[Deborah Jones 02.0] Dark Waters

by J. B. Turner

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘You don’t look fine.’

  ‘Just bad news, that’s all.’

  ‘I see.’ He took a long hard look at the man in the back. ‘You take care now.’

  She paid the toll meekly. Then she drove on in silence, blinking away the tears.

  ‘Take exit one for Florida City.’

  A short while later, Deborah was entering Homestead, just over thirty miles southwest of Miami. It was a town of around thirty thousand residents, which had been devastated by Hurricane Andrew in 1992. It nestled between Biscayne National Park to the east and the Everglades to the west. She was driving through the downtown area and the man began telling her which way to go. Past city hall and the clock outside, then past a Baptist church, doubling back past the Redland Hotel and a quaint antique shop. Then she felt his breath on her ear.

  ‘Hang a right.’ Obviously he knew the area well. ‘Then we’re going to head due west, okay?’

  Deborah’s stomach churned while the sleepy town disappeared from sight as they headed out along the State Road 9336 and the southern outskirts of Homestead disappeared from sight. A mile later they were passing motels and tiny diners in the small town of Florida City. They drove on, leaving the town and the last remnants of civilization behind them. The road merged and they were on the Ingraham Highway, driving past fields, the occasional farm enveloped by the suffocating darkness of the Everglades.

  The SUV’s headlights disturbed some pelicans and ibises which took flight into the starry south Florida sky.

  They passed the visitor center of the Everglades National Park.

  Deborah had hiked and camped several times in the subtropical wetland prairie. It was made up of large tree islands‌—‌tropical hardwood hammocks‌—‌and small shrubby islands called bay heads, interspersed with mangrove forests, swamp, and gumbo limbo trees, half-submerged in the mostly fresh or brackish water that teemed with alligators and snakes.

  It was a perfect place for someone to disappear.

  The River of Grass.

  Deborah thought of her father, probably sleeping at home in Jackson, her mother watching a late-night film and sipping her cocoa. But most of all she thought of Sam, almost certainly in his office and out of his mind with worry.

  Suddenly the road became bumpy, the SUV lurching from side to side, making her feel nauseous.

  ‘You gonna do to me what you did to John Hudson, huh?’

  The man said nothing, but his eyes glinted in the rearview mirror.

  ‘So who sent you? Was it Charlie Henke? Well, we’re on to him. And he’s going down. Trust me on that.’ Still the man said nothing.

  The road was now fringing the sawgrass and twisted mangroves in the water, where cottonmouth snakes lurked. She smelled the damp, fecund aroma of the swamps, the hardwood hammocks, live oaks, pawpaws and cypresses.

  Deborah decided that it was time. She floored the accelerator. The SUV roared and lurched along the pitch-black road. Tears flooded her eyes.

  ‘Slow down, you fucking idiot,’ the man shouted.

  Deborah turned the wheel sharp left and then right. She undid her safety belt. And then she started laughing.

  Deborah was going to go down fighting. She hurtled along the road that ran through a wetland restoration area. She smashed through the gate and drove on. The old borrow canal was running alongside the road on the north and west. Small cypress trees were dotted all around.

  The man’s arm was around her throat, his knife pressed to her neck. She felt warm blood.

  ‘You gonna die, bitch.’

  Deborah veered to the right. The SUV flipped over and plunged into the dark waters of the Everglades. Muddied water flooded in as the airbag jammed her tight against the steering wheel. Shock spread through her body. For some reason she hadn’t expected it to be so cold, knowing the Florida winters were relatively mild. She began to choke. The tannin water stung her eyes, ears and nose. The car was under water, sinking softly into the mud and silt.

  Deborah was trapped.

  Her dress was wrapped round her face and she ripped part of it off. For a few desperate seconds she struggled to get her bearings. She was swallowing water and bits of leaves and mud in the pitch black.

  Above her the man was locked into his seat by his belt, looming like a crazed gargoyle, slashing at her through the water, missing by inches.

  Deborah struggled to hold her breath and managed not to scream as something brushed past her. It was a snake.

  A cottonmouth.

  She was trapped by the airbag. And, despite her efforts, she couldn’t at first get free. But miraculously, inch by inch, she finally began to extricate herself. Straining, she managed to stretch out a free hand to the floor and felt inside her bag. Her purse, lipstick and…It was out of reach. Then she had it. Her nail file, to burst the bag.

  The car lurched in the mud, and the nail file was lost in the sediment and water.

  Deborah knew she had only seconds to live. Her lungs were full to bursting. She ripped wildly at the bag and it burst in a watery explosion.

  She leaned over and tried to open the passenger-seat window, but it wouldn’t budge. She banged at the windows, but nothing happened.

  All of a sudden she felt the man on top of her.

  He was free.

  One hand was round her throat; the other still held the knife. She jolted at a searing pain in her neck. And again‌—‌this time in her shoulder.

  And she swallowed more murky water.

  Her lungs were ready to explode. She felt herself drifting away.

  Deborah opened her eyes one last time and saw the knife coming down at her.

  Summoning every ounce of strength in her exhausted body she launched herself at her attacker. She tore into his face and eyes with her nails, piercing the skin and flesh. She felt exultant to see his astonishment and rage. And his blood.

  Frantically, she clawed herself further up to the top of the SUV, away from him.

  In a split second Deborah noticed that the rear of the car, which was pointing upwards, still held an air pocket. Lashing out with her leg, she caught the man right on his windpipe and pushed out to gulp in the precious air.

  A few inches from her feet, he scrabbled to catch hold of her. But she could see that he was stuck and was flailing about in the near-darkness of the muddy water.

  She saw bubbles come from his mouth. And then there was no movement.

  Everything below Deborah’s chin was under water. Her feet were planted on the headrests of the rear seats. She began to shiver uncontrollably.

  The back of her head was jammed against the rear window. She was too scared to move, in case the SUV sank deeper into the mud. Tears and blood and mud smeared her vision. Dead leaves and bits of rotten branches floated in the black water.

  Suddenly she was in total darkness. The light from the full moon, which had reflected into the upturned rear window of the SUV, was gone. She closed her eyes and thought of Sam, and of cloudless skies. She thought of children. That was what she wanted. More than anything.

  Deborah opened her eyes as she felt the water beginning to rise. She craned her neck a half-inch as the water started to seep into her mouth. She tasted the mud and sediment, mixed with her own blood.

  The water was rising. How was that possible?

  Then a ripple in the water against her cheeks. She heard birds taking flight. And a distant low drone. It got louder. And closer. And then a brilliant beam of light shone down.

  A helicopter was directly above her, the rotor blades causing a downdraft and whipping the water into her mouth.

  Deborah thought her heart was going to burst. Tears streamed down her face. She heard voices. And sirens blaring.

  66

  At the end of her hospital bed Deborah’s father and mother were sitting quiet, smiling at her. Immaculate as always.

  ‘You’re okay, honey,’ her mother said. ‘Momma’s here. They say you’re gonna do just fine.’r />
  Sam leaned over and kissed her, tears spilling down his cheeks. ‘Welcome back, darling. You’re safe.’ His beautiful world-weary blue eyes stared down at her. ‘No one’s gonna hurt you any more.’

  Deborah stroked his hair and smiled. ‘You promise?’

  Sam nodded. ‘I promise. I never thought I’d see you again.’

  ‘You don’t get rid of me that easily.’

  The following afternoon, after a deep nightmare-free sleep, Deborah could feel her strength returning. She was more alert. She sat up in her bed. And she asked Sam for her laptop.

  67

  The next evening, just as they were about to go to press, Sam was sitting peacefully in a chair beside Deborah’s bed when his cellphone rang.

  ‘Goldberg,’ he said, rubbing his eyes.

  ‘Sam, it’s Eddie. We got a problem with Deborah’s story.’

  ‘What are you talking about? This has been past Byron, and he said it’s fine.’

  ‘The CIA’s lawyers have lodged a last-minute bid to stop publication of tomorrow’s Miami Herald.’

  ‘You got to be kidding me!’

  ‘Byron said the judge is considering it at this moment. We’re expecting to hear back within the hour.’

  ‘This is bullshit, Eddie.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Okay, keep me posted.’

  After the fire of energy that had consumed Deborah when she’d been working up the Henke story, this news drained all the life from her.

  She lay back on her starched white pillow and gazed blankly at the ceiling.

  • • •

  Ninety minutes later Sam’s phone rang again, jolting Deborah awake.

  ‘Yeah, talk to me, Eddie,’ Sam said, grim-faced.

  ‘The judge has just delivered his ruling.’

  Sam looked at Deborah who stared back, her eyes heavy.

  ‘Sam… Sam, the judge has ruled that it’s in the national interest this story is not suppressed. He quoted the First Amendment which protects freedom of speech and freedom of the press.’

  Deborah didn’t have to be told that the news was good. And she sat up suddenly.

  ‘Have we started printing?’

  ‘Two minutes ago. They’re already coming off the presses. And the story’s gonna make international headlines tomorrow. So buckle up.’

  Sam laughed out loud. ‘Tell Byron he did good.’

  ‘No, Sam, you did good. And Deborah. Tell her from me to get well soon. And I don’t want to see her back in the newsroom for a goddamn month.’

  68

  Late the following morning, after a dreamless sleep, a nurse handed Deborah the first edition of the Herald. The headline on the front read: ‘Renegade CIA boss: power, corruption and lies.’ Deborah’s byline and photo were attached to the story, which carried on to pages three, four, five and six.

  It outlined in minute detail the crazy, corrupt world of Charles Henke and his psychopathic buddy Nathan Stone, and the devastating links with the reclusive Saudi princess. Miami-Dade’s Chief Medical Examiner Brent Simmons was also revealed to have CIA links. He had mysteriously disappeared from Miami without giving any notice.

  But it didn’t end there.

  They proved that Princess al-Bassi had escaped justice. Flight plans obtained by the Herald showed that her Gulfstream jet had left Palm Beach airport at 2.43 a.m., only hours after the confrontation with Deborah. The princess had been unable or unwilling to answers questions about her role in the 9/11 attacks. She was now living at her forty-two-bedroom mansion on the outskirts of Riyadh, protected by the might of the Saudi government.

  However, the whereabouts of Charles Henke were unknown. Some reports suggested that he too was living in Riyadh at the behest of the Saudis, others that he had fled the country and was living in Brazil. Neither the Pentagon nor the CIA acknowledged the existence of the protocol, and both institutions claimed ‘national security had not been jeopardized’. Moreover, they said that ‘more robust safeguards’ had been put in place to ensure a ‘better flow of information’ at the highest levels of the agency.

  No evidence of a highly sophisticated network was unearthed.

  Early in the afternoon the Jackson Memorial Hospital was under siege by the world’s media. Everyone wanted a picture of the investigative journalist who’d pieced together the whole extraordinary story.

  But Deborah wasn’t interested.

  People had died as a result of her investigation. Good people. And McNally was still on the critical list, even though he was out of intensive care.

  • • •

  Deborah was allowed to make her escape via a side door where Sam was waiting. She asked him to drive her to Woodlawn Park Cemetery. Three former Cuban presidents were buried there. She still felt unsteady on her feet and was happy to have Sam’s arm around her.

  The inscription on John Hudson’s alabaster headstone read:

  ‘For our beloved son who believed in the truth: rest in peace’.

  Only by the grace of God and her own good fortune had Deborah herself been spared.

  She bent down and arranged the fresh lilies lying on the ground. ‘Rest in peace, John,’ she said.

  As they strolled back out of the cemetery Deborah felt a strange mixture of sadness and elation, combined with profound mental exhaustion. She needed to get away from it all. Somewhere no one could bother them. No phones. No e-mails. No hassle. No nothing. Just peace.

  ‘I’m not going back to the office,’ Sam said, as if reading her thoughts. ‘Not for a while.’

  ‘You got any plans?’

  ‘You wanna fly off tonight to Barbados?’

  Deborah just smiled, tears in her eyes.

  ‘There’s something I want to say. Something I should’ve said a long time ago.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘Deborah, I am nothing without you. And I’ve been a fool not telling you that. I always seem to have had some excuse for why I haven’t committed more to you. Frankly, I’m at a loss to explain my behavior. The thing is… I need you. What I guess I’m trying to say is, Deborah, will you—’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, before he’d even finished his sentence.

  ‘You don’t know what I’m going to ask yet.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. The answer is still yes.’

  Sam smiled, his fond gaze confirming to her that she’d found the only man who understood and loved her.

  ‘The answer will always be yes.’

  They walked out of the cemetery, holding hands, as a burnt-orange sunset blanketed the quietest corner of Little Havana. Deborah felt the warmth of the last rays of the unforgiving Miami sun on her skin, and heard the merest sound of salsa music hanging in the warm night breeze.

  Epilogue

  Three days later, when the story had come off the front pages, a Learjet registered to a front company, Rossington Foundation of Palm Beach, Florida, swooped low over the scrub pines and fields of tobacco in rural Virginia on the banks of the York River. It landed at Camp Peary also known as ‘The Farm’. Six men and their bodyguards disembarked and made their way in a fleet of SUVs parked on the edge of the runway to an underground office.

  The 9000-acre wooded site was officially referred to as the Armed Forces Experimental Training Activity, under the auspices of the Department of Defense, but it was widely viewed as a covert CIA training facility.

  Armed guards patrolled the eight-foot-high barbed-wire fence.

  None of the men spoke until they were safely underground. At the same time, two hours’ drive north, a removals truck with untraceable plates and with four men inside snaked its way around one of Washington’s finest suburbs, Bethesda, the driver checking occasionally in the side mirror for any tail. The satellite navigation system on the driver’s dashboard indicated that he should take a left, then a right.

  A few minutes later the vehicle was guided to the only empty mansion on the block. In the middle of the newly mown lawn was a For Sale sign.


  The driver reversed into the driveway. Then his three colleagues, dressed in matching dark blue uniforms and carrying duct tape, a toolbox and various cardboard boxes, got out and let themselves into the house owned by Charles Woodrow Henke.

  Once inside, they got to work.

  Using wiring diagrams, the senior man traced the cabling down into the cellar and another member of the group opened the toolbox. He unpacked the imaging equipment and meticulously scanned the stone floor. The three-dimensional images on the monitor were conclusive.

  Fifteen minutes later they had uncovered a secret basement, as they’d been told they would. It contained two laptops wrapped in plastic, sitting on a desk. They were taken away in a box.

  Late in the afternoon, after the basement had been stripped bare, including all wiring, the four-man team entered the Lamoura Tower in downtown Bethesda, HQ of Lamoura Telecommunications. They rode the service elevator to the sixth floor and walked through a maze of corridors until they got to Room 614A.

  The computer specialist‌—‌the youngest in the group‌—‌punched in the seven-digit access code. The door opened to reveal a massive room that contained around a dozen cabinets, including servers, routers and an industrial-size air-conditioner.

  Two floors above, high-speed fiber-optic circuits were laid out on the eighth floor and ran down to the seventh floor where they connected to routers. But to monitor the information going through the circuits was some highly advanced circuitry inside a gray metal cabinet in this sixth-floor room.

  The men crouched down. Stenciled in black on the front of the cabinet were the words ‘Property of the US Government’.

  The computer man pressed his thumb on the fingerprint-recognition panel at the side, which duly clicked and opened the cabinet. Inside were the standalone traffic analyzers that collected network and customer-usage information.

  Then he flicked a switch, which routed the information back to a similar facility in downtown Seattle, which in turn fed back to the offices of the Security Intelligence Branch of the CIA.