“Have a seat at the table gentlemen,” Tom said nervously, directing them to a small conference table in the office. Everyone sat down and stayed quiet.
Within two minutes, Rick rushed into the office. He spoke directly to Marshal Marber. “Let’s sort this out. Tell me what you’ve got.”
Marber had already laid out paperwork. “On June 16th of this year, Mr. Tom Heyward visited a Mr. Hassan in his office at the Royal Palace in the city of Malé, in the country of the Maldives. Is that correct?”
Tom whispered to Rick, and Rick responded, “Yes, he was on business as an invited delegate to the UN.”
“You were with a Mr. Arthur Middleton, representative of the United Global Mining Consortium. Is that correct?”
More whispering. “Yes, that is correct,” Rick responded.
“He, too, is under investigation.” The detective saw Tom’s eyebrows lift. The investigator continued. “You are not to contact him or the two other men you were with during that conference, Mr. Edward Rutledge of Global Food Alliance and Mr. Samuel Chase, CEO of Universal Power Utility. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” The lawyer nodded. “My client understands.”
“Please surrender your passport, Mr. Heyward.” Marber said sternly while extending his hand.
“What? I’m a flight risk?” Tom yelled.
“Tom, give it to him,” Rick advised.
With his hands shaking, Tom walked to his desk and handed over his passport.
“Thank you for your time. Here is my card. We will expect the two of you at 1 PM sharp, at the federal building. Call me from the lobby. We’ll go over the evidence and take a statement.” The men rose, and before reaching the door, the US Marshal added, “The State Department and Justice Department are demanding full cooperation. The implications of this crime are of international significance and affect the credibility and honor of the United States of America. This is serious, gentlemen. You must take it as such. And, by the way, someone leaked this to the press this morning, so I recommend you make no public statements.”
With that they left.
“Rick, what’s going on?” stammered Tom.
“We’ll find out this afternoon, but first we need to go over everything you did and said when you were there. I need to know everyone you spoke with both officially and unofficially. What did you eat and drink, where did you stay. Is there anything, and I mean anything, you want to tell me now that I need to protect you from?!”
Tom shook his head.
“And cancel the Board Meeting,” the lawyer added. “You don’t have the time or the focus right now.”
Chapter 17
June 10, 1000 hours
United Global Mining Consortium
Denver, CO
Art Middleton’s telephone rang. “Art, can you come in here please?” George Sanford, President of United Global Mining Consortium said.
“What’s up?” Art asked as he entered the office. “And why are you lawyered up?” he asked looking around the room and seeing three members of the legal team.
“Sit down.” A moment passed as everyone took their seats. George continued, “Someone broke a press embargo and called me. Do you know a Tom Heyward, CEO of Profit Oil Exploration?”
“Yeah, we met in the Maldives, had dinner together and went to the capital city the next day....” His eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“Seems he’s being charged with conspiracy to commit murder of some official named Hassan. Does that name ring a bell to you?”
His eyebrows lifted. “Yes. Tom and I both went to Hassan’s office.” He noticed the lawyers rolling their eyes.
“Why were you there?” asked the lead attorney.
“To find out what happened to the data on the ocean level charts. The data had been changed, and the research that contradicted the charts was disqualified for consideration by the UN.... Did he do it?”
“We don’t know, but the evidence against him is pretty damning… and it gets worse.”
Art gulped, “In what way?”
“You may be indicted as a co-conspirator,” the lawyer responded. “We need to ask you some questions before Interpol arrives.”
“Interpol?!” Art gasped.
“It’s a major international incident, and I doubt the US Administration will give you any support. Innocent or guilty, they’d be hap
py to sacrifice both of you to the sharks to save face. Hell, they’ll chum the waters just to hasten the feeding frenzy. To them, we represent the evil polluters destroying the world,” added George.
“Mr. Sanford, they’re here,” a nervous voice said over the intercom.
“Art, come with us and bring your passport. They’ll want it,” said the attorney. “They’re here to take you for interrogation.”
Chapter 18
June 24, 1800 hours
Profit Oil Company HQ
Dallas, TX
The office door opened. It was 6 PM when an exhausted Tom shuffled into his office followed by his lawyer. The deposition had been grueling. “I didn’t make a bomb.”
“But you admitted to knowing how to make explosives.” Rick sighed.
“Of course! Most petroleum engineers know chemistry well enough to make a number of explosives.”
“And being with a mining engineer, who routinely works with explosives wasn’t a help…That’s the means.”
“No, I guess that would look bad,” Tom said.
Rick looked at him. “You admitted that you argued with Mr. Hassan in his office, and that you accused the Maldivian government of covering up the truth about sea levels not really rising.”
“I’m passionate when I’m right.”
“And with rising sea levels, your industry, something you have a significant financial stake in, is at risk?”
“Yes.”
“Uh huh,” Rick muttered, looking at his notes. “That’s the motive.... You admitted to being in possession of a large bottle at dinner the night before.”
“Of water. It came with dinner! I don’t know why the waiter told investigators the bottle wasn’t there when he cleaned up afterward.” Tom was still shaking. “But where would I have gotten the explosives?”
“They’ve had bombings in the Maldives in the past several years. They could argue that you knew this and found an intermediary.”
“But I didn’t!” His voice was stressed.
“But for them that adds to the means,” Rick said, shaking his head.
“You also said you had given Hassan just one of your business cards? Yet, one was found in his desk, and another found floating with his body. How the hell did that happen?” Rick sternly said, “What are you leaving out?”
“I don’t know. I’m being set up. I don’t know why, or by whom. I just know someone is after me.” Tom shook nervously.
“The card and bottle also show you had the opportunity,” Rick said matter-of-factly, “We’ll see if they get prints or DNA off the business card, other than yours. You better hope so. Tom, we’re going to get a top detective on this. I’m the attorney for the company, not you personally. So you need to get a personal attorney. Spare no expense. Get the best. I’ll give you some recommendations. The company will cover you as long as you were acting in your capacity as CEO…. Take this seriously. There is a possibility that you’re being framed by Art Middleton. He had equal access, motive, and means.”
“I can’t imagine him doing that. He’s a stand-up guy.”
“Didn’t you say he’s part philosopher?” Rick cocked his head.
“Yes, he’s got a Bachelor’s in Philosophy. Why?” Tom looked hopefully at Rick.
“Some philosophers rationalize the ends justify the means. Sacrifice the few to save the many. The whole environmental movement is based upon it.” Rick observed. “It’s a lead.”
Chapter 19
June 24, 1800 hours
United Global Mining Consortium
Denver, CO
Denver was cast in the shadow of the Rocky Mountains when Art and the lead attorney returned to UGM. “I can’t believe they think I had anything to do with it,” Art said despairingly.
“Well, your explosives knowledge and your argument with Hassan give them sufficient circumstantial evidence…” the lawyer explained.
“But I didn’t argue with him, Tom did.... Still, there was nothing that day that indicated Tom was up to something…why when we were at lunch....” Art hesitated and his expression turned thoughtful.
“When you were at lunch, what?” the lawyer prompted.
Art looked up and pondered. “When we were at lunch in a small café in Malé, there was a woman sitting next to us. There was something about her that was odd. She appeared to be wearing a bronzing skin cream…and seemed argumentative at first, and friendlier at the end. Wanted a business card from each of us.”
The lawyer eyes widened as he took notes. “What more can you say about her?”
“She was moderately tall, about 5’7”, had long, black hair that was mostly covered with a blue scarf, and dark blue eyes. Very European.”
“From what country?”
“She implied she was part of the Spanish delegation.... She said speaking English was important with her work at the UN.”
“How was her English?”
“Very good, but so was the little Spanish she used. Claimed she didn’t attend the conference because she was too low-level.... Had strikingly beautiful European facial features…model quality. Her clothes were very conservative and loose fitting, but quality material.... She seemed very much at ease eating alone in a Muslim country...as if she had a lot of experience.”
“Good. Anything else?”
Art drummed his fingers on the table while combing his memory for more clues. “She had a large brown, high-quality leather bag with her, pretty empty it seemed.... We had mentioned our meeting with Hassan, and…the picture of his expensive speedboat…she seemed suddenly distracted.”
The lawyer leaned forward with added interest. “Keep going.”
“She claimed she had never met Hassan. But the café was right next door to the Palace grounds, so perhaps she visited it for some other reason. The guard might recognize her.”
The lawyer continued to take notes while saying, “We’ll check that out. I’ll have a suspect sketch artist here tomorrow. I doubt there are many tall western women walking alone and unnoticed through a Muslim city. We’ll see if we can verify who she works for.”
Rick put his pen down. “This is a crap shoot, Art. She may mean nothing to solving this. And the best strategy may be to throw Mr. Heyward under the bus and cooperate with Interpol’s investigation.”
Art nodded, but still was trying to draw on details he might have missed. “She also would have had to have transportation to Malé, so check the boats and the docks on the north side of the island.... Oh, and one more thing…she called herself...Maria.”
Chapter 20
June 26, 0900 hours
Heyward’s Office
Profit Oil
The lawyer sat down at the conference table.
“Good morning, Jim,” Tom Heyward said, the exhaustion evident in his voice. “Thank you for accepting the case.... It’s been a tough couple days.”
Tom took a sip of water then motioned to a young man in his mid-30s. “Jim, I want you to meet my son, Pete. I’d like to have him assist on the case, if that’s okay. He’s a former Marine First Lieutenant, and his expertise may assist in some of the technical aspects of the case. Pete, Jim Hancock.”
Pete Heyward stood to shake the lawyer’s hand. At 6’3” and 205 pounds, Pete cut an imposing image, yet his handsome features and quick smile disarmed most who met him. “Please to meet you, Sir.”
“Pete, please elaborate on your credentials that apply to this case,” Jim Hancock requested flatly.
“First off, I’ve got to correct my dad, once a Marine, always a Marine…sorry Dad!”
Tom smiled at the friendly jibe.
“Now to your question. I earned a B.S. in applied genetics from Texas A&M while going through NROTC...”
“Star quarterback too!” Tom proudly cut in. “Used to be a very fast runner.”
“Good school,” Hancock said with a nod and a smile.
“Yes, it is. Anyway, I then served three years with the Marines, primarily recon—”
&
nbsp; “Where’d you serve?”
“Iraq.”
“I see. That must have been tough.... Just three years?”
“I was injured and got a medical discharge. I went back to school, got a Doctorate at MIT in atmospheric science, from their Earth, Atmospheric, and Planetary Sciences Department.”
“Impressive, but how will that help?”
“Dad’s innocent. This has got to be about the UN Conference, or intragovernmental politics in the Maldives. If it relates to the UN position on global warming, I speak the science. I also speak a little Arabic and know some of the Islamic culture. I want to help in any way I can—”
“I’m not sure—”
Pete leaned forward. “Look. Either I’m part of the team or I start my own investigation.”
“Listen up, Pete!” Jim said forcefully. “A separate investigation would not help your father. Instead, it could cause him irreparable harm. But as a courtesy to him, with respect to your military experience in following orders, and with the possibility your expertise could come in handy, you’re in. But under this condition.... You absolutely follow the direction of the team leader. Got it, Marine?!”
“Yes sir!” Pete smiled.
“By the way, where were you wounded?”
“RPG shrapnel, lost the right leg above the knee,” and he lifted his right pant leg to show part of the prosthetic limb.
“I didn’t even see you limp.” Jim’s tone softened.
“This is an advanced limb with computer assisted electronic servomotors that help me simulate a natural gait. I can walk all day long on it and it’s covered in a synthetic skin that looks somewhat normal. Nowadays, some guys can stay in combat with such technology.”
“He ran a half marathon last month,” chimed in the proud father.
Jim nodded his approval then redirected his discussion. “Tom, I took this case only after I heard that the independent testimony of both you and Art Middleton were nearly identical, and saw the separate sketches of the woman you both claim in your encounter with Mr. Hassan.” He laid both sketches side by side. “They point to the same person.”